damefortuna
It was her name etched in my bones that I saw in my mind's eye over and over again, and now it's the only thing that I can feel and I can think about. But it feels so dirty and so foul, and maybe I got the letters wrong. Maybe I got the letters wrong and now I'm feeling someone different in my bones.
There is little in me that I can call active anymore. I feel dry, dead, no wellspring of life to rush through my veins and give me a burst of inspiration. Somewhere deep inside, a screaming voice is locked up, trying to get through me.
But it can't.
I can't.
I want to live, be alive, exist more than on a basic level.
Sometimes it's not enough to be.
everything in this world is a product of competition. improve on something because someone is better than you, because your value depends on the value of others. it is sad. it is depressing. beauty is set by standards. beauty is only there when you fight for it.
everything is a fight.
everything is a battle, a competition.
everything you fight for is painful, but not always worth it.
always leaves you battle-scarred for life.
she beamed at her, the smile wide, bright as the sun, blinding. no one realized that behind the blinding brightness was an unfathomable void. least of all her.
That single feather was stained with something - a dark ink that couldn't be removed, so it seemed. It sat on the desk, in the abandoned room, beside a sheet of yellowed paper, burned at the sides, the script written on it obscured by age. Outside, the sky was pink, and the sun sank down the horizon. Whatever words were supposed to be read and written were lost.
It would be swell if I could delete a few things about me, if only to conform to what society - and my family, especially - wants to see in me. But to hell with that, I guess. All I really want right now is to rewrite the past and prevent myself from consuming too many fatty foods. Ten pounds in two years isn't a joke, people.
Words have power. Clearly. Without them, I wouldn't be sinking into this kind of insanity that only my thoughts - the endless string of words-turned-into-pictures running through my mind - can pull me into.
He didn't need the moon to appear full and bright to turn him absolutely crazy. He didn't need truckloads of alcohol, drugs, or whatever kids got addicted on to make him completely inarticulate. No. There were days when he just was, and there were days when he wasn't. Mostly, it was on the days that rained, when he was alone, cold, his eyes screwed shut and himself shivering and scared, haunted by his past and the demons that came with it.
Until this week, we've virtually been strangers to each other. I'm hoping that you think of me as a friend (although you have the potential to be more than that to me. I want to know you better. Please let me).
They were strangers, in a way, but they sat beside each other in class every day. They didn't talk, except for a few words exchanged, about the homework, about the lesson. They didn't have at each other when they passed each other by. Their contact involved brief, accidental touches and brushes of the arm. And yet, she can't help but feel as if they had a connection. She can't help but hope that she understands her, and the other way around.
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writing since 2013 · 17 entries · 14 days shown up
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the words Nyx reaches for
alonenowwordsflooreyeseatingmindtalkfightspilledwoodblackskinbirdglassshattered