Take a breath.
Pause.
The buzz of worries and concerns fades.
Watch the stars twinkle and dance with their tracers across the sky.
Feel the world spinning beneath your feet; slight hum as souls cry out in love, but also pain.
Hear your own pulse as a “thrum.. thrum..” in your ears, gently reminding that time still passes.
Soft murmur of the breeze; the quiet susurration of socks on carpet.
Glimpse shadows in the trees as they shift and move, quietly inviting you to catch the patterns between the fractals.
To the sky again – watch the meteorite trailing a kaleidoscope of colors across the void.
Breathe out.
Nothing
Everyone carries their own story around with them in their head.
It changes a bit over the course of a life; Revised, updated, some parts polished, others cut away. Given enough time, they even start to believe it themselves, shaping who they really are.
It was the same way with her: After enough time of being treated as beautiful, she finally started to believe it, and her own story changed.
So she changed.
No longer seen as beautiful; she was beautiful, seen.
And she was beautiful.
She wasn't beautiful like a flower, or something silly like that; flowers eventually wilt after a few days in the sun, or crumble and die at the first sign
Some things etched by blood and fire; iron, heat, the grit of sand - somehow ever-present in your teeth - the smell of cordite.
The rumble of the truck. The shock of the main charge. Lead truck tossed in the air, all five tons landing twisted; some child's discarded bit of play dough. Waiting for a secondary; doesn't come.
Giving the order to dismount. First rocket cutting you off, drowning you out, hitting the truck, rocking it hard. Second one hitting, truck going on it's side. Impact of chaos. Burning. No sound. Everything white, then dark.
Eyes opening. The kid next to you - really, just a kid; barely even has to shave - sprawled, shre
like dust-motes through sunlight by toasterlizard, literature
Literature
like dust-motes through sunlight
Because even when she was sad, something deep in her eyes still sparkled.
Something within those inky depths - far, far beneath the tears - refused to stop the dance and mourn.
No-one, it seemed, had told it that the music had stopped.
Still flitting gently as the light played with it; Still teasing with a perfect pirouette.
It couldn't help that the melody it was playing had - long ago - begun to sound like a swan song, or that sometimes "beautiful" also means "sad and haunting".
It didn't care - couldn't care - that the fading echoes of what once had been were still tearing one of us apart.
Like a whisper being carried by a soft, bitt
self-loathing and notebooks by toasterlizard, literature
Literature
self-loathing and notebooks
More than anything else, he had always wanted to be a writer. He imagined himself with notebooks full of scribbled ideas and eventually editing them into some kind of novel. He prepared for this by buying all sorts of materials: favorite pens, different writing pads, notebooks. He had dozens of notebooks, all shapes and sizes. Some of them dating back before high-school, most of them only had a few pages half-full. He would sometimes get random ideas, but would only occasionally write them down. He would always hate them when he'd flip through the notebooks later, but could never bring himself to toss them out.
He always told himself that he
People change. They grow. Move apart. Learn from experiences, mistakes. Sometimes they break.
Sometimes they wonder if anything ever really heals, or if its just a continuation down a big spiral into nothing.
Sometimes it seems like everything (life?) only really comes as a trickle. Sands falling slowly from a timer counting down to.. What? The next adventure?
And we wait; wait for the last grain to fall. We sit and watch the small, seemingly pathetic sandpile and wonder what any of it even means. Why are we even here? What stupid, inane purpose am I supposed to be fulfilling before the sand runs out?
Will we ever even really know? Expect
Take a breath.
Pause.
The buzz of worries and concerns fades.
Watch the stars twinkle and dance with their tracers across the sky.
Feel the world spinning beneath your feet; slight hum as souls cry out in love, but also pain.
Hear your own pulse as a “thrum.. thrum..” in your ears, gently reminding that time still passes.
Soft murmur of the breeze; the quiet susurration of socks on carpet.
Glimpse shadows in the trees as they shift and move, quietly inviting you to catch the patterns between the fractals.
To the sky again – watch the meteorite trailing a kaleidoscope of colors across the void.
