Writer Stuff - Blog Posts

#146

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

There is so much blood (too much, all at once) surrounding me. Is it mine? Perhaps. But it does not matter. The body makes new blood cells every month, I have heard, so in four weeks I will have replenished that which I have lost.

My scratching and clawing at my soul to get these feelings, these horrendous feelings and meddlesome emotions out of me will be worth it. Even if I must claw part of myself out in the process, even if I do not recover and even if I lay there, scarred and unmoving, it will be worth it. A numb husk is preferable to the monstrous, all-encompassing desire I have felt all my life, and with it, the accompanying, dooming knowledge that it will always be a faraway dream.

It has controlled me, this desire, this unfathomable want; determined every decision I have ever made and convinced me that love was, perhaps, something that I could achieve. I was wrong. I have been lied to, and yet I fall for the lie each time, simply because it is easier to believe that I am worth something to someone somewhere, rather than accepting my fate and crawling back into my cage, coming to terms with the fact that no matter how much we crave, our wants are not always satiated, admitting that never have I been truly loved, only tolerated and hidden away like a disease, a shroud for invoking evil, a deadly omen who shall cause damnation if she is revealed to the world.

Get these feelings out of me, I want to scream. Get them out of me somehow. Pry them apart, dissect my soul, rip my heart intro shreds so thin it will seem to have disappeared. But make these feelings go away. I have been at their mercy for too long, have held onto them for too long, and now they are rushing out of me like a volcano: too quickly, and with far too much force and vigour. It is like a waterfall I cannot build a dam around, it is a wildfire that has been left unchecked for too long and now burns through the very essence of me as these feelings consume every fibre of my being. Is my fate to go out smouldering, the only remains left of me charcoal and dust and ash carried away on a long-forgotten wind?

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#145

A/N: Inspired slightly by this Tumblr post

I want to preserve you, your soul, your very essence, our memories together, until we are melded together and nothing, not even the power of God will be able to pry us apart. If I cannot hold you physically, I should like to keep a shrine of your memories and kneel at the altar I have created for you in my mind until my knees bleed, until my clenched fists leave such deep, aching wounds in my hands, until I have scratched my palms raw from holding on to the ghost of your memory.

The irony is that you are very much alive, and yet you are nothing but a haunting presence who seems to linger in every aspect of my life no matter what. I could move across cities, countries, continents to simply avoid seeing you again and the truth is that the world would still not be big enough for the both of us.

One must perish while the other lives. It is clear which one of us will survive and which one of us will lose themselves to grief to unyielding, so alll-consuming it will eat at their soul until nothing is left. But still, I want to preserve you in a glass cage so wonderfully transparent I could look into it whenever I wished to. I would run my hands over that illusion of freedom, that mirage that I have healed, leaving fingerprints, leaving yet more evidence of my undying love for you, until the box is covered with so much of me it will be difficult to see anything else. Even then, every moment of every day, I would contemplate how we could be together once more, in any form, shape or way. I think I would like that, losing my individuality to conform to the wonder and infallible being that is you. Perhaps I consider it a form of shelter, a way of sanctuary, to be held so deeply by an external force because i am scared that a chosen one will not be enough to get someone to stay. I am past the point of choice now. The only thing that lies in me is desperation. I am scared that I will not be enough, that you will balk at the first real sign of me, the first true sign of humanity I have shown you.

Because you love to pretend that you know me, but you don’t. Not truly. You know only the perfectly curated version of myself I have presented to you, a masked version of myself. But a new problem has arisen: I cannot seem to take the mask off in your presence, I cannot seem to pry it off, no matter how I try or beg or scream or plead to be let out of it, even when my nails bleed as I try to claw it off in utter desperation, as my skin cracks underneath it, isolated from fresh air, from the sunlight, as I feel heartache of such immense measure in me, but not the physical manifestation of it. I do not feel the tears run down my cheeks. The evidence of my agony has long since been a foreign concept to me because the mask does not let me feel anything other than numbness and an incessant need to be liked by you, appreciated and needed as I have not felt by any other. I look to you for the love I never received and yet wanted unashamedly, without reason. 

