Hey there! First of all, thank you so much! Second, I’m sorry this took so long to get to. I’ve had a lot on my plate lately and tumblr has taken a bit of a back seat.
But for your question. A lot of it is spontaneous, spurred by what’s around me, what I’m feeling at the moment, things people say to me. It’s a huge reason that I also haven’t been updating lately. I’ve been having writer’s block and I just have no idea what to write.
I am lost within Raven smiles
and miles of speech
Black feathers guide my eyes
And names twist my tongue
into something like a smile
Take me to bed,
Tuck me in tightly
and sing your lullabies
And don’t let me learn to fly,
Lest I learn to love the ground
more than your sky
2 a.m. is spent awake. She has the hiccups.
6 a.m. should not exist. It is the moment in time when even God dies because he cannot bear the weight of both the sun and the moon crashing down upon him at the same time. It is the inaccuracy of the clock depicting both night and day at the same time and therefore it is completely illogical.
However, it exists.
And that it when she is doomed to get up every morning, never mind what kind of midnight horrors played out in her head all night long.
Her eyes are rubber and dry. Her skin is pulled back and she can only imagine what nights will be like when she’s forty and doesn’t have fresh skin to hide behind. She leaves her hair down though. A callous mistake.
7 a.m. should be allowed to exist, just not in the morning when people are tired and without coffee. People tend to forget the concept of signals at 7 a.m. And other things. 7 a.m. is just a forgetful hour where people leave all sorts of thoughts and things behind.
8 a.m. is alright. It can stay. She gets the hiccups. Most of the hour is spent shouting at fictional characters who make her feel more than real people half the time.
It’s also during this hour that she discovers she will be a mind reader for the day. See, she has the habit where she looks at a person and accidentally reads their mind. It isn’t something she can really turn off and contrary to popular belief, it’s not a lot of fun. Well, it isn’t that she can actually read other people’s minds, it’s that she can grasp the emotions that flit away behind their skin.
She discovers she will be a mind reader for the day when she looks at someone’s face and sees the smile they put on over their cracking soundtrack.
9 a.m. is the beginning of the haze. She remembers nothing. She’s fairly certain she gets the hiccups twice in here.
11 a.m. is an hour of regret. She needs her hair up so she can devour specimens with metal tweezers and cold industrial examination. The world takes mercy on her and selects someone to save her at 11:27.
12 p.m. is spent with friends. She learns how to laugh temporarily.
1 p.m. flits away with dancing and jokes. And more hiccups.
2 p.m. is limbo.
3 p.m. is spent lost in the piano. She finishes her composition and declares herself accomplished enough for a snack. It is well deserved.
4 p.m. is spent in corrupt dark humor. She is in good company.
5 p.m. is spent dressing herself in a casual manner, sweatshirt necessary because she is a “fucking whore” as strangers at gas stations liked to call her last night. She has to make sure she is not called that again. Her esteem cannot take the blow.
She smiles when greeting her friends.
6 p.m. is the beginning of exhaustion. People talk for hours about the future and the present is lost within half lidded eyes and people two rows back trying not to snore. Footsie is the chosen method of staying alive.
7 p.m. is spent wondering where the day went. It is a lonely and hopeless hour and should be disposed of immediately.
8 p.m. is spent with meat that looks too much like nightmares and soup that’s relatively more okay. She gets the hiccups for the fifth time and leaves the table without explaining why. She worries her parents, but can’t find the energy to care.
9 p.m. should be thrown out with 6 a.m. It is a hapless time with little purpose but to warn that night is quickly approaching and that she is not going to sleep well tonight. She spends most of it hiding from her parents and the world.
10 p.m. is an hour dedicated to getting lost within the mind of someone far away and not herself. 10 p.m. is the best hour of the day as it is no longer her day, it is someone else’s.
They make her take a shower and interrupt her peace. She hates showers. It is spent realizing that the man who called her a “fucking whore” is the man she killed in her dream last night, poured sand all over his wounds because they said it would help.
She finds that 10 p.m. is worse than 9 p.m.
Wandering souls dream of dead men and places that are unreachable unless starved of sleep and sacrifice. They go to the unreachable places of their own volition. The dead man creep into dreams when least expected. Most of these wandering souls find themselves cornered in the body of a pen with fingers, ink trapped beneath the skin. No one has figured out the exact method to use such ink without harming the soul inside. But wandering souls don’t mind much.
