An old draft (3 years ago)

Is it another romance-ish story? Eh...probably. Sorry 'bout that. But hey, a 14 year old girl has to do what a 14 year old girl has to do. I promise though, that the next post would have NOTHING to do with romance. Really. And blame the hormones. I don't even know what love is.
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It hangs as a lone pearl on Night Sky's necklace, trickling tears of moonlight onto the grass meadows and the huts protecting visitors of Slumberland. The moon, pale and round, yearns for something far, far away... So far away, it's stretched her dreams into the realms of impossibility. She would not give up, though. She will escape one day. She will reach her destination.

Don't weep, my dear. The ground vibrates slightly as the message is passed on.

Ignoring the voice of the earth, the moon spins, revolving round its axis as that is its only form of movement. Spin. Spin. Spin. Run. Run. Run. Pathetic? Yes. But she believes that determination would bring her somewhere... the "somewhere" she yearns to reach. After all, she's been trying for years, centuries, millennia. The little organisms on earth had even grown up and taken on a more solid form, creating tools even, creating houses for shelter. But time meant little to her because she knew she had many years left before she died and that her beloved had too, that many years. She would try. She must try.

She feels the light on her face, the specks of warmth embracing her as much as they could. And she's not just dreaming it. He's trying too, trying to reach out to her. But this was all he had managed to do for so long. Tiny, tiny beams of light. She treasures each and every one.

Untitled 2

She feels like she's fallen down a hole again - entangled in a mess of pretty words and prettier smiles, she'd fallen headfirst into another web of convincing lies. What's true, then? She asks, but no one replies. The boy with the bow tie, had long left her sight. Off to redeem whatever it was he'd been promised for playing with her trust. Alone, again.

Plot bunnyzz

Copyrighted. All rights reserved.

--

They say when Life breathed a little of its infinite self into us, it claimed our empty vessels as its own and wove a few rules into the fabric of our souls. As living things, our first rule is to treat one's gift of life as the most precious treasure one could ever be given. Adherence to this rule is not difficult, as all begin with the innate desire to live and continue living. We simply wish to live, even if we do not understand why. The only ones who can disobey this rule are the ones who tear themselves apart, dig into the depths of their very being and wrench that rule away from their soul, instantly crushing the fragile vial of life and ceasing to exist as a living thing. Ceasing to live inside, at the very least, though most are driven to suicide soon enough. The alternative option to the disobeying of rule number one is to have somebody else rip you apart, through sheer physical and emotional torture tear your flesh and mind into separate pieces and throw the remains into the darkness to burn. But most lack the courage to do this to another human being, due to the putting in place of rule number two. Rule number two is somewhat similar to its brother, yet not similar at all. It involves the treating of other lives as precious and the treating of life as a whole as a certain kind of tie, a bonding that goes beyond blood and artificial relationships. As living beings, as moving, thinking, vessels of such powerful and important a force of nature, it is unsurprising that this force cannot be fully split by Life simply breathing sections of itself into separate vessels. Life remains as an entity. It cannot ever be split and hence, we humans are bonded by the ties of life itself. We are family. And the second rule is to treat each other as family, as a loving family. We must care, we must protect, we must love. But adherence to this rule, in contrast to rule number one, is difficult. Very difficult. While Life was weaving the rules into our living souls, the very ones that Life had just put bits of itself into, a piece of Death's shadow detached itself and wrapped its body around the soul, just as rule number one had been successfully woven into it. Contrary to common belief, Darkness does not always have a dark exterior. It can be as transparent as glass or as invisible as air or as bright as the sun but ultimately, it is dark, darker than raven feathers and endless caves and starless midnight, dark beyond what one can imagine until you peer inside. Unseen, Life attached rule number two on top of it, letting this piece of shadow forever act as a thin barrier between a living soul's decisions and Life's rule of treating every piece of Life as precious and to be protected. Hence, it is only seldom that the screams of the second rule, binded tightly around the soul but simply not tightly enough, are adhered to, not when the piece of shadow spends every waking moment whispering tales of temptation and selfish pleasure, which ultimately do end up bringing many souls to its master.

But the most important thing? Is what will happen when you disobey these two rules. They say that the threads Life used were strong, strong and tough and unbreakable. And the rules that currently wrap themselves around your soul, would not hesitate to crush that insignificant little thing. If its owner was to push too far.

But this is just what they say.

--

It's just another step.

And just another fall.

Perhaps, it's nothing at all.

Plot bunnyz.

"Mom."


The withered old lady looks up and glares at the stranger, annoyed that her work had been interrupted. Brush, brush, brush. She only had so much time to complete the task.
"Who are you? Leave me alone. " The old lady mutters and then adds in a barely audible whisper, "The Guardians are close."


Ignoring this, the girl crouches down and picks up one of the many glass shards strewn over the floor in front of the old lady. She examines it and then puts it back.


"Mom."


"What?" The lady grumbles. Before the girl can answer, there is a gust of wind and the old lady immediately closes her eyes, clenching her wrinkly fingers into trembling fists. The shards turn into a pile of sand. She whispers, "What do you want? Quick."


"I...just wanted to use that word one last time." The girl sighs and stands up. "But I needed to say it to someone. Thought it'll help."


The old lady turns to face her, though her face carries a softer expression now. "Leaving, eh?" The girl nods. "Well, if you're looking for comfort in the usage of that word, you should search elsewhere, find something that hasn't already had its meaning wrenched away from every living tongue. " She practically spits out the last few words.


"Human beings are all family. Humans are connected by the ties of life. We will work together, benefit father, mother and child." The girl recites from memory. They both sigh.


"Which would you be using?" The old lady asks.


"The one closest. The Grae platform."


"Farewell then. You seem alright. Wish I knew you."


The girl bows and takes her leave from the house. "Bye, mom."


"Have...fun." The old lady mutters as the door closes. That girl wasn't the only one to have eventually chosen that path. Though she was the only one who seemed to want, at the slightest, a chance to turn back. Part of her wished she could have offered it.