I do not know how to exist without you, without this cage I have created for myself. Wasted potential, they will say. Locking herself in a room so ironclad she will not be able to find her way out of it if she tried. But I do not want to. This room has become my home, foreign as it is, because it has you in it. You are the only familiar variable in my life, the only anchor I have as everything else goes awry and spirals out of control. You are the only hope I have of retaining what little sanity I have left, what little soul remains in me, what little hope has not been crushed and trampled to smithereens. Only you can rekindle that fire in me; the one that once burned so strong it could be described as nothing but a raging inferno. Now, it is nothing but some feeble embers, and I am mortified by my ability to not feel anything. My lack of emotion, passion, ambition, as they trickled out of me like the steady drip of a tap that I could never figure out how to stop. 

One day it will run dry, as all great rivers have run dry, once their source, the mountains which they received such bountiful amounts of water from, ran out of water to give. I fear that I, too, will become that, if I have not already become so.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#144 - Contrapuntal Poem #6

A/N: This poem is inspired by the characters Jest and Catherine from Marissa Meyer's "Heartless" (amazing book, 10/10 recommend), but it can work for multiple characters including O/Cs.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#143 - Letter #3

My Dearest [name],

“Write to me, or I shall go mad,” wrote Franz Kafka to his fiancée Felice. Write to me so that I may have something to look forward to, something else I can distract myself with as the world around us crumbles to pieces. Awaiting a letter from you will ensure that I do not contemplate what it would feel like to leap off of a cliff every minute of every day. It will give me purpose, as you give me purpose and a reason to stay. When you are in my life, I cannot think of leaving this world. 

Perhaps more than you realise and more often than you think, you are on my mind always. Even when everything feels bleak, even as I sit, exhausted, or lie, pondering at night about everything and nothing all at once, you creep quietly and gracefully into my mind like a presence who calls it home; like you have always belonged. Not haunting, not in a way that feels forced, but naturally as if you were meant to be there. I get this feeling, this odd nostalgia in me, not just in my head, but in my heart; my very soul and being.

I read once that it is a privilege to yearn, to long for memories long-forgotten. I do not remember when I read it, only that when I did, it did not make sense. How could it, when the memories branded into my skull are usually the ones I most wish to forget?

Now, I understand it. I understand it all. It is indeed a privilege to know you. Not only in this lifetime, but in all others. I refuse to believe that there has ever been a world where we did not meet and where our interactions were filled with anything but love for the other. I will not accept it. Perhaps that is what I have been remembering, perhaps that is why my soul wishes to reconnect with yours: we have met so often in every lifetime I am tied to you, and you are tied to me. Inseparable and so tangled in each other, it would be impossible to pry us apart without breaking the other.

That could be a reason as to why I have been getting restless these past few weeks; without talking to you, holding you, simply being in your presence. I get fidgety, apprehensive, as I am waiting for a bombshell, a sudden declaration that will shatter the mirage having been built around me. As if my body knows more than my mind that the only person who can calm the storm in me is you. The best, or perhaps worst part (I have not yet decided), is that you do not even know.

But what I do want you to know is that even as the Earth trembles and finally shatters apart, your light will become an eternal beacon, guiding me, helping me, singing to me, saving me. I will follow it blindly as I have followed you, for I know you will never lead me astray.

And so my dear, I ask you one more time before my pen leaves the paper, write to me, or I shall go mad.

Eternally in waiting,

A friend who longs for you.

P.S. It seems fitting that my 143rd piece of writing has coincidentally been addressed to you.

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#142

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

“If I am anything, I am yours.” Before I am myself, before I am a person, before I exist at all, I am yours. I will continue to be yours until you have no need for me, and even then I will long for you, pine for you, achingly, incessantly, unhealthily. My soul has been made for yours, my body crafted to fit yours. I cease to exist to be myself when you are not there. You tether me to this world and keep my soul from being lost.

