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writers_loft2009-10-06 04:16 pm
pashernate-boy.livejournal.com) wrote in writers_loft2009-10-06 04:16 pm
Don't bite your tongue
Hi, I thought i would darken your day some with a piece of my writing. It's unfinished a piece of prose. I'm primarily a writer of very short pieces so I haven't quite developed the ability to finish off short stories yet but that is ok, for despite my appearance, i'm still young.
I would appreciate your thoughts and advice greatly, though don't feel obliged. Many thanks and apologies
cDM
Never before have I felt so elated”, I think to myself as I stretch my arms out beyond the perimeter of my bed, realising one of my arms no longer dangles off the side but dangles of the frame of this beautiful, enchanting woman, the woman of my dreams. Bear in mind this is the same bed which has so often felt like my grave, not today however, for I’ve unexplainably stole some joie de vivre from someone, somewhere. I don’t exactly know when or how she got here or more importantly why she put herself through it but to be blatantly honest I really don’t care at this specific moment as I lie on the verge of vim and vigour, which feels enlivening for someone who finds it stressful to step out of bed in the evenings.
“This must be what living feels like”.
However, then it hit me, this woman beside me, I have absolutely no idea who she is. I question every little thing I thought I did last night meticulously, and come to a confident but uncomforting conclusion that I did the same old thing as I always do, drink copious amounts of tea, read a book and watch Billy Liar before going to sleep in my cold, dreary bed in hope of dreaming up some love. I seem to remember that last night my mind conjured up a liaison of some kind, and as I turn over to once again take a peek at this wonderful woman in my bed I realise that she happens to be the very one in my dream, though I’ve never known reality to bode with the dream world. They’re so diverse I could never imagine there being any common ground, for in the dream world even people who I detest seem to be charming, delightful, captivating and charismatic in the same way the people who love me in the dream world find me revolting in the real, cynical, sinister world. As I gaze at her in awe of the panoply of exquisite features before me the thought enters my mind, “is she really there?”, could this saintly being possibly be a product of my lonely, half-broken mind? I bring my legs up against my chest so I’m curled in to an unconvincing ball and slowly I rock back and forth in fear, anxiety and above all else bemusement. I know that the mind is powerful; hallucinations have told me so but surely my senses can’t be fooled in such a way that I can feel a physical body in my bed, the heat of her perfect body radiating below the sheets, the intense racing of my heart. The racing of the heart that I have read of so many times in books which always seems to be the cue for someone to fall deeply and dangerously in love. After several more minutes of reflection it seems only fair for me to take advantage of this mysterious situation, after all I’ve been praying for years for a woman that would not run off as soon as I mentioned anything that implies that our relationship may not be completely platonic, so I lean over her to give her a soft kiss. My dry, flaky lips touch her soft, ivory skin and then she’s gone. Before I can reopen my eyes I’m kissing the cold, icy air. It was a mere dream, my mind teasing me with beauty, with companionship that seems to me so elusive.
I lay forlorn on my bed of broken dreams and try to force myself back into a dream, a place where a kiss is not an impossibility, oh how I pray for a kiss. It’s truly been an age; my blue, unkissed lips are awfully lonely. They only have each other for company and after 18 years I cannot think they have much more to say to each other. Typically my luck is out and I can’t force myself into a slumber, so I’m back in the real, sombre, gut-wrenching world. Dreaming of reverie.