Every female is a mother, every male a father, every youth a child. We are family, connected by the bonds of life. We will work together. We will benefit each other. We will love. And to choose otherwise is to desire for severed ties, in which the only option is death.

She shakes her head at this, ever so slightly. They carved these lines into the minds of every living person, though they never did care about how many lives had to be sacrificed to etch out their perfect little picture. After all, one cannot carve flesh without drawing blood. A whole ocean of blood, a crimson sea of people who have simply lost the will to live.

--

Copyrighted. All rights reserved.

Illusions (for lack of a better and less cliched title)

Kind of disappointed in how this turned out. It's a bit stilted, rather cliched...rather lame, actually. Sigh.

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Are we really going to do it? She asks, her hands toying with the shovel’s handle, carving uneven circles onto the packed ground, letting dust fly and fall. She trusts the hissing wind would be strong enough to conceal any of their conversation from the hidden eavesdroppers, waiting out in the cold with wrinkled ears. She hated the Guardians.

What do you think? He replies, turning to face her and letting his shovel drop onto the ground with a barely audible thud. His eyes are studying her face, the piercing gaze searching for secret emotions and motives. She cringes. It wasn’t that she had anything to hide from him but it was difficult, trying to look at those eyes when she didn’t consider them as eyes at all. They were always blank and emotionless, the colour of dulled moonlight. They remind her of the lakes she’d been visiting, the still, mysterious waters that lured passers-by in, unknown hooking onto unguarded minds…come closer, peek…And they’ll all fall in with silent screams. But it wasn’t just his eyes that haunted her, it was what laid hidden beneath those glassy ovals. If eyes were truly the windows to one’s soul, his were frosted ones, cold enough to burn the finger that attempted to tap it open. Even worse was the thing behind the window though, the horrid creature that you’ve never actually seen but knew to run away from because of the deformed hand that, once in a while, decided to press itself on the glass from the other side to make you scream. Only the foolish would stay.

Don’t you trust me? He smirks, pointedly looking at her tight grip around the shovel and chuckling at the clichéd line, his version of a joke. The laughter doesn’t reach the eyes. It never does.

Nodding quickly, she turns away and continues to dig. She can feel his gaze piercing through her back, burning through cloth and flesh and the layers of her soul, searching and searching for signs of betrayal. She shakes her head. The crimson soil reminds her that the guardians are close and that speaking to him, was simply against the rules.

-

The father hears his girl shuffling up the stairs and he catches a glimpse of the distraught look on her face from his slumped position on the couch. But he cannot get up and the alcohol is splashing through his system, rendering him incapacitated. There is darkness.

-

How was it today? He asks, hanging upside down from the metal bars that determined boundaries, swinging back and forth. The smirk on his face told her that he already knew school had been horrible. He was always happy when that happened.

The shovel is in her hand and she marches past him to the field, ignoring him as she continues to dig. The tears in her eyes protest against it but she weakly shakes her head, even as the urge to push on starts to die. It had already been withering since the start of the year and that unforgettable event. Part of her was hoping it wouldn’t last much longer.

You’re never going to get anywhere, he remarks, looking at her attempts to dig the soil with distaste.

You think I don’t know that? She screams. He rolls his eyes and she flings her shovel furiously at him before falling down into a ball, curled up on the soil with tears escaping from their cage only to splash onto the hard soil in what you could consider an act of suicide. He sits by her side and pats her head.

I spend all my time digging because I feel like I have to, even when its shit and Angeline and Kristian and all of them keep mocking at me for trying. They keep saying I’m weird and I’ll never get anywhere and that I’m pathetic and they keep doing all sorts of things to…reiterate that. They keep saying that my trying is pointless, like they’ve gotten somewhere. When they haven’t.

He shrugs. Their hallucinations keep them happy, they believe they actually have.

I-I don’t want to live in a hallucination. Mom told me it was horrible to do something that was pointless and that all of this is. And I believe that, I believe her. I want to stop digging. I really can’t stand it anymore, she wails.

Silently, he points to the shovel, disintegrating in the distance, abandoned at the position he had last been standing when she had thrown it at him in frustration. She had indeed given up. Finally. It seems like a happy thing.

-

It’s noon and he’s still lying on the couch, barely awake. The year had been horrible. He’d lost his wife and it’d taken all of his willpower to make sure he was relatively sober every Friday night, so that he could talk to his daughter and remind himself that she was still with him. She herself had changed after her mum’s death, become more quiet, more reserved. Not that he had really talked to her about it. She still smiled when he asked her how her day was, though the smile was becoming less and less real. Somehow she’d managed to maintain her grades, though he wasn’t sure at what expense she was doing this at. Her eyebags were prominent and he frequently heard her crying upstairs. She liked to draw, he remembered. But the last time he’d looked through her sketchbook, everything had been scratched out in pencil and one of the most frequently seen pictures was a guy who didn’t have eyes or whose eyes she refused to draw. He wasn’t sure what his wife’s last words were before she took her life but he knew his daughter had been there. He just hadn’t been able to get her to say it yet.

He looked at the calendar on the table. It was Thursday. He headed for the beer in the fridge.

-

I told you we’ll do it eventually, he says and rubs her back as she leans on him in the barren field.

I just didn’t know if I would be able to, she whimpers. Mom was brave and strong. I’m not.

He laughs. You are, actually. Most people would have gone ahead with the digging. They’ll dig for their whole life and at their deathbed, they might actually think it worth it. Some, as you know, start to hallucinate achievements. But they’re never real, never important. This whole world, in general, is a pointless illusion. I’m glad you wish to escape.

But you haven’t told me how yet…She mutters, I know the digging would never actually bring me anywhere and I’ve stopped now. But how do I get out of here? To a new place?

Well, you firstly have to take the risk of not knowing where you’ll end up. Like your mom. And you have to believe me, believe me when I say that I’ll help you.

She raises her eyebrows. But I already have.