You hold the very essence of me in the palm of your hand, my heart in between your fingertips as if you cannot wait to crush it and watch as I bleed out. Perhaps you find satisfaction in the agony of others.

Perhaps that way, we are not different after all.

For it is only my agony that I do not consider to be pain. Everyone else has the right to their pain, the trauma, their suffering, but not I. Perhaps it was a sin I committed long before I was born, that prevents me from considering it - perhaps I imposed the cage so early on that I did not even know I was surrounded by a prison as I grew. 

Nevertheless, I long to help you, to be beside you in every step, every way that counts. You are all I think about, and my mind has been consumed by the thought of you for far longer than I would like to admit to myself.

You do not see the insanity you have caused.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#141

A/N: Inspired by this Instagram post. Thank you to @thevelvetgoddess for this inspo pic!

A glistening ghost

She walked in stride

Hand clasped in hand

We held on tight

A beauty that most

Had not yet seen

Not truly, not properly

Not as deeply as me

I felt it then

An ache in my core

So painful and deep

It hurt and only hurt more

When she let go of the hand that was mine

Bit by bit she bgan to vanish

Not all at once or suddenly

But she did indeed diminish

Until all that was left of her

Was the rawness and touch

That had gone with her

To a land that was rough

A land that was not of the living nor of the dea

But a suspended purgatory instead

He refused to guide her back to me

And so I vowed to have his head

The general that did refuse me my love

My soulmate, my light, my Goddess above

But a vow means nothing

When heaven does thou scorn

When fate plots against you and the everlasting morn

Destiny’s cruel child is born

It does not abate, does not sink into dusk

But stay suspended, as does my being’s husk

Quiet and melancholy and scheming

I remain a ghost, pretending to be of the living.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#140

It was as if someone so integral and deeply rooted in my soul was missing, and I had not known the craving of something I’d never had until I met you. 

I am enamoured by how the light never leaves your eyes, no matter what may happen. How they glisten with mirth, with mischief, with a hint of something that tells me I am about to be surprised like never before. You are a kaleidoscope, a blur of colour, a meshing of feelings and a thrill of exhilaration every time I so much as look at you. A rush of adrenaline fills me whenever my eyes drift towards yours and they catch, and suddenly, everything is right in the world for that fleeting moment.

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#139

All I am is words on top of words, a cacophony of them, unable to get anything out as each sentence fights to leave my body, be free of the cage that is my heart and the prison which are my ribs, be free from the very essence and idea of me. For the longer those words stay inside me, the longer they are me, the more tainted and unholy and dirty they will become, changing and twisting and warping into something sharp and barbed and hurtful as I lash the weapon out to anyone who gets too close.

I have become an expert at brandishing such unholy weapons. It was something I needed to learn to keep it all out. It has drawn blood that way, I remember. What I cannot remember is how many times I have wielded it, both knowing and unknowing, and if those wounds lie and fester as do my own.

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#138

“I’ve a bloodied heart.” But the blood on your heart will turn to gold on my hands, for there is not a single part of you that is not holy or that does not deserve the utmost reverence.

How can love be a sin when it involves loving you?

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A/N: The first sentence in quotes is from a Tumblr post, but I can’t seem to find it.

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#137

Oh, my child. How do I tell you that you are the love you crave? That you must be the one to save yourself, to give yourself all that you have been denied time and time again. That you are alone in matters of the heart and that you will be alone no matter how many surround you. Your own bubble, your own sanctuary, your own hell are all-encompassing.

There is no escape from yourself, but there can be salvation. Salvage the ruins that have become you; spin the threads of misery into wires of gold. Molten, radiant, and oh-so-precious. You do not realise how it resembles you, how we see you reflected in every string of shining, aureate bliss that you weave. But perhaps that is the agony and irony of life, that it takes a great deal more effort to see the beauty in ourselves and not others.

