The one thing that keeps me from going in my life is the mystery of wheter...
The one thing that keeps me from going in my life is the mystery of wheter...
I can't breathe, but if I stop running the shadow will catch me!
No! Not a hill. I can't-
Looking over my right shoulder, I see the shadow reach out to me. It touches my shoulder and I feel cold where it brushed against me.
I turn the corner and stumble up the hill. Halfway to the top, I trip.
Bitter cold claws at my right ankle. I'm spinned onto my back.
The shadow sits on my stomach. It wraps its hands around my neck, stopping my breath.
I sit up abruptly in bed, gasping for air.
The day ends. I fight sleep and lose...
We're all the same
just shuffling through life
at a pace that we can't contain
the crowds they pull us
every which way
and the calling it pushes us
another way entirely but
we're just brushing shoulders with
humans facing the same
dilemma of living
the same conundrum of existence
wherein we get lost from time to time
and hit our stumbling blocks
and take our falls
when we have to face the music
and learn how to dance
instead of just coasting through life
on some kind of lazy river
we have to find our purpose
and then we can swim against
and take detours whenever we wish
like we have life in the palm of our hands
like potters mold clay
we're just shaping ourselves to
rise above our mess and
reach that pinnacle
that summit of being
on which we raise our fists
and howl until our lungs burst
and our faces crease and
our blood boils
and the sweat on our backs and
the scars on our feet
and the color that has left our
hair shows the world
what depths we endured
to reach the heights that we soared upon
and then there's no thing left to do
reach down and help the others up
so they don't make the same mistakes
and they don't get the same scars
and they sweat just an ounce less
and you can say to them
once they join you at the top
human to human
"hey, we made it."
*Important note: The following does not reflect all popular opinions, etc., but I stayed true to a character's perspective on life.
*I've posted this three times now. At first, I had confusion about whether it was good enough or if I had made a mistake, and the second time there was a fancy/pasted font issue that glitched out the ENTIRE POST past a parenthesis. If this caused any notification issues, I apologize.
Drew Yorke was in a state consisting only of mentally plunging downwards. An abyss of black consumed his fears, worries, and conscious self, but soon manifested into a sea of swirling colors and muddled intentions. Years slipped past in a tangled blur of emotions, desires, and regretted decisions within him.
The first noticeable event, in Drew’s only semi-lucid condition, was the merging of watercolor and pastel tones to form one of his few early memories; he could feel himself smiling and joyful, as would later become a rare occurrence, towards a childhood canine and feline snuggling together for warmth without a trace of discomfort. He was happy in the childish and ignorant sense of the word. Happy to be spending--although not cherishing as he would later wish--time with the companions whom would later become deathly ill or an unlucky victim of late-night road travel.
The world other than these two friends of Drew’s faded to nothingness. A sudden shriek of pain rang out, a high-pitched cry and the cracking of fragile limbs, and the kitten’s shades melted together and began to slide down as paint on a canvas would. From the canine came only silence, likely to be interpreted as calm acceptance, before it too ran together into the darkness. Drew felt only numbness, a growing empty feeling, from these deaths. These were only the first of many, and by his teenage years, the memory brought him none of the pain it should have.
From the blackness came a sudden pop of pure and innocent white. From this first appearance came limes, the gold of distinctly-remembered hair, and tans. Drew’s perspective, although he could not comprehend the situation is his daze, was higher now. He could feel a bench’s wooden planks beneath him and limes from the surrounding vegetation, yet he had his gaze set firmly upon the female to his left. He had admitted to himself that she seemed quite pretty as far as a childish mind could see and was outwardly kind. However, despite his acknowledgements, he knew that he could only let her down. Drew was involved in this relationship because he wanted to be accepted among peers from having a first, superficial dating experience. He was uncomfortable and subconsciously squirming from the situation due to the age of the girl and himself; they were only elementary students. He was uninterested, but if it meant he could be noticed by the crowd who never had to experience the aggression of the older youth and thus was granted protection, he was willing to sacrifice morals. It mattered not what Drew felt was right if the facade could earn him the treatment of normality with his own family and supposed friends. This memory faded also into the void, but it did so quietly.