He smiles but for once, his eyes are not blank. They are burning with a greedy passion, as if her words had slid open part of the window that she was supposed to steer clear away from. She gasps but when he leans closer, she finds herself still drawn to him. She had gone this far and she realizes that it isn’t possible to pull herself back now. As he places his cold lips on hers and she finds herself wrenched away from her life, her memories, her father, her world, everything…She hears him mutter something before the darkness swallows her up. The guardians were right, he said. You weren’t supposed to listen to me.

-

It is Friday night and he manages to keep himself sober. He knocks on her daughter’s door and opens it. She is sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood, a crimson note in her left hand. He feels very cold.

I want to end up somewhere better, daddy. And I’ve fallen for Death. I trust him. Just like mom.

He drags his feet downstairs and his fingers linger over the telephone before he heads to the fridge again. There’s half a pack left and he carries it out into the living room. It takes a matter of seconds to gulp everything down and for the alcohol to begin its effects. There is pain. But then there is darkness. Part of him considers looking for his wife and child here, trapped in the shadows by trickery, lost in a self-created illusion.

Let's just say I didn't do too well in a recent interview...

*Rant. Ish.*

The employer was not amused.

It was late and this was the final interview candidate for that day. Ten more minutes of precious time wasted. To be honest, she really didn’t fancy that. Most of the interviewees had been relatively okay, though many statements had been repeated, many explanations used over and over again. “I want to join because of…I enjoy doing this because I…” So many similar answers, only different ways of presenting them. But it didn’t really matter, at the end of the day. She was bored, she was tired. If this candidate wasn’t exceptional in any way, she wasn’t accepting her.

The girl was young. Probably inexperienced. She seemed bright though. Then again, everybody else had high credentials too. What they were looking for was passion, something strong enough to have had already driven her to read up on the topic. She had to have a large pool of existing knowledge and it could not be limited to simple information found from, say, something as simple and unreliable as wikipedia. She had to know her stuff well and she had to enjoy the process of finding this information, researching, reading research journals, going for science forums. That was the kind of girl they were looking for. Was this the one? She doubted so.

The candidate was nervously tapping her foot and that annoyed her slightly, though she wasn’t going to let that tear the plastered smile on her face.

“So, can you tell us about yourself?”

The girl hesitated a lot and repeated most of her statements. She was going in a roundabout manner, probably not really knowing what she was saying at all. There were many pauses and it felt like she was trying to feign existing knowledge when she hardly knew anything. The smile stayed but as she ticked things off her list, she already knew this wasn’t who she was searching for. Sure, she had credentials, she was smart but the interest wasn’t there. Either that or she was simply too lazy to conduct her background research. Whichever it was, this girl wasn’t going to be selected. The passion simply wasn’t there. At the most, all she had was a small bit of confused interest. This wasn’t her stuff and as the candidate left the room, near anxious hyperventilation, she was quite sure the girl herself knew that too. It wasn’t a fantastic performance. It was mediocre. Simply mediocre. Had she been in a nicer mood, perhaps she would have had given her another chance at the position but at the moment? Heh, she needed coffee.

Mirrors

Because I was running out of inspiration and was tired of people not reading my tumblr. Hence, the copy and paste from it. Pfft. 

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“Have you ever wondered,” He asks, picking up the fragile piece of glass, looking at it sparkle in the middle of his palm like a tiny crystal, “What things would be like if our look, our life, our allocated role in this world, was based entirely on our personality?”

“Doesn’t that already happen, to some extent?” She questions and lightly touches one of the many mirrors that surround them, reflecting weird, broken up images of the two. 

He chuckles (though there is something dark about this laugh of his) and mutters something she doesn’t understand - but his tone suggests he is mocking her - and strides towards the largest mirror in the room, that little piece of glass still glittering on his open palm. 

“Not really,” He answers and his breath fogs up the glass of the mirror he is standing so close to, “That’s why we have mirrors, don’t we? We don’t like to look deep, to discover what horrible things dwell inside us. We like to take things at face value. We like to look at ourselves in the mirror and claim we’re good people, just because we haven’t done, say, absolutely terrible and horrendous things like murder. We like to leave it at that, at the things that float on top, the things we can easily see. We don’t need to look any further because it’s not like anyone else can see that far down either….But if our personalities were right on top, right in front of us and everyone else, part of our skin and part of our life and destiny…Would that not make things clearer?”

He turns to look at her with those piercing eyes of his and she finds that she cannot move. She cannot speak. 

He smirks, “It’s your choice, I guess.” And he tosses the piece of glass to her and she somehow manages to catch it before it falls.

“Your choice, your choice,” He taunts her and then strolls out of the room, leaving her stunned and wondering, just wondering about it all. 

August 12th

Curled up into a ball, I could see the blood as it poured out in gushes from the wound, tears staining the face and hands holding shakily, the pair of scissors from the table beside me. I could see the swift motion in which I plunged it into my abdomen, cringed in pain and then lay there, waiting for help to come, or death, which ever chose to arrive first. I could see the crimson, splashing out like a fountain or dripping out like a leaky tap, depending on how I chose to cut myself. I could see it all, huddled in that little ball, arms around knees, crying, crying, crying…

My mouth was open, shouting out silent protests, silent complains, “I’m tired of this, I don’t want to do this anymore” and I believed it all, I went along with it. I was tired, exhausted…frustrated. I wanted to give up, suicidal  thoughts…What if I just end it now? I knew it was wrong, I damn well knew but all I could think of then was “My life is shit. ” It’s not the worst life to have but at that point, that was all I thought of, tears flowing down like a river through the cracks in my mind. I was broken, I was exhausted, I wanted a place to lie down and rest but instead received a blow to my head. I didn’t want to do anything, I didn’t want to continue, I was tired. Tired.

And I’m just so scared now, when sober, that it’ll happen again and I won’t be able to control myself. I need as much care as I get during this fragile phase but the people around me just don’t understand. I need their help, not their rage, not their shouts. I need their love. I need their appreciation.

Second blog. Yay.