Perhaps we spend so long staring into mirrors we forget how to look for beauty at all. 

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#136 - Kontrapuntal Dikt #5 (Contrapuntal Poem #5)

A/N: This poem is in Swedish for an assignment that I worked on. It includes my analysis of the poem (also in Swedish). It's based on a poem called "Den enda stunden" ("The only moment") by Johan Ludvig Runeberg.

Analys (Analysis)

Att första kolumnen är med “du” och den andra är med “jag” symboliserar att jaget sätter alltid personen hen älskar först istället för sig själv, och hur detta skapar en relation som är toxisk och inte bra för varken person. 

Att ha “en dag förflyter” på “du”:ets sida symboliserar att för den personen har det bara gått en dag, det vill säga inte väldigt mycket tid. Personen är inte ledsen att relationen har tagit slut, medan när det gäller jaget har det gått ett helt år och hen har inte kommit överens att relationen har tagit slut. 

Det skapas också en sorts kontrast mellan de sista två raderna, där jaget säger att “du” et är både välbekant men också som att jaget inte känner hen. Detta symboliserar att jaget har känt personen väl när de hade en bra relation, men nu har den fastnat, när den vet om hur du et var men inte hur den är nu. 

Alliterationen som jag har med “v” ljudet hjälper att skapa en mer flytande känsla eftersom v är en ganska mjuk konsonant. 

“Du obekante” och “du välbekante” har jag väljt att ha med eftersom det är både en del av den originala dikten fast det visar två olika personers åsikter när man skriver en kontrapuntal dikt. 

Första linjen, med att personen ser jaget “ute och handlar” symboliserar att allt i deras relation verkar normalt även om det inte är så, eftersom att gå ut och handlar är en ganska vanlig sak som man brukar göra. Men det kan också symbolisera hur en relation kan ha sina egna traditioner och ritualer som man brukar göra med den andra, och hur traditionerna bryts när man växer isär med någon. 

Nästsista raden när du:et frågar “vem är du” symboliserar att hen har redan glömt bort relationen och att den inte betyder väldigt mycket för hen, medan “jag känner dig inte”, det som jaget säger, betyder att hen vill lära känna du:et även om det inte finns någon relation. 

Att du:et är aningslöst om vad det var som gick fel medan jaget spekulerar att det var hens “fina, vassa klor” kan också signifiera att du:et brydde sig inte så mycket om relationen eller kanske könde inte sin partner såväl att veta vilka handlingar gjorde jaget ledsen. Att jaget spekulerar betyder att hen vill försöka laga relationen även om det dödar jaget.

Användningen av pronomen “jag” gör så att det blir enklare för läsaren att känna sig mer kopplad känslomässigt till dikten, och kanske tänka om sina egna erfarenheter med någon som beter sig så. 

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#135 - Contrapuntal Poem #4

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#134 - Contrapuntal Poem #3

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#133 - Contrapuntal Poem #2

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#132 - Contrapuntal Poem #1

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#131

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

I was the architect of my own hell, crafting each fibre of that damned palace with such meticulous, devout, ruthless precision it could almost be seen as love. But perhaps love is insanity, and perhaps it was. Perhaps I was in love with my own damnation and ruin, as fascinated by it as one would be with a monument or wonder, or someone drunk on their own demise and downfall.

For only such maddening dedication can create a wonder built off of tears and blood, each slab of marble and every intricate carving covered in a layer of crimson it was nearly invisible, and yet always palpable; always noticeable. Like a shroud covering each stunning piece of art, holding my emotions so tightly imprisoned in a vice the only way to get out would be to slit my own throat. That was the way to freedom, I realised. 

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#130

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

“How I wish you could understand me.” How I wish I could understand myself. It seems as if each passing day only brings me further away from the person I was meant to be, or perhaps from the person I was.

Do we create ourselves, or do we find ourselves? That is what I have ruminated over for as long as I can remember. 

