Writer Stuff - Blog Posts

How difficult it was to accept that you were never the one. Lying in the shadows of others, no source of light until they leave. It was never envy or jealousy, just question marks.

Just wondering where you were lacking. No matter the efforts, no matter how much of your time invested, you were just never good enough. The weighing scale always rose upwards at your side, the lines of progress descending. 

Life is a competition, I believe it too, As always, I prepared to achieve something, But somehow found myself standing in the “I wish, I could” queue.

Participation matters the most, they say, but those symbols of achievement just never reflected you. 

~ark

What a dilemma..

~ark

The Ugly Desire

I wondered why they would stab me,

When I have already died.

But who knew, in the alleys of the town,

My cowardness made me imitate them, a guide.

To hear their crumbling sound, my blind desire,

I stepped on the dried leaves,

who lived my life.

~ark

And the highlighter of mundanity, Bathed the whole book.

~ark

The Lost Path

In the desire to explore the alien land, I left the shore of my home. My dreams tangled, They surpassed my expectations' comb. My wish to write everything, I lost the pages of my own. Midway to success, I saw myself dying all alone. As I witnessed the ultimate truth, My heart died as I achieved my goal. I now yearn to return to myself, But the path towards it remains unknown.

~ark

Types Of Writer’s Block (And How To Fix Them)

1. High inspiration, low motivation. You have so many ideas to write, but you just don’t have the motivation to actually get them down, and even if you can make yourself start writing it you’ll often find yourself getting distracted or disengaged in favour of imagining everything playing out

Try just bullet pointing the ideas you have instead of writing them properly, especially if you won’t remember it afterwards if you don’t. At least you’ll have the ideas ready to use when you have the motivation later on

2. Low inspiration, high motivation. You’re all prepared, you’re so pumped to write, you open your document aaaaand… three hours later, that cursor is still blinking at the top of a blank page

RIP pantsers but this is where plotting wins out; refer back to your plans and figure out where to go from here. You can also use your bullet points from the last point if this is applicable

3. No inspiration, no motivation. You don’t have any ideas, you don’t feel like writing, all in all everything is just sucky when you think about it

Make a deal with yourself; usually when I’m feeling this way I can tell myself “Okay, just write anyway for ten minutes and after that, if you really want to stop, you can stop” and then once my ten minutes is up I’ve often found my flow. Just remember that, if you still don’t want to keep writing after your ten minutes is up, don’t keep writing anyway and break your deal - it’ll be harder to make deals with yourself in future if your brain knows you don’t honour them

4. Can’t bridge the gap. When you’re stuck on this one sentence/paragraph that you just don’t know how to progress through. Until you figure it out, productivity has slowed to a halt

Mark it up, bullet point what you want to happen here, then move on. A lot of people don’t know how to keep writing after skipping a part because they don’t know exactly what happened to lead up to this moment - but you have a general idea just like you do for everything else you’re writing, and that’s enough. Just keep it generic and know you can go back to edit later, at the same time as when you’re filling in the blank. It’ll give editing you a clear purpose, if nothing else

5. Perfectionism and self-doubt. You don’t think your writing is perfect first time, so you struggle to accept that it’s anything better than a total failure. Whether or not you’re aware of the fact that this is an unrealistic standard makes no difference

Perfection is stagnant. If you write the perfect story, which would require you to turn a good story into something objective rather than subjective, then after that you’d never write again, because nothing will ever meet that standard again. That or you would only ever write the same kind of stories over and over, never growing or developing as a writer. If you’re looking back on your writing and saying “This is so bad, I hate it”, that’s generally a good thing; it means you’ve grown and improved. Maybe your current writing isn’t bad, if just matched your skill level at the time, and since then you’re able to maintain a higher standard since you’ve learned more about your craft as time went on

Being a writer your brain is either

A) STUFFED TO BURSTING with ideas you have no clue what to do with or how to make them make sense

or

B) It's a black hole that devours every inkling of creativity in your cells and you are just hoping it'll consume you too

THERE IS NO IN BETWEEN

Accurate

Naming characters in your books is like:

This is Mischa Ernst Townes III: I made a list of thirty-two possible names and narrowed them down through careful evaluation of which phonetic sounds and letter combinations invoked his energy, which etymologies most emulated the spirit of the character, and which names had connotations or allusions that would foreshadow or contrast his inevitable arc while simultaneously harking back to his history in an interconnected web.

OR

This is Roger Halifax it came to me in a dream.

There is no inbetween.

“Oh my god you’re a writer? Can I read your stuff?”

I remember venting about being upset that the fanfic series I put a lot of time and effort into wasn’t doing well on my anime account. It was pretty popular in the fandom, and everyone requested that I bring it back and continue it, so I did.