So, here's what happened. I created a second "writing blog". It's not like this one, though. It's a tumblr blog and I'm just going to use it to store my little plot bunnies (or force some plot bunnies into existence whenever I tell myself to post). These plot bunnies/short little pieces of writing are under the copyright act though and I'm not giving anyone permission to use them. (Yesh, yesh, I'm a selfish mean twerp...) The thing is, I'll probably be using these plot bunnies myself. Of course, if by reading those, you suddenly come up with some new and different plot or story then go ahead. I can't stop you, since that's your idea and my work just sparked inspiration in you for something else. Anyway, here's the link:

vanishedsnowflake.tumblr.com

Have fun. Or something.

Blood stains on white

I lay there, motionless but alive, though I’d rather not be. Pain engulfed my pathetic being, slowly and sadistically devouring each inch of bloody, sore flesh, bare under broken armor and torn white fabric. Ha. White. You could hardly see any white in this battle. A stab in the heart, a merciless swing at the head…all you could see was red. Dark crimson. The brilliant army uniform I once wore in pride was pierced with holes, soaked with blood, torn apart. It could be a peasant’s rag for all I cared…and I did not. As I approached death, I finally realised that this war was just downright…stupid. We were fighting, braving the dark, cold shadows that yearned to grab us, for something our people did not necessarily need but things our greedy king wanted. The king who sat in his comfy, jewellery encrusted throne safely back home, watching the battle unfold like we were chess pieces he could always get more of. We were taught to fight for our country and king but I suddenly wondered…What should I really be fighting for? The king who was barely governing the city? Or the loved ones who waited with flickering hope for news of my survival? If my country was defending against a menacing attack, I would understand how this was worth fighting for. It acted as protection for my beloved people…but we were the ones attacking, the ones who were ignoring our nagging consciences as we ended the lives of brave men who had their own country to take care of. We were attacking with the purpose of gaining items to feed the growing greed that came in the form of our ruler while leaving sorrowful widows and innocent orphans to weep in vain for their lost heroes. How could these actions ever be considered noble?

I winced as a brown horse, large body stained with enemy blood, ferociously trod over my broken leg, charging into battle with his sword-bearing soldier on top, fearlessly chopping off enemy’s limbs but forgetting his comrade’s broken one. Then again, I doubted he could be bothered with my life when so many others were already being ended, so many souls sent to the underworld for the needs of a barely capable king. To be honest, it was a weird feeling to feel so…against my country but perhaps it was because I knew I was going to see Death’s face soon and that my heart would stop beating before the end of this foolish battle. I did not feel proud for dying for my country-no, not at all- because I did not even feel like I was dying for my country. Instead, I felt ashamed. Yes, a strange feeling to feel in such gory war but true. Ashamed I was for ending lives for rather improper reasons, ashamed for making men fall like I did, ashamed for leaving them the way I was, on the cold, red ground moaning for death as Pain took you as a play toy. How could a battle like this be glorious? How could killing men for selfish needs be worthy of praise and applause? The most treasured possession of a man is his life and here we were, like lowly thieves, stealing their souls. Maybe it was the fact that I was dying or that so many of my close friends, good people I had known since childhood, had died that day but I now realised how important life was and to the cruel fates doing, only when I was soon going to lose this precious treasure myself. This battle lacked meaning. It did not result in glory, it resulted in death. And more death. And more death. It was wrong for the king to start this war, wrong for us to follow suite…and now many good men were going to pay, pay with all they had, pay with their lives and their loved ones’ tears and sorrow.

“And so our lives end but in glory. For the people may be saved…” Someone muttered softly.

I turned my head slightly, ignoring the pain, to see the one whose words contradicted my current views, which I was so sure of. My eyes locked with those of a fallen soldier. Lips parched, he smiled at me as blood trickled out of his dry mouth. The dark substance was also seeping through his ragged black uniform, pouring out from a deep stomach wound. He had but a few seconds till death came to claim his sorry soul.

“You…you smile…” I muttered with effort. It hurt to speak.

“Yes...I…may be your enemy…but we are…both dying, no?” He managed to say, “And I am glad…to have died a noble death…defending my country from yours…” He trailed off as he closed his eyes to never open them again.

A small tear found its way down my dirty cheek. He was a much better man than I ever could be. He was defending his country. He was saving the people he loved. He did not hate the enemy for killing him, he only fought back because we were destroying the very people and things he loved. He smiled at the enemy. He knew he was not the only one to suffer death as result of this battle and he had the courage and reasons to embrace it warmly.

They were human. All of them. “The enemy” or not, they were just like us. They were acting like how we would if we were attacked by enemies driven by adrenaline and bloodlust. They were protecting their families like how we would do, risking their lives for the sake of those who own their hearts. They were practically us and we were killing them without a second thought, without a second look, leaving them to be part of the inevitable pile of rotting dead. We were severing human flesh in fatal areas, splattering blood all over the red grass, tainting the sparkling, silver swords we’re proud of crimson. We were murderers. The blood, splattered out of deadly, poisoned wounds of men, could testify to that.

I surveyed the empty battlefield. The main fight had moved forward and all that was left were broken weapons-spears, swords and shields which had cost more than just a blacksmith’s effort-bloody corpses and the moans of the dying. Regardless of uniform colour, so many had died, so many good men had died. Because of us and the stupid battle we foolishly started…

But all I could do then was lie there, awaiting death, clad in wet, bloody cloth, the white uniform making the blood stains stand out even more. At least…much more than the black fabric of ‘the enemy’.

(I wrote this as part of my CAP portfolio. But I didn't get into CAP. So I figured that I might as well post it here.)

Belonging.

When you’ve tried so hard, you really just wish you’ve made it, really just wished you’ve finally done it, finally reached the point you’ve been dragging your exhausted being towards for the past ten years, finally, finally, finally able to take a rest and declare it done. But another part of you knows it’s just not possible.

“Wanna hang out on Friday?”

And the words seem to grow little barbs and stab you right in the chest. Because you know who said it. And you know it wasn’t to you.

