metamagical
Incredulous with rage he screamed soothing sentiments into my ear-holes. They layered as sediments in the swampy thoughts of a hazed wasp. I believe you not to be entirely genuine in your affection. But somewhere deep the hope remains that I can one day pretend a credibility to your delusions at lust.
Grinding pestle to mortar, into a powdered grasp, these rocks become pebbles, these goals become tasks.
each hour spent wasting is gone, but the days continue, wandered
All you were given was a conclusion, no process I guess. There was no anchorage, just a floating perfection made of [something unknown], using [materials unknown]. We rejected this framed perfection. With no clue of how to create one of our own we questioned if it was even this that we wanted. We answered with truth, imperfections that we had dragged around on chains were noted, appreciated, tacked to the walls and the ceilings and the floors. We made art not to tie our feelings to conclusions, but to anchor us to our previous selves and track the motions of new waves.
Their names were Smudge and Pebbles and they were bunnies. It was all very exciting with adventures and fun. One day they went on two adventures, then three adventures, then four. Soon enough their adventures were going on adventures of their own. In the end there were altogether too many adventures. Smudge and Pebbles ran out of pocket money and couldn't afford any sweets to put in their adventure rucksacks and they ran out of space to do less adventurous things like drinking from their clickity ball-bearing bottles.
So maybe we'll just get Pebbles hey, and leave Smudge here in the shop.
Our father cried at the television. It was like when he shouted at it, but this time it was the tears, rather than the words, that I was too young to understand. I saw only excitement. Energy. Fun. I saw swimming at the local leisure centre with the wave machines. I saw life where there was none. Actors in Hollywood movies. Thankfully blinkered by a youth I saw only coloured pixels on the screen. But I saw the heaviness of parental brows. That I saw, and in it the disaster.
Jayne...
The man they call Jayne...
Two lost children stare at roses. Thinking nothing of their briars. Syncopated heartbeats skittering. Into each other, into silence.
One forgotten truth at a time. Theres a body left listening. Hearing false whispers. Blinking empty and decayed.
If you were to dance in the boots of a dead man, you would dance poorly, for the dead man's boots would not adequately fit your own feet, no matter how worn in they may be. At best you may be able to perform a poor approximation of the charleston, but in a graveyard such as this, on a night as wet at tonight, on a grave so recently disturbed, it would be a muddled, inelegant sort of victory. Much better just to piss upon it and be done with the whole matter.
The overt, the explicit lie, held a truth as its shield and in doing so made a bitter cry at fortitude. There was never a falseness, just a truth present implicitly as such, a truth that hid itself in unmediated presentation.
load more entries
writing since 2012 · 43 entries · 38 days shown up
each square is a day — lit means you showed up.
6longest streak
38days written
2.1entries / week
the words you reach for
shatteredadventuresbonestruthdancetearssoundsilencethoughtsnoisebabyeyespebblescoffeeroomspace