After posting it, something people had been pestering me and begging me for, it preformed terribly, which really killed my motivation. I posted a short vent, upset that it didn’t do well like my other posts did.

Do you know what the response to my vent was? People sent me asks saying I was being dramatic and ungrateful, that if I just kept posting the series and didn’t stop that it would still be popular.

I had taken a break from that series for mental health reasons(I was receiving death threats and being harassed) when before I had been pumping out chapters nearly weekly. Still, all that content, over 100k+ words of material wasn’t enough to keep them interested. They always wanted more, the threat of people leaving or unfollowing me if I didn’t post faster looming over my head like a dark cloud.

Writing became a chore. I didn’t view my readers as friends and comrades in my fandom, I viewed them as people that would leave the second I didn’t live up to their strict expectations.

This is all to say that I want you, the readers, to think about the author behind the works you read and love. Think about WHY you think it’s feasible for a person to be uploading every single week without a break. Why do you lose interest if an author isn’t working themselves to the bone to pump out chapters that could have been so much better if given the time to really flesh them out?

Be kinder to writers, be patient. We aren’t machines, and it takes time for us to make the content you want to see. Don’t rush us, and be grateful for all the free content you get to see with just a click or tap.

Don’t be the reason an author decides to give up writing.

Ambula mecum, o avus

Grandfather, oh grandfather, will you walk with me through the forest? You would always say, “Yes, oh yes, together we will walk”.

Grandfather, oh grandfather, will you walk with me through the woods? You would always say, “Yes, I shall try, together as always”.

Grandfather, oh grandfather, will you walk with me through the grove? You would always say, “Yes, though slowly”.

Grandfather, oh grandfather, will you walk with me through the spinney? You would always say, “Yes” though quietly and strained.

Grandfather, oh grandfather, will you walk with me through the copse? You could never answer, all alone in your bed.

Grandfather, oh grandfather, who else could walk with me through the clearing. You are gone, I am lost, and the forest is dead.

Sparking Chemistry Between Characters #1

⇢ Emotional Timing ( When One Opens Up and the Other Isn’t Ready, Yet)

There’s something so devastatingly real about when characters miss each other, not physically, but emotionally. One’s finally ready to be honest, to be seen… and the other? Still hiding. Still pretending. That emotional dissonance creates a whole different kind of electricity: one rooted in vulnerability, silence, and the ache of almost.

“I trust you,” she said, voice low, eyes steady. He looked at her, and for a second, he almost said it back. But then his smile cracked, soft and sad, and he looked away like the words were burning holes in his throat.

This isn’t the moment they fall into each other’s arms. This is the moment they could have. And those moments still haunt.

Use this when:

You want slow burn that hurts a little

Your characters are stubborn, scared, or emotionally constipated (bless them)

The closeness builds from not-quite-connecting, until one of them finally breaks

⇢  Silent Support ( When They Don’t Say It, But They Show It)

Sometimes the most romantic thing a character can do is just… be there. No speeches. No dramatic gestures. Just showing up, quiet, consistent, unwavering. The kind of person who notices when your laugh sounds tired.

He didn’t say anything when he found her curled up on the kitchen floor. He just sat next to her, their shoulders barely touching, and slid his hoodie off without a word. A minute later, she was wearing it. Five minutes later, she was breathing again.

This isn’t about grand declarations. It’s about the kind of love that doesn’t demand to be acknowledged. The kind that waits. That steadies. That speaks fluent silence.

Use this when:

You want to show love without “I love you”

You’re building intimacy through actions, not words

Your characters aren’t the touchy-feely, talk-it-out types

⇢ Emotional Whiplash (When Conflict Turns Intimate Too Fast)

This is the classic “We were fighting five seconds ago and now I want to kiss you” moment. Because nothing stirs up feelings like frustration mixed with closeness. When characters clash, especially if there’s emotional history or denial involved, it creates heat. They’re already fired up. Already in each other’s space. Now throw in a little vulnerability and BAM, you’ve got magnetic chaos.

“Why do you care what I do?” she snapped, stepping closer. “Because I...” He bit the word back, jaw tight. His fists clenched at his sides. She stared, breath caught in her throat. “Because I do,” he said finally, quieter this time. “More than I should.”

Enemies to lovers. Friends to what even are we. That line-blurring, heart-pounding tension where the air is thick and the truth almost slips out, that’s where this trope lives (I Love It).

Use this when:

You want chaos, angst, and chemistry all at once

Your characters are in denial and one good argument away from kissing

You want something to break open and then immediately regret it

Splinter my dream into a web of cracks and gaps.

Take what little splash of anticipation I have pestering my rancorous mind and freeze it, immobilize me.

Take me where you want to go.

I thought if I could redeem something in him I could redeem something in me, too. But I failed us both. He is not a project, and I cannot be healed vicariously. The only path we can take here, is forward.

