Many times. There are many times when the thought wades in my mind. How wonderfully easy and simple it would be to forget everything, and give up. To release responsibilities from my grasp, and let loose the knots which tether me to this world. I think of the ease, and can only wonder why I’m still here.
I am without purpose, and without hope. I exist, but am not alive.
I want you to lay here, but take note of what is easily overlooked. Close your eyes, and listen to the space around you. The slightest of sounds echo throughout if you take notice. Let your fingers crawl. Feel every inch of yourself, and the world you occupy. Inhale slowly and deeply, and allow the scent to walk you through your memories. Swallow — taste the air which embraces you. Then, may you open your eyes and tell me of the world you see before you.
We can say all the logical things to a situation outside of our lives, but crumble to blind, hopeless stupidity when it is our own.
I’ve never had a more heart-sinking feeling. It’s far worse when you’re given a sliver of hope, only to have it snatched before your eyes. Weak in the knees, a trembling of the nerves. I’ve never felt more useless in my life.
I lay in waste, wondering if anger still consumes your every thought of me. Or do you finally realize that I had destroyed my image to save you?
And that’s the worst feeling. Finding something you want to hold onto, but being unsure of whether you can.
How did you learn to write so well?
@AnonymousI don’t believe one can ever “learn” to write, seeing as the word is related with teaching. You can be guided or advised at best, but it truly is something that comes with experience. Every person has their own voice in writing, and by constantly writing, a person can nurture and grow their voice.
I spent my childhood on a forum. Was addicted to pixel art and game-making when I was about ten years of age, and that persisted for a good 4-5 years. The forums were filled with users who wished to create or assist in creating games. Undeniably, a majority of the audience was two, three, occasionally even four times my age. Constant written communication forced me to adapt to a more formal nature of the written word, as opposed to the short hand and casual nature used by my peers or friends at school. Through this, I began shaping my voice whether it was through the animation tutorials I had written up, or conversation with others. This voice became more refined as years passed, as additional outlets for my writing were introduced to the internet: Xanga, Myspace, Blogspot, Facebook, Wordpress, etc…
I didn’t take writing seriously until two years ago, but I am fortunate and blessed to have a background that was so heavily influenced by writing, unconventional as it may seem.
He opened his eyes slowly as the morning’s early rays gently embraced his face. He turned to one side, looking at the woman beside him, deep in her slumber. He questioned how she could possibly be so beautiful in the mornings. Beauty wasn’t a rare guest who visited her solely in the mornings. Beauty was her permanent resident — one which persisted through the lazy days at home, the evenings out, the nights out, the sunny days, the cold days, and all the days. It’s not that she was “just as beautiful” in the mornings than she was in the evenings, but that any way she could present herself was not any lesser or greater than the other. In the morning, she was the greatest indie rock band. In the noon, she became the greatest pop artist. When night struck, she was the greatest R&B artist. She was his idea of perfection, and he was hers.
Time and time again, I allow time to burden my shoulders. Time and time again, it has failed me.
