Jesus, I think this is the single most wonderful compliment I’ve ever received about my writing.
1. [revolt]
2. [ruby tuesday]
3. [theology]
4. [uncertain familiarity ]
5. [summer]
6. [head start]
7. [omen]
8. [life was so sublime]
OKAY.
feel quite free to look through it, I’m almost certain this is the finished product.
I keep imagining my life in a few years down the road. It comes in flashes of scenes, like a screenplay written all out of order. They say time isn’t linear, what I’m experiencing right now could just be a memory. So maybe it’s what’s going to be, or perhaps it’s already happening in some life parallel to my own.
Sitting on the steps of an old house on a busy street, pavement illuminated by the dull glow of the city at night. Breath just barely visible, permanently masked behind the haze of my cigarette smoke. Some habits are hard to break.
Inside the house is a crowd of people, or maybe just a few making more noise than thought possible by such small numbers. I never thought I would be such a socialite, but moving to a new city warrants so much change from a person. A low hum of music wafts through the screen door to my ears as I let the last of the air from my lungs expel across the skyline, some things aren’t any different than they were before.
A sense of serenity clings to my skin so comfortably that it feels as if this were my native home, perched there on the stoop watching rain wash over the chaos of the city. Moving cautiously, careful not to disturb the dormant compulsions that haunted my previous life, I unfold myself from the steps and return to the warmth of my humble abode. Walls worn and aged, covered in pieces of my historic adventures, they convey the parts of my soul which words fail to admit. Every step forward deserving of a mournful groan from the hardwood beneath my feet, so much life has sprung from these floors.
Inching up the steps toward the salvation of my quarters, my hands caress the chipped paint adorning the halls. Nothing about this place causes complacency, everything begs to be questioned, inspiring the fodder required to fuel creation. Far from being quiet, my mind tingles with the anticipation of returning to work. Sheaves of paper rest upon every surface of my room, decorated with hundreds of tiny characters entangled amongst one and other, dancing around a vague plot littered with pathetic fallacies and emotional rot.
Lowering myself into a faded corduroy chair, my eyes close pen meets paper. The rowdy party downstairs reaches a record setting volume as I envelope myself into the world hiding behind my eyelids, succumbing to its pleas to escape into my own tangible world. The corners of my mouth creep toward the ceiling as I beckon out the creatures of the night, forgetting every aspect of this physical world.
Some habits are hard to break.
(Source: chrysalisadrift)
“you’re fucking useless, y’know that?”, phrase leaning toward the factual, leaving little room for question. mouth slightly agape, the room fills with the translucent haze of cancerous emissions. there was never any room for questioning, merely self-deprecating fragments of agreement. she inspects the beds of her fingernails, examining each one for signs of imperfection, before pushing her butt into the center of a cemetery of cigarettes. I glance down at my own hands, fingers stained a deep yellow from formaldehyde and arsenic, calloused tips peeling from neglect.
(Source: chrysalisadrift)
there are quite a few more of my pieces over here as well,
though they are not necessarily any newer (or better).
forgive me father, for I have lost all control.
as the clock casually saunters toward an unforgiving hour, poisons have already made their presence known. unlocking buried caverns of my mind, the tantric call of the ocean beckons me goodnight.
forgive me mother, for I have no sense of time.
physical trumps the relentless pulsing of my soul, yet balance is the name of this game. it’s just a game that my willpower likes to lose; my pride has a morbid taste in humour, akin to a modern jester in the courts.
forgive me lover, for I have no right to your name.
lost between the bass line and the treble, my fingers tremble against the icy touch of your skin. a whirlwind of apologies and miscalculations leave me with little choice but to pacify. but I’m sure you don’t mind, a little voice inside told me it was fine.
oh please,
forgive me my weary mind.
as the clock strikes four all movement is beyond my lack of control. voice empty yet so full of mischief, there is something in me that needs this quick fix. when the sun begins to rise over our sins, I’ll intoxicate you with enough lies to keep your stomach in.
there’s something in me that I just can’t fix.
(Source: chrysalisadrift)
Oh wow, thank you so much! I’m actually in the midst of attempting to apply for Creative Writing in university, so I hope your wishes bring me some luck!
(via electricmountains)