They are souls in the form of a suture across other people’s wounds, so bloody and violent. The wandering souls don’t mind bloody wounds. They’ve seen enough themselves. Their ink troubles seem harmless in comparison most of the time, so they tend to forget about them. They are sutures, they are necessary to other people’s lives, not to their own.
Most people consider wandering souls to be selfless, always so focused on other people even if they are falling apart at the seams. They consider it to be natural. It seems strange to be complimented for doing the right thing.
Wandering souls often find themselves lost. There is no manual to wandering.
She is a wandering soul.
I would say
that the cause
for my shaking hands
is just human weakness,
just faulty circuits in my brain
but I’m almost certain that
there is nothing faulty
And he stood in the center of my world
and slowly drew me towards him,
his oceanic voice drowning me
beneath heady love songs.
Perhaps they should call him siren
because he’s drawing me in
and I feel no need to stop.
It is too enchanting.
He is too enchanting.
The end of the world comes without fanfare. One day the world is normal. People walk their dogs, watch the news, hiss at rival football teams, stay online way past midnight. The usual.
The next, it’s over. It’s simple like that.
The sky is clear when the end comes. It’s a Thursday. The smog has cleared somewhat, almost like a parting gift to the world because it’s just about to be over. People remark about what a great day it is, how wonderful it is that the sun is finally shining. Most of the work breaks are excuses to take a few minutes in the sunshine before the clouds can cover it up again. Most students spend their day staring out the window instead of studying. The teachers don’t mind; they’re rather hypnotized by it too.
There is nothing special about the day the end comes. People go about their typical business, admiring the weather and the concrete buildings around them. In fact, it seems like a better day to most people. Everyone’s in a decent mood because the sun is shining and it certainly shows.
At home, the sun is the main focus of that night’s broadcast. It is unexpected and unplanned, but not underappreciated. Everyone goes to bed and the world decides to finally give up, going out with a sigh of relief.
People wake up the next day.
Nothing has changed.
Thanks for the feature, lovely tumblr editors!
Too much homework to do much spazzing, but you have my heartfelt thanks.
The beds in my house squeak with just the smallest movement. Every night, I, the insomniac of the family, lie awake and listen to an orchestra of restless sleepers and late night snorers and mental breakdowns. The rooms at home have thin enough walls there are no secrets anymore. The sound travels too easily. So do the implications.
My mother tries to ignore those for the most part. Especially the ones in regards to my mental health.
Sometimes the revelations burst forward in shouting matches that last for hours in the form of silent glares (I really don’t want to talk about this! Whatever you think is going on, you’re wrong! This is my life! Not yours!). She and I are well versed in the art of arguing. My sister, not so much.
(I don’t talk to my mother for three days after that. My sister sneaks through the rooms at night, anxious and more alone than ever. My mother and I forget to care.)
We sleep in pairs now, always somehow barely scraping through the night. My mother has my father, my sister has her books, and I have my issues. It all makes for very pleasant company.
My sister wakes up first, awake at the crack of dawn to snatch a few words before reality can claim her for the day. When she comes downstairs, my mother is up, already poring over breakfast or the paper or something. I’m the only one who wakes up unsatisfied, torn and tragic and tired. I yawn and meander out in search of breakfast or the hollow pit of my stomach (depends on my mood), sometimes with a good night sleep in tow, sometimes without.
On the days accompanied by sleep, I smile more often, crack jokes and do homework for something other than getting my mother off my case. I eat breakfast and help with chores sometimes. On the mornings I wake up at 11 p.m. and ever go back to sleep, there is pure silence. I write until they think I’m catatonic (Go away, Mom. I don’t care about homework. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.). I wish I was.
(I said, go away!)
My family’s learned to live with those days, with the mood swings and the migraines. I think my sister finds she likes the silence, much less noise to distract from fantasies. My mother, not so much. She stays up late, waiting for me to drift off. I worry her too much.
Sleep finally returns after four days absence and everything goes on as normal. My bed does not squeak. The orchestra is incomplete.
I smile again.
I’ve actually been dead for years. You’ve been talking to a ghost for quite a long time now. Truth be told, I’m a low level spirit stuck in the leftmost computer of the Seattle public library on the second floor. It’s rather nice actually, if a bit quiet.
I wish I could be haunting somewhere cooler.
The next time I go up to Seattle
I will come and visit you
We can talk
I’ll open up a word document
I’ll type messages
I’ll find the folder in which you’ve been saved
And I’ll move you to my USB drive
And I’ll bring you home with me
I’ll let you do whatever you want on my computer
And we can talk whenever one of us gets lonely