You turn towards your left side, spotting smiling classmates (friends) fervently discussing a possible meet-up and you tell yourself to ignore it, to throw up another wall to block the blow from reaching your heart but you know you can’t do it any more. Not after so long. Not after trying so damn hard and thinking damn, I finally made it. Well, look. You didn’t make it. And you’re no ----ing where close.

It’s such a small matter to others, you know you shouldn’t really be crying but you bite your trembling lip because you know if there’s something you are close to, it’s that. It's breaking down and hugging yourself in a ball and letting the bitter tears trickle down in a never-ending stream because you can’t take it any more. You pretend it doesn’t matter, you pretend you’re going to make it one day but you know you damn well can’t and you’re tired of trying to reach out for something not there, sick of the “reaching out for the stars” thing because you know by the time you come anywhere close, the fire ball’s just going to explode, implode, whatever it is and the journey you knew was stupid from the start would really prove meaningless.

All you want to do is feel like you belong.

Why is that so ----ing hard?

You want to know that people out there really care, that friends think of you as a friend, that you’re not just trying to force-fit yourself into a beautiful completed puzzle piece that actually doesn’t even need you. You want to know you’re part of this, that you’ve always been part of this, that you actually have friends and that you haven’t been lying to yourself about that for you don’t know how long, that it really isn’t some illusion you put up, a blindfold of your own doing, that it’s real. You want to know that people want your company, that when they’re deciding on where to hang out during the holidays you’re on that list of friends they actually want to spend time with, that you’ve finally managed to go further in a social relationship than staying strangers.

But what you want, you don’t always get.

And you really don’t want to be reminded about that now.

It’s just that…you’re never really sure. Sometimes, you think you’ve really made it and yet reality chooses at that point to show you something else, to make you rethink the thought of achievement and ponder on whether it just pulled away a curtain and showed you the truth. You really don’t know but you’re in such a (fragile?) state that just the smallest of implications damn well gets to you and you’re scared you lost it all (insecure). Or perhaps, you never even had anything.

And you really thought you came really close this time and yet the cynical part of you really questions if you really did. And you’re just so tired of being so far away from it that you’re actually never sure and you just want to be sure for once. You just want to feel like you belong, a strong sense of belonging to sooth the heart that yearns for it. You want to know you’re not alone.

And sometimes, you think hey, you’re not the only one having this problem but then you ask yourself so what?. And so far, you haven’t got the answer to that one.

Sometimes you just feel so close and yet there are many, many things that prove you’re not, ample evidence to illustrate to yourself that they’re friends among themselves, sure, but not with you. Never with you. That you’ll never be able to get close enough because you just don’t know how. That that was something others were born with but just not you. That it’s never going to happen. You know you’ve repeated that over and over again but it’s just so true in your mind you can’t get it out. And then that overwhelming sense that it’s really, honestly never going to happen just pounces on you and swallows you up and you cry or come close to it and there’s really only one thing you can think about, one thing you want, one thing you’re not going to get-

To belong.

And it ----ing hurts.

Glass

The glass glitters under the sun, pretty, fragile, oh so delicate. She looks at her reflection, presented clearly to her even amidst the sparkles of fragmented sun rays. She looks. She looks. She looks. The image, it's pretty, it's bright, it's young and happy. It's beautiful, really.

It's not her.

She touches the smooth oval piece, light contact with her index finger. She jerks back. It's not cold but it's not hot either. It's warm. A nice, comforting sort of warmth...like snuggling up under blankets when the night is chilly...like a hug when your heart feels cold...

It creeps her out.

She stares at it again and the girl on the other side looks back at her with a sincere smile. She moves from left to right, right to left, back and front, jerky quick movements meant to test this weird object. The image moves along with her but her actions are smooth, graceful and you can tell she it is having fun. The picture's grinning, laughing...Happy.

She wants to be that girl.

She stretches her fingers out towards the image again, making swirling patterns on the smooth surface but making sure her long nails don't leave a scratch. She wants to be that girl. She wants it so much.

But it's a hopeless dream.

The girl's trapped, trapped within that other world, the world so far away from her reach. She can see her, she can see her smiling, she can see her whole...but she can't pull her back. That young, happy, little girl...Innocent, grinning, full of life....She's not gone. No. But she's never going to return either. The glass isn't a cage - oh how she wished the child was trapped within such a fragile thing - the glass is just to remind her of what had been and how all that had been lost. It was to remind her, it was to hurt her, it was to make her long for the impossible just to realise that it was never going to happen, that it was just that, absolutely impossible.

She lifts the mirror off the grass.

And as much as it looked so close...her bony fingers stroke the silvery glass once again....she'll never reach it. Because the girl's trapped and even if she tries, they'll grab her and wrench her back. Jagged cuts on her forehead and purple bruises splattered over her thin legs...They'll pull her back. She knows that. She knows she'll never reach it.

Crack.


Blood stains don't matter when your shirt's already crimson and when your heart had long been punctured, blood trickling out like a stream in hell. She looks at her hands and wipes the liquid off by rubbing her palms against her tattered jeans. The glass is in pieces and she bends forward, looking for her reflection. It's a distorted image, broken and messed up, spots of blood decorating the edges.

Now that, that's her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Writing prompts for above given by AJ, Cheeze, Pigeon & Storm. Much thanks :D (Innocence, reflection, disintegrated and mirror)

Broken.

After reading the suicide stories Storm and Cheese wrote (purely fictional, by the way), I was inspired to write one of my own.

She's always been broken. Born broken, struggled through life, thrown on the crimson floor, permanently fractured. A million scattered little pieces. Insignificant. Ignored. Worthless. No one cared. When they saw her (provided they even noticed) they just turned their heads and walked away. No one gave a damn to those little specks on the floor, unless they were in the mood to crush something, in the mood for a laugh. She was nothing. Her screams, her cries...Nothing.