Another year or few had passed since the circumstances prior. Drew stared down at the ground in front of him, refusing to glance up at what he was certain would be crying faces, most of which he would be unfamiliar with. Another year, another relative he’d missed the chance to bond with. It was another example of the inevitability of death. He could feel little pity or emotion for someone he had only met occasionally and briefly. Although this was not the case now, there had been a time when even one of his grandparents had passed. Drew had spoken with them weekly, ‘loved’ them, yet he could not experience any strong feelings towards them after their passing. The most prominent thought within him was not a celebration of their life, accomplishments, or any sort of sadness that came with their absence, only that he did not deserve to be present at an event where he could be so… ‘wrong.’ A hazy, lyric-less tune floated lazily in the background. To the others, it seemed depressing, but Drew had yet to notice its meaning. The song’s meaning was far lost by the time of this recollection.
Drew recalled a strong sense of disgust at the idea of the preservation of a hollow shell that had once been a relative through means of chemicals and burying a box with their remains. When questioning the ritual, he was only shushed and given judgmental looks. Those looks surrounded him times before and after the funerals. He could simply not understand portions of the religion that had been forcibly shoved upon him since birth; when he asked questions, he was told that humans would never receive all answers. When he wondered aloud as to why he had been marked from birth to a belief system he had yet to form opinions of, he was only laughed at or told he’d understand the reasons at some later date.
While viewing the dark gravestone that held the name of some distant family member, Drew saw his own reflection. His eyes seemed to zoom upon his own face, and when he again could look around him--still without much thought, acting more as an observer of his own actions--he saw only a common bathroom setting. His gaze was forced back towards the grave, now a mirror, which held his appearance. Height wise, Drew’s head only came to the bottom half of the mirror, but his eyes were visible. They almost matched the brown of his own common, 'undesirable' hair. He had come to dislike his appearance, the way his eyebrows had begun to grow closer to each other, the way his mouth found it so hard to move into a smile. He absentmindedly watched as the faucet dripped into the sink, and had the rising panic that came with forgetting something. Something important, something likely academics-related. At this point in Drew’s life, the colors seemed sharper, angles less forgiving, and his attitude darkened considerably. The shaving razor appealed to him at this moment, but even with the dreaming boy drawn towards it in the memory and in the current mind, he kept a safe distance. He was afraid, afraid of being discovered, afraid of missing school work if something were to become messy. His reputation as a kind and thoughtful child had deteriorated considerably by this moment. The glint in his eyes had vanished, and soon the colors themselves vanished as well, leaving the drifting perspective of Drew floating through a calm, safe nothing.
Within the nothing, a string of thoughts began to make themselves heard. Drew knew perfectly well what his religion saw in the idea of anything but a ‘straight’ relationship. His own insecurities had been reinforced by a particular lesson in Bible school involving the explanation of roles and relationships. As the church saw it, a relationship involving a man and woman was the only relationship that was not an unholy act of disrespect. As the church saw it, men were meant to be only protectors of ‘more complex’ women. As the church saw it, males were destined to be more athletic and those who were not were doing something incorrect with their lives. Drew had neither the courage to speak up to an instructor nor bring up the topic with his own parents about how he felt. He found himself attracted to either commonly-accepted gender from time to time within his life; it was but another reason why he resented his own personality. There was no praying, no decisions, that could change his feelings. There was no praying to relieve the stress of hiding himself. Drew reflected on himself, his own boring emotions, his own unmemorable and unoriginal fears that others could have triumphed over. Drew saw his own love interests’ happiness as more important than his own. Continuing to move in the endless oblivion, he was hazily aware that what made others happiest was often Drew covering his feelings and letting them burn out on their own while the ones he noticed slipped away with others who deserved them.
In the darkness, short and rather repetitive scenes began to play. Drew’s attempts at sports, his failure in athletic subjects of all but participation, were shown before him. Volleyball, baseball, football, swimming, soccer, tennis, and the like were all tried and eventually given up. As with many of the other shows of Drew’s past, the scenes all began to mix together in an unhealthy gray puddle. Without any real emotion towards the stressful and public failures, without any action to be taken, he again observed without an option to do otherwise.
Black shifted and brightened into a dull blue frame. Within the square border, words and meaningless text began to flow. Usernames, tags, and the like began to flash across the ‘screen.’ Reading as a distraction, using humor to lessen the hurt, relating to others online with similar issues, it seemed so simple for Drew to speak honestly while behind this screen and a fake name. When ‘friends’ from the ‘real’ world offered no help, Drew spoke to others who he was unlikely to ever meet in person. The emptiness within him persisted, but these quick bursts of happiness and hope lightened his mood greatly… until he tried to distance himself. When Drew realized that he was still dissatisfied with himself and the world, the judgmental and hateful reality, he tried to distance himself from those he shared his problems with so willingly. He was in the mindset that the friends he had made could not be hurt if he were to ‘disappear’ if they had already parted ways. He thought that the lack of technology that came with intentionally rude comments would give him reason to speak to those directly impacted by him in ‘real’ life. The pain continued, and the only change in Drew’s life was that he could no longer return to those he’d forced to abandon and loathe him. The screen before his eyes, his dreaming self, dissolved into darkening navy specks that floated away; the particles were out of his control, just as the consequences of his actions had been.