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#129

I do not know what I feel; only that I do, and that it is painful and aching and that I cannot rid myself of this foreign and incessant gnawing at my heartstrings no matter what. A tug and an odd sort of melancholy seem to cover my tracks with a shroud, veiling it in such an immense worry and gloom that it seeps into everything else. And it is peculiar, but known and knowing, as though I have experienced this strange, trance-like feeling another lifetime ago. 

Perhaps I have, for desolation is not an emotion bound by time nor by soul. Universal and yet utterly damning it is, a disease for the soul; to feel isolating and burdened and heavy with the weight of a thousand lives and lies. 

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#128

A/N: Inspired by this prompt list

Firsts, they say, are to be romantic and memorable. But how do I describe the feeling of my first bleed? For it was not the blood of my womb but rather the one of my tongue, bleeding and trembling as it fought to keep quiet lest it damn me. Begging to speak, to defy, to cry out, it was suppressed. I was suppressed, until the emotions bottled themselves up so tightly inside me, until I could feel nothing but the visceral rage I fought so hard to keep at bay. Rage andn anguish and pain and guilt all warred within me, until they were I and I was them. You are not your emotions, they say, but what if I am? For if my feelings do not make me, then what does? Is it the people I choose to surround myself with? For that was futile. Nothing and no one had managed to coax those words out of me, those thorns and bloodied wound that lay festering, not after I’d bottled them up so the only escape was to crack the jar itself. 

A simple solution, and yet an irreparable one. A part of me longed to crack it, to feel the glass piercing my skin and the shards embedding themselves into my flesh, my body bleeding as had my tongue, as it continued to do so. But what about the pain? They asked. It was deserved, I told no one in particular as I wallowed in self-despair. Maybe it was something else. Maybe my self-preservation had gone out. Maybe my luck had gone out.

But whatever it was, I’d lost it, and I wouldn’t be getting it back any time soon, not after my filthy ichor had eternally stained my tongue crimson. 

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#127

Aggressively, completely, obssessively pouring myself into my writing until I am the words and the words are me, until I can tell no difference, until there is no difference, until all that is left in my mind is a blur of smudged ink. Until all my journals are filled with such unimaginable agony that it bleeds from the pages, until the white parchment turns crimson from the bleeding of my heart. Until all I can think about is the desire to write and write until my wrist snaps, my hands cramp as the keyboard is dented and cracked, until I am breathless and wide eyed from having wrriten so much, from pouring so many shattered, broken fragments of my soul onto one paper. Until I can think of nothing but the agony it took to get here, the pain and regret and longing that fuels this cursed obsession. For it no longer remins a hobby; it is but a burden and a blight that haunts me both waking and asleep. I am forced to live by it, a drug and an addiction that I cannot get enough of, that I cannot live without as it ruins my life, my mind, my psyche, ruins the very essence of all it is that I am, unravels me so thoroughly and meticulously that when I look back, I do not know when I unraveled myself and when it broke me. 

I do not know what I am or what I have been, only that it has snapped some integral, essential piece of my that it is impossible to recover. It is gone, it has been consumed by whatever monster dwells inside my, whatever ghastly creature pounces and preys on my downfall. Perhaps it is the Devil himself in disguise, perhaps it is the guilt and malice and hatred in me that has manifested into some creature of nightmares. 

All I know is that it is my enemy, but that I am losing. Every day it takes something as payment, some other part of me as though I am giving up pieces of myself to stay alive, to merely survive. I feed it another morself of my withering soul in the futile, fragile hope that it will keep away. But it does not.

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#126

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

“I gave you my heart”. Not as it remains, cracked and dried, waiting for you to come back. 

I only know that I yearn. What for; for whom, I do not know, only that there is an ache and a longing in me. I do not know what it will be satisfied by. Perhaps by you, or something else, or someone else entirely; perhaps nothing at all. Perhaps I have been destined to have this ache in me and suffer in agony as I bleed out with my name on my bloodstained lips, crimson like the finest wine, my hands pale and cold as Death fights to claim me.