She's always been different. Some part of her must have broke, got lost and never returned. Impossible to find? Or maybe it was never there from the start. It wouldn't surprise her. She was born broken, remember? Not whole. Different. Hurting. A black spot on a beautiful rainbow painting, something that was never meant to be there but oops, I made a mistake and ended up there anyway. They despised her, they wanted her out. She wanted out, too. She knows she doesn't belong here, doesn't belong anywhere really...Though the shadows do seem comforting sometimes. They wave at her and she reaches out for their cold embraces.

She's always been hated. They stabbed her with painful words, they burned her with their loathing, they laughed at her pathetic being as they cracked it beyond known limits. They wrenched hope away from her pathetic grasp and twisted her world into a dark, cold one. But it's not all that cruel. I mean, they only opened her blind eyes to the truth. That she shouldn't be there. That she shouldn't have lived. That all of it was so, so wrong. They're not the only ones who hate her, really. She despises her broken being with a passion, a passion fueled by heartless creatures. But those creatures weren't broken now, were they? No, they were whole. They had that sort of perfection that life refused to give her.

Life. Life was unfair. Life was cruel. Life was-

She hated it. She just hated it. Hated it all.

So she gave up on it. A knife, a pool of blood and a letter addressed to no one. A blank letter, actually. Because she owed no one an apology and she loved no one. No one loved her. No one was going to miss her. No one gave a damn about her, honestly.

So she lies there, clothes stained crimson, waiting for the darkness to claim her broken soul.

Sempiternal

When I started writing this, I had no idea what I would be writing about. I just listened to Together Again by Evanescence and let the words that wanted to be written, be written. This was really based on the music of that song. Go listen to it. It's amazing.


Oh and the title? I recently learned that word and immediately liked it. It means eternal & unchanging...


---




The darkness. It extends its cold fingers. Grabbing. Snatching. Whispers of smoke swirl around her, looking for a way inside her, to steal her soul, her essence. She stares.


There's a small, flickering light in the distance. Flicker. Flicker. She steps towards it. It disappears. The smoke, it twists and turns, engulfing her. Silent screams.


The world, it turns darker. Darker than dark. Yet there's this sense of calmness in the centre of this fear. Something telling her its all a dream, to open her eyes, to face the truth.


She does. She reaches out, her hands pushing against the ghostly swirls that lack weight but have mysterious power over her, pulling her into a sense of nothingness. She fights. She yearns to escape this place. Eerie. Ghostly. Calm.


She wakes up in a grey world. No sun, no people. There's no light yet she can see. Her black dress flutters in the wind. There shouldn't be wind.


She walks forward and the world seems to move with her. It's a blur and her eyes force themselves close. Soothing darkness. And then there's a splatter of red behind her eyelids. She knows not how it happened.


She opens them again. Same place. But now with shadows. Scary shadows. They wave at her. She runs.


Run. Flee. Get home. She wants to escape but the world is swirling along with her movement. Spots of red appearing in this blurred image as shadows eat up the edges. She runs. She runs.


A ghostly hand extends itself to her. She grabs it with little thought and is pulled into darkness. Again. Again. Again. It's not going to end. It's never going to end.


Cold. So cold. And then she hears it. The song of the dead. Soft, soothing. Eerie, disturbing. The hand pulls her forward and she doesn't understand but she wants to follow it. She wants it all to end. To end. To end. To end.


It fills her ears, the song, the melody. She finds herself floating, this hand supporting her back. She yearns to fall, knows not what's below, yearns to fall. Fall. Fall. Fall...


Her eyes close. The hand covers them.


It's never going to end.

Catch me?

It's happening. All over again.
Repeating, repeating itself.
You weren't satisfied with
one bro
-ken heart.
So now you're out for mine.
And I'm falling, falling
Hard.
And when I smash into rock bottom
Damn it's going to hurt.
But I'm still falling
Falling
           falling
                     falling
Waiting for that loud
Thud.
Waiting for that burst of
Pain.
To knock me back into my senses.
The senses numbed by
your cold actions
That still spark warmth within me...
Because truth and love?
They don't come together.
No. Not this 'love'.

It's like the South pole
and the North pole.
Far
Far
apart
But each as cold as the other.
Freezing.
Numb.
Despicable.
(I hate it.)

I saw what you did to her,
you know.
Saw you toy with her
Wrapped around your little finger
Smile, laugh, joke,
XOXO, hug, kiss, cuddle
Trapped.
Slave to you.
No way out.
Because then all she wanted,
Needed was you.
Crawling to you like you're
water in a desert
Cool liquid to spark survival
When you really were the
hot, ball of flames
High up in the sky
Burning her, killing her
Playing her, breaking her,
While staying oh so
Far
Far
Away.
Distance from both hearts
Like that of truth and love.
Well, that 'love'.

But what does it matter?
What if I know all this?
because it doesn't mean anything.
You've already got me hooked.
But you don't need to pull me in.
Because I'm already falling,
falling,
           falling,
                      falling,


Thud.

B ro ke n.

And I see your silhouette,
strolling calmly away
from the scattered pieces.

Pain.

Please give feedback. Thanks much.

Writing Quotes I Love

Apparently, I should be doing "better" things like tackling my mountain of homework so instead of writing today, I shall instead post other people's quotes on writing. Yay.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury. 

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.  ~Anaïs Nin. 

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.  ~E.L. Doctorow

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.  ~Richard Wright,American Hunger, 1977

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.  ~Vladimir Nabakov

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.  ~William Wordsworth

Ink and paper are sometimes passionate lovers, oftentimes brother and sister, and occasionally mortal enemies.  ~Terri Guillemets

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air.  All I must do is find it, and copy it.  ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895

A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer.  ~Karl Kraus

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.  But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.  ~Samuel Lover, Handy Andy, 1842 That's why I usually have a pen in my pocket...and a clean hand to write on.

Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"  

Be obscure clearly.  ~E.B. White 

Every writer I know has trouble writing.  ~Joseph Heller

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.  ~Lord Byron

Write your first draft with your heart.  Re-write with your head.  ~From the movieFinding Forrester

I could go on and on but I'm not sure you enjoy these as much as I do.