With glass in our soles, tearing us apart and revealing us at the same time. Forward.

Hi!

I know I've already been on haitus for a while, but well, I'll be even more haitus for the next week because I'll be travelling.

I've been having a hard time drawing anything. It's not that I have any difficulties that I can pinpoint. It just never seemed to happen. And it kept not happening.

I've been working on a new writing project, I want to say it sucks, but to be fair, it's just not what I usually like to write or even to read, so I won't insult it yet. It deserves it, though. It includes someone sucking on a raw steak. And a ferris wheel. And sad things because of course.

Anyway, enjoy this doodle that hopefully I'll find the heart to finish after next week!

Today, I worked on my most disturbing writing project that, if illustrated, should look like this:

And then I walked past a mirror and realised that, I kid you not, I looked like this:

Fudging reindeer Christmas pyjama bottoms...

I should rebrand myself before people decide I'm the "last person you'd suspect"-type horror movie villain.

Doomed by the narrative.

They doomed themselves and each other. They treated each other like monsters and believed themselves to be monsters.

The "monster or human" narrative is one of the central conflicts of the story. Were we made wrong, or did we lose our souls somewhere along the way? What happens when you believe you are a monster?

Before I worry anyone unduly, my well-being is, well, quite well. A reason I hesitate to post my writing is that I'm worried I'll make people concerned - yes, a lot of it is based on experience, but it's gothic fiction and I paint it darker than it is. Also, I have a gremlin in my brain that screams, "MAKE IT WEIRDER!" A weird imagination is the side effect of growing up feeding on novels, don't read too much into it.

Welp, I suppose we'll soon know just how weird it is, if I don't chicken out and actaully release the creepy lil creature into the internet.

was so happy to finally have the time to do some writing and now i'm actually doing the writing and i am in hell a little bit

WRITING TIP!!!

if you're struggling to connect paragraphs, or if something doesn't feel right, or there is something that is bothering you about the way the story doesn't seem to be aligning - READ IT OUT LOUD!!!

read the entire paragraph. over and over. hell, read the whole draft, from the first page to the page you're stuck at. until you figure out what you want to happen in the paragraph, how you want it to happen, and how to word it. honest to god, it has been such a helpful little thing for me.

it also is extremely useful if the narrator has an accent or an eccentric way of speaking.

#154

I write and I write until the words pour out of me in great swathes, swarming and circling me like a feral, rabid pack of wolves ready to pounce, morphing into my worst nightmares. It is my own fault for giving them life, for entertaining these thoughts. It is my own fault for allowing these thoughts to even take root. I should have banished them from my mind long ago, ripped them and cast them away as I have been cast aside, but perhaps the masochist in me cannot help but want pain. It hungers for it the way a lion hungers for a carcass, for flesh clawed off from the body of a barely-dead animal, except that this flesh is rotting and maggot-filled, yet still I cannot seem to help but crave it.

This self-torment has been all that I know, all I have ever been allowed to know, and then all I have ever allowed myself to know. I do not know how to survive without the pain. What exists in me other than this ache? What am I without agony? Certainly not a person, certainly no soul nor a body. I simply…am. Empty. If this is liberating or condemning, I do not know. I have not yet decided. I do not know if I ever will. I will spend the rest of my existence (for it certainly cannot be called a life) pondering over this, and continue being indecisive.

And yet, this sadism in me refuses to leave. It takes root in me as a plague would, festering and eating away at the parts of myself I was most proud of, until I am nothing but a gallery of failures, each resplendent in their sickening glory and hung up crudely with nails and thorns on the walls, each disgusting masterpiece dripping blood in a steady, near-comforting rhythm. Until I am naught but a museum of all my shortcomings; where I am trapped and forced to listen to the voices ramble about my inadequacies, until my mind devours itself; consumes itself with so much vigour and passion I cannot help but wonder, once again, how this carnal desire would look like if it was directed at anything or anyone else other than myself.

Still, I choose, I willingly choose to make this difficult living even more difficult for myself, perhaps because I feel as if my past sins override my right to live my life as I want to, therefore I must make myself smaller and more palatable, easier to digest and break. I choose to make it more difficult, because I believe I deserve this punishment, that if I repent now, I will have brought my suffering to fruition at last so that I will not have to agonise over it in hell.

For that is surely where the likes of me will end up. I have given up hope that there is a fighting chance for me; I have resigned myself to this fate and accepted it with such heartbreaking finality, such clarity that the possibility of there being anything else now refuses to even cross my mind. I have decided that I should not get even the privilege of a happy thought, simply because I am me, that I have had the misfortune to be born as myself. I can think of no greater tragedy than this, than to exist as myself. That is my punishment for being myself, to don so many masks and have a hundred different personas that I forget who I am, that I learn to mimic and copy but never create, that I learn to observe and make note, but never speak that which resides in me and fights to break free.