What it does not know is that true love will make the right person go mad. Not entirely mad, but just so. Mad enough to fight back the claws and talons that Death extends; to fight for you and to fight for your soul. 

For mine has already been sacrificed, but I will not let yours be consumed. Not by hatred, not by pain, and certainly not by the thought of me. 

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#125

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

“But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.” Ah, but then it is not empty, is it? It is merely full of want, of ache, of longing, of desire, so much so that it suffocates everything else; sucking the air out of it until nothing but the cloying scent of a forbidden love is left, and the haunting, eerie presence of something that almost was, but never became.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#124

Is it so bad to want someone to cradle me, to hold me, to hold the fragments and pieces of me? For them to whisper honeyed nothings into my ear, even as we both know they are false, but we pretend, we continue to pretend. I would like to continue for some time more.

Whoever said that the ugly truth is better than false lies was wrong. I would much rather be comforted than be made to face the ugly truth over and over again until it haunts me, until it embeds itself into the very seams of soul and splits it apart.

Is that a supernova? That explosion, so dark and yet powerful and graceful with the force of a thousand suns, one which we will never see but only see pictures of as it happened. A glimpse into the past, into the soul of a star, into the soul of a spirit who was once here.

Ethereal, and yet eerie as we glance into stardust through the depths of time. We are drawn to it; as we are drawn to destruction and demolition and wrath; emotions so completely damning that all there is left in their wake is ash and dust and an empty feel that never abates.

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#123

Your body is a temple, they say. But what if my temple lacks a god? I want to ask. What if it has all the properties of a temple, save for the deity Themselves? Does this so-called temple now become a cave? Is that what I am destined to be; is that my body’s fate? To exist not as a sanctuary, but as a growing, dark hollow, gathering cobwebs and dust as I am forgotten by Time. 

To exist not as a temple, but as an opulent, heavily decorated cavern, whose heart has no beat, whose veins do not run with blood, and whose mind is beginning to decay? A lesson in fate and silence and discarded glory, then. That is what I am.

An antique cave, yet new, too. I was new when it was made, when I was healed. But the person who built it for me abandoned it, despite all the work that had been done to finally, finally, fix it and make the temple whole again. 

Antique in the sense that there were hordes of memories in every corner, every speck of dust and every small artefact that decorated the altar. Young in the way that it had never been visited, never had a God dedicated to it. It was simply a building, hollow and empty and dark that people saw as a temple from far away, but never bothered to investigate for the fear of awakening the horror within. 

Perhaps I am that horror, or perhaps that horror is me. Maybe it has always been me, simply feeding off what little nutrition my body absorbs, growing stronger day by day as I am choked in the darkness, limbs bound and mouth forced shut lest any sound escape me; lest someone hear my cries for help that grow fainter with each passing day. 

Until they are nothing but echoes in the cavern above, a death having overtaken the premises. My pleas for salvation haunting the structure, my voice echoing in the halls made for prayer.

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#122

I always leave things unfinished. Crosswords, games, puzzles, relationships. They are all half-worked-on fragments that seem like they mean so much, but when I look back, I realise that they do not mean very much at all. For what does a half-baked relationship mean, a love that is only half-given, money that is only half-spent, ingredients which are only half-used? Why must I live my life in fragments and parts and shards of glass so sharp and vicious they cut anyone and anything who dares approach? Why must my life be an ugly exhibition, a vile, feral combination of all the artefacts and proofs of love I received but squandered? Lost, like a fool, and gave them away for what I believed was a greater reason. A selfish want or the need to fit in; or maybe it was my own blackened heart’s desires from the beginning that only intensified with time; that morphed me into what it is that I am today.

I do not know what I am. Only that I am here and I exist and that it is painful. Only that I wish for a way out because I feel trapped and suffocated and smothered, only that the cracks in my facade are beginning to show. I do not know how long they will hold before the entire fortress comes crumbling down like a house made of cards swept away in the wind.

