Wednesday, 14 March 2012

sometimes I don't remember writing things down..

But then I find a .doc file saved in my folders and I read words that sound completely alien to me. This.. was a file titled 'Death', from April of 2011.

Not sure if 'enjoy' is the right word to use here..


Cigarette in hand, bleary bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open and a head full of ideas that just won’t go away. She doesn’t know when she last had a shower, the very stereotypical image of a writer too immersed in her art. She’s even writing about herself in third person, and the stupidity of the situation isn’t lost on her.

But the words have been held in for too long, and she can’t stop them from spewing out. Endless incoherent ideas, and half formed thoughts. Fragments of conversations, whispered by the phantoms occupying her, a thousand faceless characters she dreams of.

They scare her sometimes.

She tried to suppress them, but they scratch at her from the inside, and it was starting to hurt. Her imagination kicks into overdrive and she sees her body as a shell, barely containing an army of gruesome hybrids of... things. Half solid, half phantasm, long claws and sinister cackles. So close. So close to the surface.

She feels as if she’s fighting a losing battle. And soon they’ll be out.

The monsters that lurk in the darkest recesses of her mind.

Her reality and their reality collide, and the already blurred lines fade into obscurity.

Blood. Hands. Death.

Mere words. The blood she sees on her hands, a poetic rendering of her over active imagination.

And outside the sirens blare.


Alan Liddell said...


colson said...

Come on, release them. Put them on paper, give them a choreography - they want to dance a tarantella. And they are craving for an audience.

I'm eagerly waiting for the curtain to be raised :).