It is comforting as much as it is suffocating, and I will persist this way, all stubborn anger and unsavoury thorns until my mind likens this asphyxiation to solace, likens this excruciating agony to peace. It is the only way I shall be able to get through whatever this life has become, whatever I have made it out to be.

masterlist

#153 - Letter #5

My Dearest [name],

Every time I look at the sun, I am reminded of you. Unapologetic in the way it shines, it sheds light upon everything and everyone, even when they have wronged it, even when they have wronged others. You continue to fiercely, unapologetically be yourself, you continue to shine as I know you are capable of shining. Sunlight in your presence is insignificant; it is you I crave.

As soon as I laid eyes upon you, as soon as I saw such glittering mirth and mischief in your eyes, I remembered how the sunlight pales in comparison to the ethereal being that you are. Others need sunlight to survive; but with you, I have sunlight in the palm of my hand as I cup your cheek, a touch softer and more revered than any. Within in these scarred hands and ever-more pained heart, within a soul that hurts even as it longs for you, I hold all that I need to; I hold my world between my palms. There is no greater feeling than holding you, real and alive, in my embrace, and seeing you smile up at me in complete adoration (even if I have done nothing to deserve it. Even then, I will not question fate, I will not question why you are mine. I will simply indulge myself in the complexity that is you, but know that the day I take your for granted is the day when all hell breaks loose).

Your smile brings me such vast amounts of radiance and a placid contemplation I have craved for a long while. With you, the world quietens to a murmur; with you I am able to think clearly, even as the erratic crackling of flame fills my eardrums, even as I glimpse fire at the edge of my vision. Despite that, you bring such peace wherever it is you go. Peace is tranquility, I have heard. It is serene and calm and quiet. But not my peace. My peace is you, simply holding all the burning, smoldering edges of you, holding your radiant presence and being able to bask in it, to be able to take in your light and to be able to relish in the feeling that no matter what you do, you will never burn me. There is not a single thing you could say or do that will make me walk away or leave. Scream at me all you want, push me away, but know that you will always have a part of me with you. Know that when you are ready, I will be waiting by your side, hand outstretched should you be willing to grasp it. I will wait as I have been, always, waiting for someone and something so immense it would capture my heart and hold it in an eternal vice, gripping and squeezing it so tight I feel as if I am about to combust every time I lay eyes upon you.

I have relinquished all control. I have given everything up the minute I saw what a breathtaking, stunning individual you are. I willingly ceded it all to you, smitten as I was, including my very soul and body. I have given the strings of my life to you, despite knowing that you may choose to snap them at any given moment and discard the charred remains. But perhaps this is the art of vulnerability, to learn to trust and believe in the goodness of people, to have such undying faith and unwavering confidence in each other that nothing and no one will sway us. If anything, it will only make this sacred bond that we have grow stronger and glow brighter, shining, as you do, for what better way to test the true strength of love than grueling adversity alongside the company of those we love?

But perhaps love is too weak a word for what I feel for you. How else do I convey all that I feel, all these swirling emotions in me (not a single one of which I am able to name as I am writing this)? There must be a different way, a way for me to show how much I appreciate all that you are. Perhaps I will spend my entire life searching for just that, and if I do manage to find such a feat, such an act, such a word, I will be the happiest person alive, I will feel the most accomplished, even when all I have done is woken up and talked to you.

Every action with you seems sacred. A lingering touch, a fleeting glance, even making something as I think of you, making something for you; it is holy in a way I cannot begin to describe. It is pious because it is for you; it is the thought of you and your pure presence that cleanses me of all my wrongdoings, of every filthy thought I have had the misfortune to think. I am convinced that a lifetime spent loving you will be more than enough to absolve me of all my sins, I am convinced even God could not deny me this, because he will have seen me serve at an altar. It may not be His, but it will be an altar nonetheless, and I can think of no other way that involves both you and worship.

It is divine (or perhaps it is unfortunate, a symbol of our fickle and ever-changing desires) how an individual can feel so much in such a short amount of time, and be willing to sacrifice and bleed themselves dry at the prospect of being able to give to the ones they love. The irony is that we may never know which one it is because the lines blur so; we may never know until the very end, until it is too late, until the lambs have been sent to the slaughterhouse, and we must live with the decision that the blood that comes back from the butcher’s will be theirs, and yet it will stain our hands crimson for eternity. We must live with the knowledge we have willingly sent someone into the gallows, into the frightful, gaping maw of death, knowing they will never resurface on Earth.

