Everything I`ve wanted to write, but the time just wasn`t right.
We are writers because
We want to be, because we need to be, and because we all have the gift to send ripples through the world.
And yet we know we are still “a true writer” because we choose our truths
When I write, words slip through my fingers with a kind of grace that I could never manage when I walk on the fragile rope of life, teetering cautiously from side to side, seeing the endless blue of what could have been the perfect blue of the sky dipped into the ocean. When I write, my back bends as if it supporting the weight of all the universe’s secrets that I have yet to discover, and the line of my spine makes my way to some northern star that I can’t even begin to make out. When I write, my eyes follow the outline of the ink, and I watch hungry pages devour my words and for the first time in ages I feel heard b this sheet that opens its heart and soul for me willingly. When I write, my mind falls into this endless chaos of everything that is broken. Picks up that shattered pieces that I threw to the side and shows me the glint of glass in what can only be described as the most fragile beauty.
I came into this world with stars in my wide eyes and my hand clenched tightly as if I could pull the blanket of the universe down around my shoulders so that I could know the world right from the start. I grew up with one ear unused, the other tilted to the side to listen the soft pure music as the wind told me the love story of the world. I stuck pens into my braids my mother made every morning because I wanted to know that my voice was somewhere tucked away inside. I scribbled hasty notes on the side of binders, notes, tests. I wrote on the back of my hand and stuck notes on walls haphazardly, told friends my thought in case I forgot. I woke up in a half daze scrambling for something so I could press the pen to paper before it drifted away. I sat alone at lunches, recesses, imagined up worlds and stories and I told myself I would be more. I pushed away homework and pulled closer my laptop, my notebook, and wrote another tale instead. I left tales unfinished, hanging in the balance. And every night I spoke to my very first friends, the stars who had shown me how to explore the questions of the universe.
I knew what I had wanted to be all along.
I say it with pride, my heart strumming loudly inside my chest and my head tilted up defiantly. I light the fire in my eyes and stand my ground, using my only weapon- albeit one of the most powerful ones- as my shield.
“I’m a writer.”
And their brows furrow in thought, the questions marked clear in their crinkles of their eyes. The way they examine me shows that they wait for me to say something more. And when I choose to contain my words, they voice their question with a confidence unparalleled. “But what does it mean to be a writer?”
What does it mean?
The snow was coming down heavy, large flakes that glistened in her hair like fallen tears,
I don’t believe in fate.
Maybe I used to, when I was little and I dreamed of being swept off my feet and every happy ending seemed only a few years away. Maybe when I used to have an amazing day it would be because fate planned it that way. Maybe when I had found my friend in a girl who was lost it was because it was all fate’s doing
Maybe it was just fate.
But my question is why?
Why does “fate” feel the need to make me despise my life?
Why did fate decide to make that night the night where I would lose all faith?
Why did fate decide that an event would cause me to write a letter, and that letter would be read by my teacher, and my teacher would call in my parents, and my parents would send me to the hospital, and from that point on I would be so co
Don’t let the world fall to pieces at your feet.
Realize hat everything you’re ever wanted today has always been within your grasp.
She likes to engage in war with destiny.
I don’t get to see you very often. I wish you would take a chance and come see me. I promise I won’t let my tendrils of darkness ensnare you.
The desperate world wages a war within her. Using her heart as a battleground. Getting drunk off the richness of her blood. Fill her lungs with breaths of darkness taken from the dying breaths of desperate men.
And the only words her mouth can form is mercy.
So tell me what it means to be broken sweet angel.
She clutches her knees to her chest and gazes at her broken reflection
Wondering when she stopped becoming a child and started becoming a wraith
Whisper the language of the shadows into her ears
Gently close her eyes with frost bitten fingers
And whisper to her the sweet lullaby of a better tomorrow
She would always be there to see life escape away from her.
For her eyes could not cage in the darkness any longer.
For her eyes could no longer contain the wonders of the universe any longer.
When she felt alone, she would often turn to her darkness for comfort. Because she thrived on the luring shadows to be her companions. She was not drawn to the light like the others. She loved the dark. She loved the way the shadows curled around her arms. She could not resist their seductive whispers.
And when he would look back on his life, the only thing he would think was worth remembering would be her.
Every time my heart felt like lead, I let it pull me down onto my knees.
“I wanted to give each of you some of this to take with you,” She handed out the flowers to the three little girls. “I know it’s not much, but I…I wanted you to remember me.”
Light took the flower gently in her hands. The red reminded her of the sun’s fiery glow when it was preparing to go into battle. She nodded solemnly, in her eyes lingered the traces of innocence and determination. This flower would forever serve as a reminder that she could not let the world fall into darkness.