Breathe out.
Nothing
Everyone carries their own story around with them in their head.
It changes a bit over the course of a life; Revised, updated, some parts polished, others cut away. Given enough time, they even start to believe it themselves, shaping who they really are.
It was the same way with her: After enough time of being treated as beautiful, she finally started to believe it, and her own story changed.
So she changed.
No longer seen as beautiful; she was beautiful, seen.
And she was beautiful.
She wasn't beautiful like a flower, or something silly like that; flowers eventually wilt after a few days in the sun, or crumble and die at the first sign
Some things etched by blood and fire; iron, heat, the grit of sand - somehow ever-present in your teeth - the smell of cordite.
The rumble of the truck. The shock of the main charge. Lead truck tossed in the air, all five tons landing twisted; some child's discarded bit of play dough. Waiting for a secondary; doesn't come.
Giving the order to dismount. First rocket cutting you off, drowning you out, hitting the truck, rocking it hard. Second one hitting, truck going on it's side. Impact of chaos. Burning. No sound. Everything white, then dark.
Eyes opening. The kid next to you - really, just a kid; barely even has to shave - sprawled, shre
like dust-motes through sunlight by toasterlizard, literature
Literature
like dust-motes through sunlight
Because even when she was sad, something deep in her eyes still sparkled.
Something within those inky depths - far, far beneath the tears - refused to stop the dance and mourn.
No-one, it seemed, had told it that the music had stopped.
Still flitting gently as the light played with it; Still teasing with a perfect pirouette.
It couldn't help that the melody it was playing had - long ago - begun to sound like a swan song, or that sometimes "beautiful" also means "sad and haunting".
It didn't care - couldn't care - that the fading echoes of what once had been were still tearing one of us apart.
Like a whisper being carried by a soft, bitt
self-loathing and notebooks by toasterlizard, literature
Literature
self-loathing and notebooks
More than anything else, he had always wanted to be a writer. He imagined himself with notebooks full of scribbled ideas and eventually editing them into some kind of novel. He prepared for this by buying all sorts of materials: favorite pens, different writing pads, notebooks. He had dozens of notebooks, all shapes and sizes. Some of them dating back before high-school, most of them only had a few pages half-full. He would sometimes get random ideas, but would only occasionally write them down. He would always hate them when he'd flip through the notebooks later, but could never bring himself to toss them out.
He always told himself that he
People change. They grow. Move apart. Learn from experiences, mistakes. Sometimes they break.
Sometimes they wonder if anything ever really heals, or if its just a continuation down a big spiral into nothing.
Sometimes it seems like everything (life?) only really comes as a trickle. Sands falling slowly from a timer counting down to.. What? The next adventure?
And we wait; wait for the last grain to fall. We sit and watch the small, seemingly pathetic sandpile and wonder what any of it even means. Why are we even here? What stupid, inane purpose am I supposed to be fulfilling before the sand runs out?
Will we ever even really know? Expect
I'm not always proud of what I do, but if I had it to do again, I'm not sure I could do it any other way. Things fall apart, they break; That's life. Sometimes life just has to be sad, broken, haunted. And after all the shit going on, I guess I thought we deserved some time to just coast. Cruise through life for a while and see where it took us.
But in the end, life gets a little dull when you're not actually striving for anything real. One hungover morning becomes like any of the others; time's passing marked by the missed calls on your phone. I'm not ignoring your calls, Mom, but you've got the wrong number the person you're trying
Adding this mostly for posterity. A lot of it's proved to be somewhat ironic, in the see-how-much-I've-failed sense.. but I suppose that only makes the title ring as true.
2011-08-17 it's a process
Tonight after explaining to Lurn how my day was, she shook her head and said "Your life.. is complicated." And while I don't disagree with her, it continues to strike me as incredibly odd whenever I give it even the semblance of serious thought. My life really /is/ complicated.
Not that that's untrue for a great majority of people, but for me.. I guess it's mostly that in my mind, I'm a fairly simple person; and I like simple things. Shephe