I hope I have not scared you with these morbid contemplations (if I have, I apologise. Truly). Know that whatever goes on in my head, know that whatever thoughts ruminate, you are the brightest spot in my life, a jewel among rocks, and know that I will forever admire you, even from afar.

Burn bright, my star.

A friend disguised as a lover (but why, then, can we not be both?)

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#152

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

Even as the wax from a fire I myself have set drips onto me, even as a faraway, more aware version of me, one that is not apathetic nor selfish feels it and cries out in agony, begging the pain to stop, I cannot bring myself to care. I stand there, unmoving and unblinking, frozen in time, a perfect, porcelain replica of myself.

What is this body but a vessel to carry ourselves? So what if it bears scars? Perhaps they will be a memory, a physical manifestation of my sorrow, a way to remember that what I suffered has not been for nothing, that there has been a reason to all the agony I have gone through, that the sleepless nights and burned bridges mean something, that they have lead to something worthwhile. Let not this fire be for naught, for this flame has begun to become my solace, my own way of repenting for my countless sins. If it will offer me temporary reprieve against the storm of emotions constantly enveloping me, swarming around me like bees only I can see, buzzing and irritating and overwhelming, something that threatens to drown me more and more each day, then it is worth it. To feel nothing is far preferable than to feel too much, then to realise with heartbreaking clarity, once the rose-coloured glasses have been pried off, that there is no one that feels as much or as deeply as I do. It is both a blessing and a curse, I have been told, to feel so much and so profoundly, all at once (though lately it has been feeling more like a curse). If there is, or was anyone who experienced anything remotely similar, then they have certainly never shown themselves to me, preferring, perhaps, to hide away as I have (as a coward) and so I must resign myself to thinking that I am alone in my agony, this thing that makes my charred, maimed heart bleed, this thing that reopens old wounds even as new scars form on the broken, dying muscle. I wonder how much more it will survive before it gives up, before the steady thumps of my heartbeat quiet to a murmur, then stop altogether.

I would pity the thing if I did not feel such immense amounts of regret regarding my own poorly made decisions that I cannot breathe every time I think of my wrongdoings, of the mistakes that have cost me lives a hundred times better than the one I am currently living. I cannot stop my mind from conjuring up theories and speculations of the deepest sort, of pondering over what could have been and what I wish, selfishly and despite it all (as if I stil deserve anything good in the world) in the depths of the night, when all is too quiet and I am left to the mercy of my own thoughts, a victim of the darkness and everything evil. It seems that everything unsavoury and unfavourable only seems to take root at night, and yet, ironically, it is the only time when I feel as if there are no expectations on me, save for those iron manacles I have set upon myself that I cannot seem to take off. I am bound by them every night, I put them on willingly, then weep after I cast away the key, wishing, waiting, naively, that all is not lost and that the world is not such a horrible place after all. But people like me are what make this paradise so unpalatable.

And so I set myself on fire every night, a purifying, cleansing gesture in its own morally reprehensible way, a way to rid myself of all the wrong that hangs around me like a shroud, this guillotine, this butcher’s block which I feel will strike down on me as I walk on eggshells. Bloodshed will rain down upon me the minute I misstep or misspeak, I fear, and so I do not act, nor do I speak, for fear of this metaphorical death encases me, it solidifies into a chrysalis the more I refuse to move, covering me in its deceptively sweet scent. The regret of inaction has long since overtaken me but I cannot bring myself to care (like multiple areas of my life). This glass ceiling which I am trapped underneath, which I cannot seem to break despite all my futile attempts; a way to burn those iron manacles off so that the metal can be forged into something useful rather than a vile product of my guilt, something which has been welded from a noble intention rather than the disgusting, eternally blameworthy and forever erring self’s wishes to be forgotten and to turn back time. After all, God hardly listens to his followers. What difference will it make if a sinner kneels and begins to pray in shattered knees, hands coated in blood that is everyone’s but their own? 

These attempts to free myself of this construct grow weaker, day by day, and I am not sure there will be very much left by the end, save for something that bears my name and looks, that resembles me physically. But I do not know this person, I do not know who they are or why they have taken root in my soul, why they cannot leave, why I cannot banish them so that I may have some semblance of control over my life, so that I am not governed by something other, so that I have a fighting chance, no matter how brief or slim, at whatever this life has become, whatever my sins have sculpted it into.

masterlist

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#151 - Letter #4

My beloved [name],

Every moment that overwhelms me, every instance when I feel like I am not enough, anytime the world becomes too much for me to bear alone, I want to curl into your arms; those arms that have been a sanctuary more times than I count. I want to curl up in your tight, comforting embrace and never let go. More times than I can count, I have naively hoped that this would be possible, that I wouldn’t have to face anything I didn’t want to without you, that unfaltering, glorious being by my side.

