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.

- word barf 2 -

She doesn’t want to forget. But she wonders if she’ll remember her own writing.

“People write song about girls like you.” Is the first thing she writes. She remembers his over confident face, ruined by unfocused eyes and the heavy reek of alcohol that seemed to physically waft around him. She walked away with a smile, shaking her head at his pick-up line. She looked back once and saw his crumpled face, disappointed and dejected, as his friends surrounded him, laughing pointing good naturedly. On impulse she strides back towards him and kisses him, fast and hard, before walking away once more. Laughter and whoops of encouragement from the strangers that would one day become her friends accompanying her walk.

She wonders if her diary will read like a novel. She wonders if she’ll ever really understand how important those first words were for her. If she’ll remember her own misery that night, and how he made her laugh.

She writes carefully, chronicling every moment of their life together. Pen on paper, as physical evidence.

She doesn’t want to forget.

- word barf 1 -

You don't know if it is a good thing that she stopped screaming. Because now she's working her way through the pile of magazines that sat at the end of your bed. Tearing each page calmly, methodically. A serene smile gracing a face so at peace that it doesn't quite match her disheveled state. You tried to hold her hands earlier but a flicker of intelligence in her eyes stopped you. Just let me be. They seemed to plead to you, nary a word spoken. So you sighed, and stroked her hair gently.

"I'll be right here." And you wonder if this time... You wonder if this time she'll come back to you.

Time floated away

(Bryce Soderberg of Lifehouse, Arthur's Day, Jakarta, Indonesia. 4th Dec 2010. A version with colours more vivid is cross posted on my deviantarts page. Variations of the pic will be published in the January issue of Nylon Guys Indonesia)

His voice is raspy as he sings along to the radio, and hums fill the gaps where he doesn't quite remember the words. It is all she hears, driving 13o km/h down the highway. He turns to her and smiles, all soft and sweet and girly. She wants to tease him, but instead she grins. And for a moment he is blinded.

Tomorrow brings threats not yet delivered. But they have no prior knowledge, and for this one moment in time, their lives are perfect.

And they are in love.

Working on writing again.

The air wasn't any less stifling, and I didn't find it any easier to breathe.

Everything was the same, I could still hear the desperate sobbing I've heard for days, and the twisted hands on sweat drenched sheets were still white and worryingly thin.

There were no sparks or explosions.

It was just a quiet 'click' and the overwhelming desire to close my eyes.

[excerpt]

And all I want to do is scream, and scream, and scream.
Over and over till there’s nothing left of my voice but a pathetic croak to signify that it’s all over.
That there’s nothing left.
And then maybe everything will be okay.