Mummy

The meaning behind this story can also be applied to your dad. Or even your grandparents. Actually, any family member who really loves you and who you were once close to but left behind as you became a teenager. I think it's really sad when that happens... 

"I love you mummy."
"I love you too. Sweet dreams."
And she stays there, sitting at the edge of the pink bed (eyes tired, work undone) for an hour just to watch her daughter fall asleep and to act as comfort for the dear girl afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark.

"What about the presentation you've been working on?"
"It's her first day of school. Sorry."
And on that day, she's enthusiastically snapping pictures of her daughter clad in freshly-pressed uniform while the media snap pictures of a proud guy taking credit for her year's work.

"Oh! The movie's out!"
"Want me to take you?"
And it hurts when she hears that her group of friends had already made plans. She hides the two premiere tickets she bought because she knows what her daughter would rather do that Sunday. Two days later, she watches the movie alone.

"Oh look! It's that guy you like."
"Please, mum. Just let go of my hand already and pretend you don't know me."
She lets go, somewhat shocked and her daughter storms off, making sure she walks at least 5 metres away from her. Nowadays, that's the minimum distance between them. And between their hearts.

"No. You're not going to the party, it's too expensive."
"I hate you! Why are you always like that?"
She closes her eyes as the bedroom door is slammed shut. It's not like she had money. (She stares at the letter from her boss. Too many leaves taken. And it's not like she could adjust the timings of her daughter's school activities either. Fired. )

"Do you need help?"
"Just freaking leave me alone!"
She longs for the days when her company was wanted, needed and begged for. When the girl would cry just to get her attention. When she would hug her after school. When she would wish her "good night" before falling asleep instead of making her wait fruitlessly in the other room, wondering when her daughter would burst in to do so.

"Uh. I got you a card."
"Thank you."
No cake. No present. Just a flimsy piece of paper with a few scribbled words and another forgotten birthday. But it was better than nothing. Or at least that's what she tells herself as she pulls out a smile and hugs her grimacing daughter who attempts not to squirm.

 "Stop it!"
 "You don't control my life!"
The horrible fights. The exhausting nights. She wishes they would just end. What happened to that sweet little girl?

"We might have to move."
"What? Why are you always ruining my life?"
Why are you always blaming things on me?

"I'm moving out to John's place."
"Oh."
That's all she can say. She knows her daughter's grown up now but it just doesn't seem fair. She never got to let that princess-tiara girl go. Instead, her tiny daughter was forced out of her grip. Snatched away just too fast by reality.

"When was the last time she visited you?"
"I don't know."
One old lady in one lonely old house. She's forgotten what laughter sounds like. Ironic considering how twenty years ago, high-pitched childish laughter was all that had ever echoed through the house.

"Your mother loved you."
"I loved her too. Just forgot to show it."
The graveyard is cold. So cold.

This is rather simple. Simple story, simple language. But I hope the intention is clear.
How can you not be ashamed for doing all this to your parents?

Writing about writing

She sits there, still, fingers lingering over the keyboard, the keyboard that pleads for that special connection between key and finger tip which would lead to the wondrous expression of creativity and imagination.

But she just sits there.

The growing need to write something meaningful slowly devours her soul as she sprawls out on the desk, head in hands, thinking, groaning, moaning, dying. Dying. She's quite sure her life is seeping through her fingers right now. She has to write. She has to write!

But she just sits there.

Her mind, the place she always trusted to be filled to the brim with colourful thoughts that gleefully flit around and adorable plot bunnies that hop from base to ceiling to ground again...It was empty, blank, only sign of "life" the littered remains of dead ideas...or those so ancient Death should have long before claimed their souls. She couldn't use those. They were pathetic. 

So she just sits there.

There were thousands of things in her world she could use...So why did it seem so bleak? Why was nothing attracting her now? Why did everything look too horrible for the successful transition from idea to written words? 

Why was she just sitting there?

Was it because of her boring life? She admits that she hates the routine-wake up, go to school, sleep-and every Monday when she opens her sleepy eyes, the only thought in her mind is "What the freak am I doing with my life?" And the answer irritates her. She was supposed to learn in school to get a good job later and get money and then live a "good life" and grow old and retire and die. That was her life. That was what she was doing with her life. And that was utterly depressing. She hated it and so...she wrote. She escaped to worlds of her own where life was adventure and action and love and it didn't end with you wondering why you had wasted your chance at excitement in school or at the office. But if this was true (And she knew it was) then why was she unable to write now since life was being extremely boring?

Why was she still just sitting there?

Her computer screen glared at her and the keyboard screamed, demanding for her to type on it. But what in the world could she write about? Love? (Over-rated) Adventure? (Too long) Angst? (Depressing) Mystery? (Tiring) What? What? What? She had a freaking History lesson to pay attention to (Honestly, the teacher had been droning on about it for about half an hour already while she suffered from her own inner turmoil.) and a debate to prepare for. She needed to think of something, write about it and she would finally be free! And that need to write would stop nibbling at her soul. (She knows she stated previously it was devouring her soul but it reached its limit and got full. So it chose to nibble.)

But wha-

Writing. That's it! Well, technically it's the inability to write but it was an idea nonetheless. She could write about writing! Yes! Yes! Yes! Victory was hers!

And so she proceeded to type the prose out, just sitting there, typing, smiling...

And knowing the ending's probably going to suck but not really caring.

Humans 101

You're a human. You were born a human. You look like a human. You are a human. And hence, you must care about nothing and be unbelievably stupid. However, as much as it is by unofficial rule that you be incredibly foolish and, well, fool around with absolute retarded-ness, there are strict guidelines you must adhere to. Makes no sense? Welcome to the world, my friend. 

First of all, humans have hardly any mind of their own. Apparently, we were given the gift of thought but of course, someone decided to leave that gift to rot in the back of his mind and everyone followed him because it was just too easy to forget what differentiates us from the "lesser beings". You see, although we can think, we don't think. Isn't it too tiring, you know, to actually reflect on your actions, to give a damn about how much it hurts when you stick that Nike into someone else's face? All you have to do is hear the laughing around you from the idiots you call friends and immediately just deduce that 'bullying = good' and do it all over again. What about that bespectacled boy in the corner of the class who did nothing wrong but who everyone's always teasing? The one who sits alone at Recess, the empty chairs his only company? The one you see nothing wrong about? Well, of course if everybody else is alienating him, then you have to do the same, don't you ? Don't worry if you can't think of an insult because if you just pay a bit of attention to all the gossip around you, to what those "popular" dudes say about him, you're bound to hear something nasty which you can just repeat later. What if they realise you're just copying what they said? Well, humans do that all the time, regardless of whether they understand it at all. Oh and don't forget this. When some random, balding guy with a tie comes along, saying he can make a change, saying he can make your life better blah blah blah? As a human, you have no right to question his speeches (provided you even listened) and you just go along with him if everybody else is. Humans don't think. Remember that. Don't question whoever put on that  tag with "leader" on it even if the word looks like it was scribbled on by a three-year-old with severed thumbs. Nope. That would be so un-human-like.

Another thing about humans is that we are selfish little beings with black holes where our hearts should be. Well, we are supposed to have consciences but most people just throw it to the ground, stamp on it and then stab it if it so much as lets out a whimper. We don't care about anything. We don't care if taking the last cookie means another starving child attempting to hold on to life with his frail, tiny grasp, we don't care if refusing to yield means black eyes for everybody or broken arms or gun wounds or bloody death (because seriously, what is there to care about disappearing from this world to be lost forever in the endless shadows?). We don't care about the well-being of anyone around us except ourselves. We don't care if people out there are creating bombs using nuclear power that could wipe out mass amounts of innocent children and we don't care if wasting energy is going to lead to Global Whatever and kill us all and end all possibilities of a future generation. We don't care about using that tiny amount of effort to flick off a switch as we leave a room though we indeed give some thought to running that mile from the position in front of the television to the kitchen to the room with the iPod and then searching everywhere for that phone charger. We don't care that wasting energy might lead to natural disasters-floods with the drowning children and their agonized silent screams, droughts with the burning heat that treats the people as play toys for the sadistic toddler, anything that would give pain the "go" sign and send it hunting others down. We don't care. Need I repeat that again?

Last but definitely not the least, humans are suicidal. Do you think not caring about anything would do you any good? Especially if it's bullying and being mean and war and Global Warming? Of course not! But it is part of being a human being, this not-caring-so-that-I-would-die-soon way of thinking. We let Global Warming continue because that would mean the end of the world as we know it and don't we all just love to die? We follow foolish, incapable nitwits and address them as our "rulers" because they'll probably send you off to meaningless war every 3 seconds and wouldn't that be an awesome death sentence? Don't we just love the pain and the infinite darkness and the sorrowful tears of our loved ones? The bloodshed and the explosions and the severed flesh and destruction? The pull of all that we have known to exist into that bony grip of the Grim Reaper? The end to all the things we love and treasure with our hearts? Yes, we want that. Because we're human and we don't care about anything. Not others, not us, not logic. Nothing.

Doesn't make sense? Good. That means you're human.

Im here.

(Haiku)

Special snowflake, flits
Downwards,  downwards, cold white snow...
Disappears from sight.

Snowflakes. Each one is unique. But sometimes you just get lost in the crowd and no one can see you. No one can hear you.

Read {between} the lines

Dear Jonathan,

{I wish I could still use “dear” on you even when I’m not writing a letter.}

I’m just going to get to the point.

{Because if I don’t, the next generation won’t get to know what “trees” are...And even if I let my pen catch a glimpse of my heart and express all these feelings in written words on paper, it won’t be enough.}

You broke up with me.

{After cheating on me.}

Even though I already somewhat knew this was going to happen, to say I am perfectly fine right now would be a lie.

{Just like everything you ever said were.}

I’ve been crying. A lot.

{I'm running out of tears, really, because I’m slowly realising that our pathetic relationship was hopeless from the very start.} 

In fact, I find it hard to just get out of the house because when I hear the laughter of young  children or see a group of teens hanging out and having fun, my legs wobble and I just want to go back to the darkness of my room where there is no happiness I need to miss, no happiness around me that makes my aching heart feel empty and long for something that isn’t there anymore.

{I’m starting to take comfort in the shadows, the locked doors...and maybe sometimes that penknife lying innocently on my table. }

I really loved you.

{And I still do. Because my heart is not only blind but stupid.}

And when you told me “it was time to move on”,

{I know you meant for yourself  to “move on to Clara’s bed” but where did you say I’ll move on to again? Because I’ve lost all direction and I can't see the next destination anymore. }

I would have done anything if it could make you take your words back.

{For you to just say “I love you. I don’t want to leave you.” because another lie won’t hurt. Not as much as the truth.}

I don’t want to leave you. I really don’t. I know I have no choice if you’ve made up your mind but I’ll like to remind you of this.

{Because I think you might have forgotten. Or just not bothered to paid attention.}

Remember that rainy day when I forgot to bring an umbrella and I was drenched? The day you were coming home from an errand and you spotted my lone figure in the distance, dragging my exhausted,wet feet along the tarmac, shivering? Remember how you dashed across, wrapped your warm arms around me and sheltered me with your tiny umbrella even though you were getting wet?

{I know you’ve tossed it to the back of your mind along with all the other “trash”. But remember. Please.}

That was one of the best days of my life.

{Even if you don’t care.}

Because that was one of the only times you showed that you cared for me.

{Among all the other times you did not.}

I’ll always remember that day. It symbolises the start of some absolutely wonderful memories with you.

{And a whole lot of painful ones.}

I’ll miss you.

{Every freaking day of my freaking life.}

From,

Annabelle.

{Because I can’t use “Love, Anna.” anymore. You stole those words away from me. Along with anything that makes me smile.}