Even when we are apart, even when you are nothing more than a thought away, my body hungers for you the way a sunflower hungers for the sun; never-ending and all-consuming, a necessity for it to not only survive, but to thrive. I long for you so deeply it aches, until everything in me aches simply because you are not close to me. Your smile, your eyes, your compassion and thoughtfulness have enchanted me beyond measure, and I have never been one to fight a losing battle.

This, these emotions, you…I think my heart knew, long before my mind did, that this was precisely one of those losing battles that would not be worth fighting. And so, regardless of everything else, regardless of my selfishness to have someone so utterly to myself, regardless of irony of this entire situation when I selfishly hoped I could keep you all to myself when I had you, I let myself fall. I did not realise how far I had fallen until I realised I could no longer see the cliff, that edge which I had willingly thrown myself over to simply bathe in your presence, to be near to you because my body demanded it like a dying man demands to be heard. I let myself fall, and I cannot even blame you for ensnaring me so because, despite the consequences, despite knowing what would become of me, I leapt into that chasm knowing I would not come out whole. My heart, that beating thing in my chest that governs far more than I would like it to, was loath to admit what effect you had on this hopelessly romantic self I have always been; a quality you have amplified a hundredfold. Perhaps I did not want to.

I have not been thinking quite right since I met you, since my favourite moment of the day became talking to you, laughing with you and seeing that radiant smile of yours, that smile which ignites something in me. It kindles a fire so soft and unbreakable, a spirit which I had thought long-forgotten, rather than the lonely nights I told myself I wanted. Those clouds hovering above me which seemed only to surface in the dark like monsters given flesh, except that the flesh was my thoughts, held such sway over me, I cannot believe how I had struggled to see past the artificial storm I had created. This gloomy weather and depressing cloudbursts, these sooty and silvery clouds did little to cheer my already worn-out mood. But now it is clear: you were not in my life, so of course there were bound to be tempests that threw even the most skilled sailors, even those capable of navigating the roughest seas, into turmoil and worry so immense it was nearly unheard of, that had them quaking in fear because they feared for their lives, not knowing if they would ever live to see the light of day again. 

There is something so alluring about you, an unspeaking assurance and serenity which surrounds your being; this vexing contradiction that takes the breath from my lungs every time I think of it. In the face of adversity; in the face of colossal hardship, both yours and others’, you choose to be kind and persevere; you choose to give love despite it all. There is a certain kind of magic in steadfast, grim determination, a willingness to move with deliberation and thought for your surroundings that I had not thought possible. Your contemplative nature, the graceful way your carry yourself; they are only some of the many things I admire about you. But know that if I begin listing and elaborating on all the qualities that make you so wonderful, it would take me a thousand and one eternities to spell it out for every soul to hear and see; and another thousand and one eternities for you to believe with fibre of your soul. That is the irony; and for that, my heart breaks (more than it already has) for your sheer inability to see that which makes you irreplaceable. 

Your presence, your calm and grounding presence, something which I cannot quite put my finger on, they are all I need. Nothing more, nothing less. You are my anchor, my calm in the storm, my moment of reprieve before all goes to hell and never recovers, before the ruins are more visible than the architecture we have in such abundance. You are the tranquility I need, the peace at dawn before the chaos of the day unfolds, the anticipatory twilight that has stunned generations as they covet nature the way a monarch would covet their crown. As they would take care of their treasures; as they will cherish and bleed and bargain, so will I keep mine from harm. You are not mine in the way that you belong to me; you belong beside me, with me, in every sense of the word forever. Physically and mentally, it is if I cannot stop thinking about you the moment you leave, and in your presence my thoughts are filled only of you.

I hope you look back to this moment in time, this homage I have tried to pay you, this attempt and immortalising all that you are and all that you will be, in due time, if only you give yourself some grace and consideration, if only you ask for help. Know that you do not have to shoulder everything alone. I hope you look back and I hope you realise, if not today then one day soon, that you are the most wonderful thing to happen to me, that you will never be undesirable or a burden, for how could someone who keeps me alive, who keeps my heart beating, be anything but a blessing?

A million kisses and a thousand more hugs,

Your friend who wants nothing more than to see you succeed, in more ways than one

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#150

Disgustingly, I crave. Even when I know I should not, even when every instinct screams at me to leave, to get away, to run, to hide, I cannot. I am entranced and enraptured by the very thought of you, your presence something otherworldly and ethereal. No matter what I do, I cannot seem to break myself free of the trance you hold me in. I do not think I want to. It is far more peaceful here, in our own world, where all of my problems cease to exist.

Selfishly, I want you all to myself, and I never want to let you go. I want to hold you in my embrace forever and create a sanctuary only for the both of us, where nothing and no one will be significant enough to cause us harm, where we will live in our own little world free from all that plagues us.