I walk downstairs to get some coffee and to see what mother’s plans are for the day. However to my dismay she is nowhere to be found in the whole house, the kitchen seems bare, the atmosphere empty and my mind is all over the place as I try to figure out what exactly is going on. I sip on my cup of coffee and walk into the living room where again no trace of mother, or indeed life exists. At this stage I’m frantic, no newspaper, no milk, no sign of anyone outside as I quickly peek out the window timidly, in fear of anyone seeing me, not that I know when that became a bad thing. Something strange and eerie has happened, I can feel it in my bones and it is for this reason I bravely decide to venture outside the sanctuary that is our two bedroom house. Walking through the empty streets it is apparent that there has been no life here for some time, nothing is open, the streets seem as if they’ve never been walked on and the numbing silence, no matter how hard I focus I find myself unable to hear any sound whatsoever. As I trudge back into our sardine tin house it becomes increasingly evident that something deeply troubling is at hand. I again strike up the kettle in hope that any minute now I can be reattached to the apron strings of the woman I depend on and trust. Although, I say trust with some reluctance as I find that trust is akin to degradation. After all saying you trust someone is more or less saying that you don’t think they are worthy of any transgression nor are they capable of stabbing you in the back, or front for that matter. The cup of coffee seated me at the kitchen table where I added a splash of whiskey. Ah, Alcohol. It is very much like dumbing down, you disable any sort of sense you may have and heighten your fatuous qualities, so you vow to never touch it again only to forget it in the same way alcohol devours your memory. Yet still, I’m rather partial.
Sipping my now acidic coffee my mind drifted off the strange goings on that had just occurred; instead my mind indulged itself in all sorts of sorrows. Can it be called sorrows, or is it nostalgia? It matters little; to me it’s the same thing. The source of the slump was the girl of my dreams, who I am sure I was madly, deeply and certainly dangerously in love with. Woe it seems is me, for she dismissed my presence entirely, as well as my heartbeat. A decision of intelligence on her part but one of despair for me, made worse by the fact that after only a few days of her lame excuse,
“It’s not you, honestly. It’s not me either, it’s just that I am not a relationship sort of person, I’m not a loving person and in your case I am not even a kissing person.” she was in the arms and mouth of another who will never feel even a tincture of what I feel for her.
As I re-enter positive or at least neutral thought there is a thumping knock on the door. Or perhaps it was that thumping knock which dragged me kicking and screaming from my self-pity session. Frightful of what lies on the other side of the door I stay at the table, after several seconds of silence I assume that whoever, or with what’s been going on lately, whatever is on the other side has perished from my morning. How deeply mistaken I am though, as I raise the cup of coffee towards my mouth to take one final swig, the front door comes crashing in on the hall.
I would appreciate your thoughts and advice greatly, though don't feel obliged. Many thanks and apologies
cDM
Never before have I felt so elated”, I think to myself as I stretch my arms out beyond the perimeter of my bed, realising one of my arms no longer dangles off the side but dangles of the frame of this beautiful, enchanting woman, the woman of my dreams. Bear in mind this is the same bed which has so often felt like my grave, not today however, for I’ve unexplainably stole some joie de vivre from someone, somewhere. I don’t exactly know when or how she got here or more importantly why she put herself through it but to be blatantly honest I really don’t care at this specific moment as I lie on the verge of vim and vigour, which feels enlivening for someone who finds it stressful to step out of bed in the evenings.
“This must be what living feels like”.
However, then it hit me, this woman beside me, I have absolutely no idea who she is. I question every little thing I thought I did last night meticulously, and come to a confident but uncomforting conclusion that I did the same old thing as I always do, drink copious amounts of tea, read a book and watch Billy Liar before going to sleep in my cold, dreary bed in hope of dreaming up some love. I seem to remember that last night my mind conjured up a liaison of some kind, and as I turn over to once again take a peek at this wonderful woman in my bed I realise that she happens to be the very one in my dream, though I’ve never known reality to bode with the dream world. They’re so diverse I could never imagine there being any common ground, for in the dream world even people who I detest seem to be charming, delightful, captivating and charismatic in the same way the people who love me in the dream world find me revolting in the real, cynical, sinister world. As I gaze at her in awe of the panoply of exquisite features before me the thought enters my mind, “is she really there?”, could this saintly being possibly be a product of my lonely, half-broken mind? I bring my legs up against my chest so I’m curled in to an unconvincing ball and slowly I rock back and forth in fear, anxiety and above all else bemusement. I know that the mind is powerful; hallucinations have told me so but surely my senses can’t be fooled in such a way that I can feel a physical body in my bed, the heat of her perfect body radiating below the sheets, the intense racing of my heart. The racing of the heart that I have read of so many times in books which always seems to be the cue for someone to fall deeply and dangerously in love. After several more minutes of reflection it seems only fair for me to take advantage of this mysterious situation, after all I’ve been praying for years for a woman that would not run off as soon as I mentioned anything that implies that our relationship may not be completely platonic, so I lean over her to give her a soft kiss. My dry, flaky lips touch her soft, ivory skin and then she’s gone. Before I can reopen my eyes I’m kissing the cold, icy air. It was a mere dream, my mind teasing me with beauty, with companionship that seems to me so elusive.
