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..
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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.
2 comments:
Erm.
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 :).
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