The longer I spend in your presence, the more I am assured that this meeting, this getting to know each other is not mere coincidence, but rather fate’s doing. I do not know how I survived for so long without a presence such as yourself to light the way, to guide me, to be my solace and sanctuary when I most needed it.

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#149

I examine all our moments together like gems. I turn them over and over and over until I have memorised every crevice, every dent, every chip in the jewels. I hoard them like a dragon, breathing fire on anyone who dares get too close to what we once had. I grieve over the immortality of these jewels, and also mourn our inability to access them. All I want to do is to reach a hand all the way through and caress these memories, these glowing lights in my sea of darkness. But the irony is that I am stuck with the distorted recollection of our moments together.

Is it not odd how our minds erase all the bad about the person once they have left our lives? How our minds seem to magically forgive the sinner for every wrongdoing, if only so we can have them back in our lives, if only so that we can avoid feeling this deep, bone-numbing loneliness, if only for a little bit.

Our minds crave company, mine craves you, despite all that has happened between us, despite this chasm that separates your soul and mine. I refuse to believe it is irreparable; there must be a piece of glass thick enough and large enough to be able to patch this ruin up. If it cracks, I will fall without a scream, because I will have been grateful to even have had the chance to pursue you. I will not yell, because I will have died thinking about you, about finding my way back to you, because in my finl moments, the thoughts of your soul will have filled my mind for a fleeting, endless moment.

As you are immortalsied in these jewels, so will you be immortalised in me. My mind will not forget you, no matter how I try. How can it be possible to see someone in so many different places, in so many different ways? Every step, every breath all I can see is you, yet you are just a shadow away, one step away from being reunited with me.

A ghost, a haunting presence you are, standing at the edge of my memory, your borders blurring as I squint my eyes and try to make our your shape. Were you really that tall? And was your hair really that colour? I don’t know, I don’t remember, but I remember your soul, your thoughts, your kindness. It has been imprinted on my soul in such a way that the only way I will be able to function again is if you mold your soul to mine. That way, we will be a whole once more, and not two halves drifting on separate ends of this world. Everything will make sense once we are together, I promise you.

You have this uncanny ability to make everything seem better when you are present. If I truly did not know better, I would call it magic, but now I know it is something else entirely that I could not put a name to if I tried. You calm the fire in me, the nervousness, the rage; all that is unpalatable about me become features that are bearable only because of your presence. In your presence, I am no longer a monster or a feral beast, I resemble a human. I know how to function around you, I know how to act without turning insane and sick with the thought of you, I can breathe when you are around. 

That is why I believe you are molded to me, crafted to me and my very being by a God or fate or destiny so immovable, I will not be surprised if we uncover the knowledge that millions have died trying to change this course of life. The inevitability of it all astounds me; how two people can be so different and yet they can grow to love and cherish and admire each other.

My mind is no longer numb, my brain no longer frozen and in a shock so deep it would take such immense amounts of electricity to revive it again. Life feels like a nightmare without you; with you, it becomes tolerable and I do not feel the incessant and constant need to drive a knife through my chest when you are here, beside me.

Stay. Stay here, stay with me. Stay beside me, do not leave. I will hold onto you until my nails crack and my hands bleed, until the evidence of my anguish and desperation is forever engraved onto your skin. I will kneel and beg and cry and weep, I will become less than a human for you (because I have always been) but I require you to stay. I am running out of ways to say this now, but I need you, I need the miracle that is you to save me from the damnation that is myself.

I require saving, but I am not brave enough to save myself. And so, I latch onto the nearest thing, the closest being who will not hate me for being as I am, what I am (at least not entirely. Some forms of hatred I can live with). And so, I implore you to at least attempt to fix the mess that is me, this thing that has been festering inside my must leave. 

It is only your light that it will listen to, it is only your presence that will cause it to abate and shrink in on itself, much like I have done with myself previously; hiding, constantly hiding. That creature requires a firm hand, a stern voice, and I am too scared to be able to have either.

I know that creature is bad for me, I know I should not listen to it, and yet I want to. When you are not there, I turn to it instead. A sorry replacement for you, yes, but I suppose that beggars cannot be choosers. I seek its approval the way I seek yours, madly, wildly, incessantly; wild and without abandon. I will break myself down to rubble if you ask me; if only you ask, I will reduce myself to nothing but ashes if necessary, without a thought and entirely willingly.

I have realised that I have no purpose in this life but to be yours, to be yours and to serve you in any way that is possible. If it is my heart you desire, it is my heart you will get. On a silver platter, decorated with jewels, decorated with gemstones so stunning I will get a spark of joy in my chest, that rotting cavity upon seeing your smile, seeing those wondrous eyes light up with mirth and satisfaction.