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#121 - Letter #2

My Dearest [name],

I cannot believe that we have nearly known each other for a year, and yet it feels like so much longer. They say we no longer have the ability to accurately perceive time once we find those we love. Perhaps I, too, am guilty of this, though I do not regret it at all. If anything, I have learned how to be eternally grateful.

We have known each other for just short of a year, and yet so much has changed. 

You appeared in my life like an angel of some sort, perhaps a saviour, and I felt compelled to know you. Not simply know you, but befriend and grasp your very essence; know all those lovely details like the tiles of an ever-growing mosaic that make you who you are. What brings you joy, what makes you contemplate. But most importantly, what draws that radiant smile of yours out; and that laughter. I hear echoes of it when I am lonely, I am reminded that no matter where I am, your presence will hover over me; a thing of calm, lovely beauty. It rings in my ears as the clear chime of a cathedral, signalling that a new era in my life has begun.

You floated in like a dove, elegant in a way that set my heart ablaze.

Even if we lived in a hundred separate lifetimes, I would choose you, over and over again until fate tried to pull us apart. But I would have fought for you like no other. I would have waged war so that every other hero in history would have been put to shame; Achilles and Patrocles would stand no chance, Romeo and Juliet would turn away in embarrassment. 

And though this letter is a feeble attempt at poetry (and forgive me for this), know that there is no real way for me to convey my adoration of you. Gifts will do you no courtesy, so these words will have to do. 

I hope that the threads of our friendship never fray.

Fondly, your admirer. Keep burning, my eternal flame.

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#120

Do not consider yourself so special that you think you will be the first to be struck by immeasurable agony and suffering. All pain is recoverable, and all longing can be healed. You are not the first, and you shall not be the last. There is beauty and a certain humbleness to be found as we get fade into the passage of time, another unknown, nameless, faceless person. There is peace in anonymity, knowing no one shall judge us for simply existing. After all, how will they condemn a ruined empire and scattered ashes on the wind? We cannot be convicts if the evidence of our failures and crimes has long since disappeared.

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#119

The stars which reside in the heavens have made a new home in your eyes. Flecked with starlight and emotions I cannot begin to decipher, I am enamoured by them so thoroughly I shall be haunted by the enigma that is you for the rest of my existence. Awake and asleep, they are all I can see, until I am certain I shall go mad with the vision God has either graced me with or cursed me with. 

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#118

Perhaps my aim with my writing is to write so much and so abstractly that it will disappear into a void of anciet, long-forgotten void of writers, artists, and anyone who has ever loved. Perhaps it will disappear into the thousands of pieces of grief, and sadness, and longing, and heartache, perhaps my work will find a home at last. For the hole in my heart has never been a home. It had been a place, yes, but never a home, not for the unspoken, shaky words that filled me up. 

Perhaps there is no point in writing at all, when I know every emotion I have has already been written, spoken, or drawn about. But there is something magnetic, something beautiful, something charming and so utterly alluring about the futility of human expression. Our circumstances may be different across eras, our people and cultures and beliefs not aligning, but our feelings will never change. We have all found a way to convey our emotions. Neither language barriers nor our access to writing devices stop us. Etching on walls and scribbling by firelight, doodling in notebooks by moonlight. We have loved and grieved and fought and lost from the beginning of time, and shall continue to do so until the end of it. It is, after all, what makes us human. Nothing shall ever stop the human desire to express its burdening feelings.

masterlist

#117

I scream into a void, wishing no one and nothing but the darkness absorbs my sorrows, my grief. It only grows, fueled by centuries of screams and agony through the eras, through time itself. We are lonely in our sorrow, and yet united in our suffering. We are all tired of life and desperate for something more. What we want, even we do not know, but all we know is that we want it. We know this world has not satisfied us, so we do what any person would: we build our own. 

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