artistj
I've never been to a funeral. I don't think I want to. I have avoided at least three. Sometimes, I imagine mine. I don't like the idea at all. The mourning. Yes, it's nice that people will miss me. But I'm quite certain becoming part of something else isn't that terrible. Immortality would become such a burden. When the time comes, I'm quite alright with moving onto something new. I hope they will be happy for me and wish me the best on new adventures.
Miran's fingers curled around the torch. Shaking a little, she peered around the corner and pressed the switch. She yelped. Upon realizing it was only a spider web and the crisscross shadows meant no harm, she giggled to herself and trudged down the hall more confidentley. The creeking of the floor sent her heart racing again almost immediatley. She kept telling herself, "What a silly girl I am..."
"Once in the night, I stole dreams and wove into them the makings of my own mind. Then, I returned all these images, sounds, and feelings to you. In your quietest moments, I echo in your mind. I possess your hidden spaces," he admitted it gravely over a cup of coffee, his lips creased into a frown. Marla groaned and then settled her gray eyes on the man that called himself the dream thief.
We are all thieves of sound. Limewire, jimmyr, frostwire, torrents. We take what we please without paying the artists. It's too easy to steal sound.
I am the fury. My wrath rips through diamond and steel. My teeth are golden and sharp. The tips ooze poison. My nails are slivers of glass. Tempt me. I dare you.
Don't you dare attach that word to me. Domestic. It would be laughable to say the least. It does not apply to a young lady that tromps through the woods in Jane Austen boots, climbs trees, walks through suburbs in the early AM's, and explores places just for the hell of it. Domestic is a word for a woman that sits quietly at home, taking care of the house. It's for a woman that allows herself to be tamed by love. You know better than to attach that word to me. Yes, you love me and let me be free.
I am always tempted to write for another word. I am tempted to let someone I don't know hear it. Read it, rather. Even though I have plenty of souls in my everyday life that already hear me. I'm just saying hello. I am always, always, always tempted to say hello. Today, I wonder why just feel tempted? Why not... just do? I love you.
Curious, the fire made the knot on the log appear as lips. The painting came to life, moving the way I'm sure the artist intended. The trees reached over the streets, shadowy like in storybooks about little girls getting lost in the woods. The deer drifted away. I saw every movement of their muscles, their form rippling with blood and breath. Curious, the world is so alive and all I do is merely live most of the time.
Mountains of bent metal, shattered glass, splintered boxes, sofas, car parts, windows, doors, everything that society rejected. It all built up. The sun over the wastelands was lifeless and glaring. I squinted as I begin the ascent up the tallest mass of trash, and I caught a glimpse of the king at the top, his black robes shaking in the wind.
Everything had a new glow to it. The world released everything in light. I could see through her skin. I could see her muscles etched along the contours of her bones. I could see her bones, bright and vibrant, through her skin. Dust rose in sparks around our feet as we followed the underground river, and I was sucked in by the wonder. I couldn't even speak.
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writing since 2011 · 23 entries · 20 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Sarah showed up.
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the words Sarah reaches for
wordbonesskinlightcrewmusclestempteddeadboltsoundimaginenightdockattachloveherself