But I will consider myself unworthy when that same gaze is shone upon me. I cannot receive anything good, you see. I balk at any positive thing, any good thing, any holy thing. Anything pure, or sweet, or kind. I am sure I will ruin it, I am sure I will destroy it in ways one had not thought imaginable. I will stutter and fidget and wonder when I shall be let out of the spotlight when I receive praise.

How odd it is, to want to be seen by someone, but to only want the parts I deem adequate to do so? How odd that I must make myself palatable, easy to digest and simple, plain, so that I am not overwhelming to others. How odd that I must cater to a stranger’s tastes before my own; how I must consider someone else’s opinion before I have the chance to formulate my own.

How odd that I must be molded into someone else, shaped like a clay doll pretending to be porcelain, delicate and fragile and breakable. While those traits are not entirely wrong, I am fragile in a different way. I wll self-combust, self-sabotage at the slightest touch of intimacy, of vulnerability. I flee from emotion as if it is a plague, as if it will rot my already rotted soul. I find it foreign, an odd feeling to ruminate on, one I have learned long ago is not worth the pain. 

If I block the good, I will block the pain, but it does not matter so long as I block the pain. I will build walls and fortresses so high nothing and no one will penetrate them, not even on accident. I will wield myself to be a weapon so deadly, so fearful not even the thought of trespassing these walls, this ruined estate, once grand in its glory, will cross their minds.

I will live in solitude, but solitude is safer than the fear of being seen; seen as I truly am.

If i balk at the sight of others, then surely there must be someone, somewhere who does the same.

I am not as conceited to think that these emotions have been felt by no one before, as if I am the only one who has had the privilege of experiencing such crushing amounts of self-hatred and self-loathing. But the lack of documentation, of diaries and speeches, or conversations, certainly makes it seem so.

Ever since the dawn of time, it seems, humanity has been inclined to hide away parts of themselves they are not yet ready to show to the world.

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#148

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

The problem with desire, I have realised, is that it requires far too much vulnerability with unpredictable, unreliable people and nearly no guarantee of being understood. What certainty do I have that my innermost thoughts, my deepest, most violent feelings will not be used against me in a fit of wrath? One misspoken word will cause this entire flimsy fortress to come tumbling down, I fear. One wrongly uttered phrase will cause damage the likes of which entire civilizations in the midst of ruin will not have witnessed. It will cut me so deep I will lay there, licking my wounds in such utter shame and embarrassment I will resemble nothing more than a wounded dog, waiting loyally for its master, that person which has caused it harm, to return, and to inflict the same violent damages on it. It will consider that love; it will be thankful to have experienced this, for that is all that it has known: love without blood is not possible, one must sacrifice and pay and give up one’s soul to be worthy of even a shred of it. Sacrifice without love is not love, they whisper, their voices a lilting croon in my ear as I fight to comply, even as my body gives up, beginning to tire and fatigue once and for all. But I do not know this yet. I will not know this until it is too late and there will be no one standing around my corpse as it lies, rotting, only the bare earth keeping it company as I am swallowed up by the soil one final time, never to be seen or heard from again.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#147

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post

This desire, this fierce carnality and the softer, purer want I possess are perhaps the only two things I am sure that I truly possess. I alternate between the two, swinging from one end to the other as if I am a pendulum, never ceasing. Steady, relentless, I carry on. With shaking limbs and a trembling tongue; my hands bloodied and my nails chipped, fingers bleeding, I carry on. 

I will not get up if I stop now; I know this, and so I must keep going with no regard for my emotions regarding this matter. I have been told I overwork this body, but how can it be considered that when I have not yet achieved even half of that which I want to accomplish in this lifetime? How can one life, one chance at everything, this fleeting moment, be enough to experience all of it? However shall I be able to experience all that my heart screams at me to? There are far too many possibilities regarding what one can do with their life, and simply not enough time to do it all. I cannot be expected to pick one path and stick to it for the rest of my life, can I? Must my future self be punished for the sins of my naive, innocent, younger self? Is there no forgiveness, no reflection and adaptation in this cutthroat world? Why is it so eager to punish others’ wrongdoings? 

Look at yourselves, I want to scream. Take a long, hard look at yourselves before you condemn me for my sins. Is that not God’s job? So why are you doing it for Him? Take a look at yourselves, at your own mistakes and sins which are sure to have piled up, the wreckage larger than mine, more crude and violent. Realise that the debris is so unrecoverable, so ruined; realise that your own hands are stained with blood so red it will be impossible to wash off no matter which river you go to, no matter how you beg. Realise this, and then realise that you do not have any worthy moral standing to convict anyone else; for there cannot be a universe in which the sinner is also the saint, in which the criminal is also the judge, in which you sentence others to damnation while knowing that you have done far worse.

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings