Whit Loard was a very strange man. He babbled on at great length, but what issued forth was not incoherent, but among the wisest words that man has given utterance to. However, his appearance indeed told the story of a man who took both the road less traveled by and the regular road; with a mane of unruly hair, he definitely had the look of a traveler. Whit Loard didn’t understand that his appearance was odd, however; he did not see, hear, or even feel as normal humans do. Instead, Whit’s eyes were open to a flurry of colors and emotions, seeing feelings instead of interpreting and understanding them. When he felt, it was in shadows; they evaded him the more he attempted to pursue them. So he just let them be. As for his hearing, he heard his environment, but it diffused through his consciousness in a tempest of connections.
Rhythm, not formed, but felt. Meters, not written, but breathed. Poetry, not memorized, but lived. On these three pillars stood Whit. He lived the three pillars, which have come to be known as the Poetry Three. Of course, the last thing he wanted to do was form a formal doctrine for Poetry; it simply could not be done. And he journeyed his whole life to come to this solitary truth: Poetry is perpetual, always in motion. He lived until eternity’s end, clinging to this fact; indeed, he built his life from it. However, this is a story for another time. For now, his journey’s tale shall suffice.
His journey, a long, tortuous one, contains many memorable characters, characters who have each made their own individual impression on Whit. There was his dear old English teacher and his longtime companion and his parents and his boyhood friends and even his turtle; the list grows but time shortens. He started out as a regular student, but soon found what it meant to be a student of Poetry. As a student of Poetry, he found that his outlook on life had more color and a freshness that he had never encountered. However, this was not his first time as a student of Poetry; he had sampled Poetry a few years prior and found it bitter to taste. Little did he know Time only matures the bitter drink that is Poetry, refining it and preserving it to become a rich, dark wine.
Time, Time; the creator of chaos, preserver of peace. A wily scoundrel, constantly appearing in the most inopportune of occasions and bending human perception to its own will, Time allowed Whit to truly grasp at the depths of Poetry’s existence, to taste the sweetness of Poetry and gaze at it in a near-drunken stupor. Time, the lord of all men, became Whit’s servant, slowing his various steeds and racing onward at Whit’s command.
Whit did not know this, of course; he was far too immersed in Poetry, testing its elasticity and inquiring with innocent curiosity until he was certain of Poetry’s existence, and eventually, he adopted Poetry as his closest companion. In turn, Poetry constantly provided solace in dark times and enchanted Whit during the bright times.