Destiny saw the flower quite differently. Like always, she picked up on patterns. Her sister had reached first- going for the fully bloomed flower with lush petals. Easily the most beautiful one. Destiny’s was different. For her, the flowers weren’t quite as full, and she noticed a bent petal. No longer symmetrical. But she knew it was a message to her, that when children and men and women would look up to the stars…
“All stories are true,” Alena said.”But in every story there is a whisp of magic, a sprinkling of heroes and damsels in distress. In all stories is the hidden light of something beautiful. In all stories will you experience the caress of love, or the soft kiss of death.” Her eyes sparkled in the light of the dancing flames. “Of course, with every story there are exceptions. When you open the door to your imagination, wild shadows rampage, and not all of them hold the luring beauty of the unknown. Some will his and twist into gruesome t hings. Swallowing all the darkness only so it can make itself bigger…
In the stillness of the night
The wind hums a low, mournful tune
The trees hand their heads
Each rustle conveying their eagerness
The moon looks on with an adoring gaze
Thinks to himself,
What a beautiful present his darling son has left for him
And the stars shine brightly
Preparing to put on a show
So the words of poets may speak about their wonders
And capture their ethereal immortality
In the stillness of the night
Therein lies the world at peace
Each dreamer opening worlds and portals
Or, nay, losing themselves in the darkness of their mind
Let me begin with a caveat to any and all those who find this message. Do not trust the blackness of your closed eyelids, and do not give into them. If you, Dear Reader, have shadows twirling around your arms and find yourself led towards the comfort of nothing, escape quickly by any means necessary.And cultivate distaste for the white shade. While it is taken as the color of purity, the color of innocence, but when it beckons you with a whispered song that rivals that of the angels above do not fall into its trap. There, past thee white lies stillness. Pulsing darkness is hidden away underneath their pearly veil.
The world needs openness. It needs to be able to accept both the good and the bad. And when problems arise like mighty storms, storms that whip and rage and thunder and shout. In the aftermath, in the wreckage that remains that world needs to understand that they can’t just walk around blindly and only pay heed to the ruins when their foot gets cut on a broken piece of glass. Don’t let the world stare on as the blood runs with the sand. As the elixir of life slips through the tiny grains. Instead, let the world be open. Let them survey the mess, let them pick up the broken pieces of wood and start a flame that will blaze bright enough so there’s always warmth for those gathered around.
Love isn’t just a soft caress. It isn’t just a warm breath or tinkling laughter. Love is also raging storms and icy winds. Love is heart-stopping. Breathtaking in its ability to create chaos and beauty simultaneously. And love, never comes without a price. It demands sadness for its services to be truly felt. It refuses unless the blood of anger is given in exchange. Will hold out its hand when it’s realized that it’s needed more than just midnight strolls. Sometimes, however, it will seep into the seams of life and will work in tangent with the ruins of your mind in order to stay hidden.
There was something that made everything impossible in that second. Breathing, thinking, living. None of it seemed to come easy in that second. It was as if my entire being was compressed into the short, harsh breaths that I managed to exhale. It was terrifying. And I felt that if I stopped to take a full breath, my heart would stop beating, and I would stop thinking, and…I would stop loving. How terrified I felt in that moment, and I wished I could have forced myself to do something. But in the very act of forcing myself was what made everything so much more…
Who or what is the love of your life?
I often think that love is an unattainable concept- something that only comes to life in stories and loudly spoken proclamations. Or it arises with blushing cheeks and starry eyes. Of course, just like many other individuals I love many things. I love sunrises and sunsets. I love the smell of old books, the taste of coffee, a rainy day. But I cannot dedicate my life to one love. Especially when life itself becomes almost impossible to find pleasure in. How do I love in a place where I only see darkness and shadows? Life seems to have become just a shell, and I, just a ghost. So how can a ghost summon any feelings? And above all, how can a ghost feel love?
I looked at the wall across from me in a daze. It seemed almost unreal, tinged by my cried out eyes. It was scratched through with other people’s anger. Or maybe sadness? Revenge? Exhausted, the back of my head hit the tiled wall I was resting against. I could feel each square digging into my back. I counted my breathing in measured beats. One…two…three…four…I could hear my friends laughter from the other side of the wall. I was too exhausted to even be angry or hurt at their lack of care. It was just be and my breathing now. Inhale. Exhale. Eventually, I became conscious about how tightly my hands were wrapped around my throat. Slowly, I peeled my hands away from my skin. My neck was warm, and I rubbed the sore area gently before letting my hands fall to my knees, where they lay there, unsure of the next course of action. I could feel the dried tears on my cheeks. They pulled at my skin, as if they were trying to evoke water from tired eyes. But I had no more tears to give.
It seemed unfair to her that she should be destined to love this boy. It seemed unfair that she should have to watch him live while she was slowly withering away. It seemed unfair that every breath she exhaled she would never get back, because she dedicated her entire self to him. He was was kept the blood pumping through her veins, and he was the reason that she kept breathing. And somehow, she feared that if he was no longer there, she would cease to exist. She would become a shell of her former self.
Who I am
Who I am is composed of many parts. When I fall, I can’t help but lay there and think there’s no point to getting back up. But I get up anyways. Because I am also a fighter. There is this shadow in my mind that lurks in corners, and surprises me when I least expect it. Every time it holds a bottle. Every time I refuse. I am made up of books and fluttering pages with ink stains. I am the oldest in a group of three and with guiding figures together we are five. My heart has scars, some shallow and one that I must take care to mend everyday so I won’t let myself bleed and let loose the drops of misery.
What English word describes you best?
Broken. A word that is shattered and cracked. A word that exists only so it can fall apart. So that the healed edges of something sharp break away and pierce you again. Broken. An empty word. A word that has lost air, and cannot find the letters, the emotions, the breath to be brought back to life again. Broken. Spoken with a mournful cry, coming down from eyes that only know the watery veil of sadness, ripped through with drops of blood that fade away in the harsh glaring light from the stage. To be broken is a sin in the eyes of the ignorant audience. It doesn’t provide the entertainment that they seek. Broken. The word is a harsh scream pulled from the throat of someone unwilling. It is the shattered pieces of the soul that can’t be fixed because each new attempt just serves to draw blood. Broken. The word for those who remain caged.