Month: June 2016

VII: Scrawl

VI: Scrawl

 

Found scrawling from inside my grey and dying mind.

 

LET US FALL THROUGH WONDERLAND. LET IT LIE SO FLAT AND STILL IT BECOMES LESS THAN A RIPPLE TO TEAR THROUGH US AND RUPTURE OUR SENSE. BECAUSE WONDERLAND IS NOTHING.

THE SIX-FOOT CATERPILLAR AND KNEE-HIGH HUMAN, A WONDEROUS DISCOVERY IF WE’D FOUND IT FIRST. BUT WE ARE SECOND, THIRD, FORTH, FIFTH, NINETY-EIGHTH. NOTHING NEW IS TO BE FOUND HERE.

WONDERLAND IS NOTHING NEW, SO CLOSE THOSE WIDE EYES. AND SUICIDE IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER AS YOUR BODY AGES AND CRAWLS CLOSER TO INEVITABLE DEATH AND PAIN. YOU COULD LIVE FOREVER WITHOUT A BODY TO HOLD YOU BACK.

OPEN YOUR EYES.
ARE YOU BLIND?
THERE IS NOTHING WONDEROUS ANYMORE. NOTHING NEW.
NEOLOGISMS HAVE BEEN WRITTEN, FICTION HAS BEEN TOLD, INVENTIONS EXIST ELSEWHERE.
SIT DOWN WHERE YOU STAND. AND WAIT.
OR SPEED UP THE PROCESS.
WALK TO THE LARGEST CITY ON THE LARGEST CONTINENT AND WALK UP THE LARGEST STAIRS OF THE LARGEST BUILDING AND LOOK DOWN FROM THE HIGHEST POINT AND JUMP FROM THE HIGHEST POINT AND
FALL
FALL

FALL

FALL

 

FALL

 

 

FALL

 

 

AND LAND, AWARE THAT YOU ARE NOT BLIND, THAT YOUR EYES ARE OPEN. YOU KNOW THE TRUTH OF LIFE AND DEATH ITSELF, THAT NOTHING IS NEW AND THAT THERE IS NO POINT. COLLAPSE INWARDS LIKE YOUR LUNGS, PUNCTURE YOUR TONGUE WITH YOUR TEETH AND GRIN THROUGH THE PAIN BECAUSE YOU KNOW.
ONLY NOW YOU DIE, ONLY NOW YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES WIDE.

 

VIII: Scrawl

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I: Mistake [Working Title]

I really feel I reached my peak with Hello so this is more of an attempt to claw back something I really loved, because he disappeared from every aspect of my creative mind when Hello ended and I feel depressed when I think of him.

I have no idea if this story will continue, but it may do if people like it. I really need to find something I’m as passionate about as Hello, but it’s been months and I doubt I ever will.

 

Mistake page 1

Which to Continue?

Now – while I haven’t got a lot of attention, there are somewhat regular visitors who read my work. And, once again, I need your help.

In order to try and pull myself out of this depression borne of Writer’s block, which, in turn was triggered by my completion of “Hello”, I’ve written two short deviations.

You might recognise who’s talking. Or you might not. If you do recognise who they are, thank you.

 

This is the first one – “Guilt”

YM 1 Guilt

 

This second one is “Mistake”.

YM 1 Mistake

 

They’re quite short, for two reasons:
1) People don’t have a lot of time to read things, really, do they?
2) I really can’t do anymore. I have no direction. I have nothing. I have some ideas, but they’re centring around something I’m very, very reluctant to do.

So here’s what I want from you –
Please pick which one you prefer, “Guilt” or “Mistake”, and comment it.
Or, if you like or dislike aspects from them, please tell me.
I feel so dull and numb to writing at the moment that I don’t notice these things.

If people prefer one more than the other, I’ll make it my goal to create something out of that one.

Thank you.

SERIOUSLY, help me. Help me. Help me.

How much must I breathe to wake up with gunfire in my ears? How much of my body, life, soul must I pay for that? How much must it be for the gunfire to be coming from me? A single metal pellet, fuelled by nothing but hate, I’ll stand and force it out of my skin.

And watch it fly.

And watch it strike. Raise my other hand, a machine gun, no longer fingers but a cannon. I’ll step back, between two buildings, and raise and fire. And raise and fire again. Oh, good Lord, I’ll let go several thousand rounds in a matter of minutes. What am I shooting, what am I shooting at? Is it so much? Oh, I’ll tear through buildings, I’ll desecrate concrete with these metallic fists of mine.

More, longer, faster. Fuel, hatred and anger. I am no longer the silent fool you took me as. I am fury, I am the metal in the fire.

I can be the metal in the fire. How! Shoot, shoot, and keep myself scowling. No laughter, no joy. No psychopathic tendency to let a cheer fly from my throat. Concentrate. Calculate. And fire. I am angry, I am furious.

I want to wake with that gunfire, I want to hear it burn through the metal and stone, I want to know how far it flies through the other side, how long until it crashes to the ground. I want to stand on the edge of the world and scream it all, after I’ve destroyed everything in my wake, when there is no one around to accuse me of myself. Give it out! And let it destroy! Come on, darkness, come on. I’ll shoot you, too.

I’ll step off, I promise, I swear it, when I’m finished. A mercy killing followed by a self-sacrifice to end the world. My scream will be friction, my scream will be power. Friction and power, and bring him back to me! Why, why did you leave me! Why did you leave my head!

 

My frustrations are real, my block is too real. I can touch it, it’s inside me, a huge forbidden weight that strips me from Automatic to Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic! I’ll fucking get him back, I’ll try anything. I’ll work everything. I’ll draw him until I know each inch of skin. I’ll draw him until I know the true colour of his greasy hair. I’ll draw him from the inside out to know how he works, maybe he’ll come back to me.

Oh, God, Yestin! Where the fuck did you go? Where the fuck did you run off to? I have no idea if you died, or if you lived, I have no idea what happened to you. I want you to return, for I am dangerous without you. I am furious. I need you to be my guardian. I need to write with you. I must write with you. You’re the only way I can move forward.

My disgusting guardian angel. I cannot tell what you are. Human, demon? Do you love children for what they are or do you love eating them? Are you alive or dead? Can you die? You made out like you could.

“Enjoy it. / For it could be my last.”

Yes, yes, apparently that child was your last. Did you know when you wrote that down? Did you know that, and I didn’t? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? But you can’t have known, surely, because… because you didn’t know you were to become obsessed. You didn’t know you’d retreat into your dying mind with her. Is that what happened? Or did her soul… did you manage to inhale it in time, did it live in your mind, did it cause your obsession?

Yestin, I don’t care for the answers, actually. All I wish, all I ever want now, is for you to return to me. I cannot get over this. You were the best, the worst and everything in between. You gave me the drive, the power and the superiority to present something truly unreal to the world. And yet, I cannot get you back.

I’ve tried writing with Lull, his poems. I wanted to know his mind, because his life is interesting too. But it’s not yours. I couldn’t truly get into it. I wrote about a nobody walking a line three times. The line between life and death. And I never got that. The concept, sure. But, past that, nothing.

Where are you? I spread out your manuscript, I look at it, and I begin crying. I read the first words, Yestin, and I feel depressed and sad. I miss you.

“Hello. / Am I / scared? / scarred? / sacred?”

And that’s enough to ruin me for the rest of the day. I hold your manuscript close to me, hoping that if I never let it go, you’ll return to me. You’ll give me something to work with. I imagine you walking behind me, I talk to you as I walk, I tell you to put your huge hand on my hip so I know you’re close. I walk along the street, sad, angry, in denial, talking to the face only I can imagine.

Please, Yestin.

Return to me. I want you and I need this. Please. Please.

I didn’t even know you. I know you so much better now.

“I’m content to squat here. With my fluorescent lights.”

Don’t go. I need you. Wherever you are. Please.

VI: Scrawl

V: Scrawl

 

Found scrawlings from inside my grey and dying mind:

 

MAKE IT RED
MAKE IT BLUE
ADD POLKA DOTS
AND WHITE STRIPES TOO

MAKE CRIMSON
MAKE VERMILION
MAKE VERTO
AWAKE THE MILLION
SEETHING COLOURS BEFORE MY EYES
THE SEETHING COLOURS BEFORE I BREATHE
THEY RISE BEFORE MY CURVING BACK
OH, JOLT TO RUN AND DON’T LOSE TRACK

BUT DRINK THE BARK
AND SUCK THE LEAVES
AND TWIST AROUND AND
THERE HE IS, THE SKULL-FACED MAN
WHO SCREAMS ONLY IN
INFRASOUND.

 

VII: Scrawl