I lay forlorn on my bed of broken dreams and try to force myself back into a dream, a place where a kiss is not an impossibility, oh how I pray for a kiss. It’s truly been an age; my blue, unkissed lips are awfully lonely. They only have each other for company and after 18 years I cannot think they have much more to say to each other. Typically my luck is out and I can’t force myself into a slumber, so I’m back in the real, sombre, gut-wrenching world. Dreaming of reverie.
I walk downstairs to get some coffee and to see what mother’s plans are for the day. However to my dismay she is nowhere to be found in the whole house, the kitchen seems bare, the atmosphere empty and my mind is all over the place as I try to figure out what exactly is going on. I sip on my cup of coffee and walk into the living room where again no trace of mother, or indeed life exists. At this stage I’m frantic, no newspaper, no milk, no sign of anyone outside as I quickly peek out the window timidly, in fear of anyone seeing me, not that I know when that became a bad thing. Something strange and eerie has happened, I can feel it in my bones and it is for this reason I bravely decide to venture outside the sanctuary that is our two bedroom house. Walking through the empty streets it is apparent that there has been no life here for some time, nothing is open, the streets seem as if they’ve never been walked on and the numbing silence, no matter how hard I focus I find myself unable to hear any sound whatsoever. As I trudge back into our sardine tin house it becomes increasingly evident that something deeply troubling is at hand. I again strike up the kettle in hope that any minute now I can be reattached to the apron strings of the woman I depend on and trust. Although, I say trust with some reluctance as I find that trust is akin to degradation. After all saying you trust someone is more or less saying that you don’t think they are worthy of any transgression nor are they capable of stabbing you in the back, or front for that matter. The cup of coffee seated me at the kitchen table where I added a splash of whiskey. Ah, Alcohol. It is very much like dumbing down, you disable any sort of sense you may have and heighten your fatuous qualities, so you vow to never touch it again only to forget it in the same way alcohol devours your memory. Yet still, I’m rather partial.
Sipping my now acidic coffee my mind drifted off the strange goings on that had just occurred; instead my mind indulged itself in all sorts of sorrows. Can it be called sorrows, or is it nostalgia? It matters little; to me it’s the same thing. The source of the slump was the girl of my dreams, who I am sure I was madly, deeply and certainly dangerously in love with. Woe it seems is me, for she dismissed my presence entirely, as well as my heartbeat. A decision of intelligence on her part but one of despair for me, made worse by the fact that after only a few days of her lame excuse,
“It’s not you, honestly. It’s not me either, it’s just that I am not a relationship sort of person, I’m not a loving person and in your case I am not even a kissing person.” she was in the arms and mouth of another who will never feel even a tincture of what I feel for her.
As I re-enter positive or at least neutral thought there is a thumping knock on the door. Or perhaps it was that thumping knock which dragged me kicking and screaming from my self-pity session. Frightful of what lies on the other side of the door I stay at the table, after several seconds of silence I assume that whoever, or with what’s been going on lately, whatever is on the other side has perished from my morning. How deeply mistaken I am though, as I raise the cup of coffee towards my mouth to take one final swig, the front door comes crashing in on the hall.
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