Drew dreamed next of the possibilities in his future, were he to survive to such an age. He could adopt or have a family with another; or his heart could be broken countless times until he lost the will to continue trying. He could make his way calmly through high school or college with minor resistance if he fully applied himself… but he was so tired. Drew didn’t want to try anymore. The stress of only a middle grade had already almost broken him; what others could endure so flawlessly he barely clung to. His teachers had seen him as a useful example. Drew hadn’t studied like he should have, and although he had done well so far, he was internally crumbling with each passing task. Each possible future resulting in a long, purposeful life had endless opposite and hopeless, miserable counterparts. Drew disliked his chances, and the overwhelming hazards caused the self-respecting and ‘nice’ futures to fade away. There was no real ‘bad’ or ‘good,’ Drew knew perfectly well, but the future seemed very black and white there and then.
After these possibilities came the regret to have had such optimistic ideas. Drew was trapped in a cage of his own and others’ expectations of himself. For any of the encouraging futures to ever take place, he would first need to conquer his own inner struggles; for that, he would first need to overcome his own numbness. That was, in his perspective, unlikely to happen at all.
Mentally incapacitated within the dream, unable to move, Drew began to fall again. The feeling was not in the slightest exhilarating, and when Drew’s eyes--his real eyes--snapped open, he still felt as if he was plummeting.
Although bathed in sweat and already forgetting his collection of memories displayed throughout the night, he could not entirely forget the dread of what was coming.
He could not forget that he had but another month before schooling began and he returned to his distracting hell, nor the disappointment he had that he woke up from slumber at all most mornings.
Drew could not forget that he had but a month to make a decision that would either change or end his life.
(This was depressing, but it's one of my first experiences with trying to write a short story. I had a bunch of notes for what to write/where to write it, but I probably missed some. I hope it was thought provoking.
I tried to write this on Google Docs first, so I hope putting it here from there didn't cause any formatting issues that I failed to notice!)
Words are flimsy, and I'll never find a note from you, on a dresser or table, no saccharine expression will pour from your fingers onto paper for me.
You write your notes in lines against my skin. Your fingertips etched into the porcelain around my throat.
You bring me flowers that bloom in bruises where your teeth have found tender parts.
Your love song is a chorus of filthy words and my breathless thank you in return.
Love notes, perfected.
It's been a
Couple days since
It last looked in the
It looked again today
Of comfort near
Keeping hidden the ache
In its heart
Treading day to day
Struggling to do
Hiding the cracks
In its mask
Antihero of its own
Wondering if the
Climax will come it
Weeps for a moment
Inspiration so far along
Motivation so far gone
Do you have it?
A way of traveling through
Or does force
Rule the life
Put me aside,
So I don't have to pretend,
That I still matter to you,
I no longer have any use,
Put me aside like an old toy
I knew I'd only ever be around for your lonely days,
I was never the one you chose,
You only settled,
Cause you knew you couldn't do better,
Always had me on my toes,
Trying to do what I thought I was supposed to,
Trying to make your dreams come true,
How was I supposed to know I'd never be enough for you.
Distance between two doesn't stop
The warmth that transcends in the heart
Each one soaked in loves sunbath
One day the glory will be bright
i (hay4four at aol dot com) an older
so ho blissfully mwm attests avoiding bing forth right
to avoid vehement repercussions that leave spite
full anger quite
displeasing to me -
lesson taught from school of hard knocks to air polite
even at the loss of a relationship that could turn day 2 dark night
when one prevarication (lie) must be built on a complex edifice
of subsequent miss truths, that might
very well collapse around thee ears - like a house of cards light
but together gain weight akin to a iron clad knight
in armor, who cannot hide his metallic coat
and female worth her salt can see blindingly bright
the string of confections, that a wise woman
be swift tail lord e'en with a harried style alight.
when trying to convey a sentiment straightaway
ah cunt back to spar date = approximately
969,696,969 hours; 69 minutes n 69 seconds
since the dam resolution of the government shutdown
hoovered n nearly sucked out the lifeblood
across the united stated economic .