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I keep writing because... well, why?
With my soul so precariously bound between a void that I have brushed and fear and a life I am no longer willing to accept, why do I keep writing?
Because once, there was someone who used to check this profile on a regular basis- who read my words for the love of me and knew me for them. Whatever illusions exist on solid ground now, they are only illusions, because I am here, clean of the ghosts of shouts and pain.
Whatever ground that the person stands on now, whichever side of the void, if they touch this part of me again, I can't help but feel like I will somehow know that they have done so and breathe again.
So keep writing, me. And keep writing, you. Whoever you are, wherever you are, let words remind you that your voice is powerful in love and hate, in joy and loss. And maybe, maybe someone will hear and find you beautiful. What else can we ask for?
With my soul so precariously bound between a void that I have brushed and fear and a life I am no longer willing to accept, why do I keep writing?
Because once, there was someone who used to check this profile on a regular basis- who read my words for the love of me and knew me for them. Whatever illusions exist on solid ground now, they are only illusions, because I am here, clean of the ghosts of shouts and pain.
Whatever ground that the person stands on now, whichever side of the void, if they touch this part of me again, I can't help but feel like I will somehow know that they have done so and breathe again.
So keep writing, me. And keep writing, you. Whoever you are, wherever you are, let words remind you that your voice is powerful in love and hate, in joy and loss. And maybe, maybe someone will hear and find you beautiful. What else can we ask for?
Devious Journal Entry
Hope, my friends.
Hope, to any who read this.
Hope is everything.
I Might As Well Be New To This Town
I seem bent on my own destruction.
My loves are vicious. Rather, my love, which is singular and a bitter drink when sipped alone.
My writing is empty. It is full of almosts and slightlys and halfway theres.
My life is a whirlwind. I fill it with tasks and phantom duties so that I can avoid the things I am too weak to try for.
I am a fool. In nearly every facet of life, I surrender to my own weaknesses instead of taking life as it should be.
And I'm cold and won't close the window. Masochism? Yeah, maybe.
It's time for some upheaval. Some self-revolution. My cells need to revolt and save my spirit from it's own deep and consuming sorro
What a Morning
This morning I had to wake up at 3:00 to finish my homework as I was exhausted out of my everlovin' mind by around 9:30 last night (insane.). I grumbled all the way downstairs, finished my paper in an hour and suddenly had two hours to kill. Meh. What do you do with two hours on a Wednesday morning in the almost-middle of February? You go outside of course. So that is what I did.
I very slowly got dressed, made a playlist, breathed, found a thick blanket, made some special hot chocolate, found a good pen, dug out that ridiculously thick coat that I refused to wear all through junior high because it went to my knees, and went outside.
And wh
Very Strange
I have very little recollection of writing my latest poem Playground of the Dead. I woke up this morning and went to write something in the faithful blue notebook and opened to a page entitled Playground of the Dead: 12:36 AM. This isn't particularly odd except for the looming fact that ... I was well asleep by 12:36 AM.
I don't recall writing the poem, but it is definitely in my handwriting. Very dark. Very eerie. I think I must have been frightened by the fierce winds yesterday evening. It's no piece of great news that I am very susceptible to atmosphere and easily put in fear of the dark. But. I must have been subconsciously in terror of
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Comments1
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This is merely the advice of an outside observer. Please do not take offense if I have misspoken or misunderstood your intention, no offense was meant.
What I would love to see is for you to continue writing not for people who check your profile (no matter who they are) - are you so fragile as that? I sincerely doubt it. This sounds cliche, and it probably is, but you need to remember that writing should not be for the readers, but for yourself.
You have a rare fire in you, youngling. I want to see you feed that fire and write because the flames are setting your mind ablaze. I distinctly remember a night when all our families were camping years ago, and I sat at your feet and listened to you tell me a story of your own design. I was entirely engrossed in your world, unable to pull away. I could feel the joy and passion for your story behind your words, and it was inspiring to me.
You do have a powerful voice and I hope you will use it well. I so wish we had time to sit and have a couple cups of tea and just talk. Alas, we are always busy. You sound like you could use a hug.
What I would love to see is for you to continue writing not for people who check your profile (no matter who they are) - are you so fragile as that? I sincerely doubt it. This sounds cliche, and it probably is, but you need to remember that writing should not be for the readers, but for yourself.
You have a rare fire in you, youngling. I want to see you feed that fire and write because the flames are setting your mind ablaze. I distinctly remember a night when all our families were camping years ago, and I sat at your feet and listened to you tell me a story of your own design. I was entirely engrossed in your world, unable to pull away. I could feel the joy and passion for your story behind your words, and it was inspiring to me.
You do have a powerful voice and I hope you will use it well. I so wish we had time to sit and have a couple cups of tea and just talk. Alas, we are always busy. You sound like you could use a hug.