aera

aera

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"Do something productive, do something worthwhile." For whom? I do and do for no one. Then, is it worth my while? Well...

"Do something productive, do something worthwhile." For whom? I do and do for no one. Then, is it worth my while? Well.

I collect voices. The melodic ones suit my tastes best, but it's the raspy quality that I find enrapturing. I sit and listen and the sounds float through the air and reach my eyes. I draw closer, closer, near, I hear, so I draw near, closer, and brush my fingertips across the owner's throat. A delicate accident, they understand. In the morning, they are forever soundless, and my collection becomes ever more charming.

Watercolor is one of the harder art forms, I always thought. Colors ever inconsistent and mercurial, patterns easily changed by a breath or a grain of salt. I never feel in control of my brush, as gently as I try to sweep it across the canvas. I'm constantly arguing with the paint, but that argument is what makes its delicate, stubbornly unique streaks more than stuff on paper. In those moments, I'm not just painting; I'm having a conversation.

We blame the rain for our moods, bitter and cold, or perhaps suffocating and unbearably heated. What if, however, our moods can be blamed for the rain? When everything already appears hilariously terrible, it starts raining (could it get any worse?), but now the term cliche is moot. No poorly written drama guides the droplets to the ground. We call upon the rain ourselves, lords of the sky.

He likes to make himself feel big. He drags himself up, some noble being cursed to live among the rest of us or some shit like that. Well, he's fired insults my way too, tryin' to cut me short. He starts real low and goes block by block. I wasn't made of scrap metal, nah, something more solid. Not gonna lose sleep over my tallness or shortness and so what's the fucking point in moving on thin wooden stilts just 'cause they're high? A damn brush and he and his stilts clatter back on down. Not so big in the end.

It's just this damn code, you know? I can't get it right and I've been working on it for hours, bent over, squinting. I can't tell where it's broken and every time I look at it, nonfunctional, I curse and look at it again. The result's always the same, a disaster that I stare at and change and change and change. If I keep moving it around, I might find perfection, but right now it falls apart, becoming just letters. Just numbers. Just a mess. I am broken code that can't be fixed and all I see is a confused combination that wastes away, rearranging itself until the pieces no longer make a complete whole.

I kick the shells and a few of them crack, white shards scattering across the sand. So many and all alike too, why do people bother collecting them? Not worth my time, though at least I love their loud crunch beneath my feet. It makes me feel big, powerful.

neon

All the neon prints on dark skin, colors so blinding against a cool black. The girl, white and small, is littler and littler beside them in her greyscale socks, skirt, sweater - the ball of dust that is swept away from vibrant light, colorful and alive. The ones wearing neon exist loudly and the noise is beautiful.

soap

I like white rooms. They feel larger and their clean walls begin to twist and play a little game as I stare at them. I like white rooms. They're clean unless people enter them and smear their filth on the floor and ceiling. I like white rooms. I like white rooms. If only they would take me out of this white room and white jacket and there's so much soapy clean white, oh how I like white rooms.

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writing since 2011 · 21 entries · 20 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Aera showed up.

2longest streak

20days written

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on this day 14 years ago

Aera wrote about signs
“There were signs, but I couldn´t resist, and so fell victim to fate´s intricate designs.”

the words Aera reaches for

whitenowgrindrainroomsmisssleepforthdelicatehopcleanworthchangebrushcloserfaster