25-09-11, 02:45 PM
Join Date: Jun 2011
Location: Lisbon, Portugal
This text was mainly inspired by the music of the band "A perfect circle". Totally awesome to write nonsensical things like this... I'm such a freak. x)
But mainly this song (has mature content in it >_> you're warned) :
Yeah, I like writing prose so much. I hope you like it. Critiques are totally welcome!
She looks throughout the window. She sees everything in slow-motion. Black cats. Leaves swept off from the sidewalk. But also things that aren’t even there. Apparitions. Epileptic lights. Branches twisting.
In the dying dim light of her spooky room, her body looks like such a smooth sketch. Does she live? Is she real? Her shadow is unexistant; all the room is tenebrific; but her hands are swift. Her Blackberry shows no new messages. She’s restless. But maybe he doesn’t need her at the moment.
So she adorns herself, around her neck all the collars of her collection, wrapped to her fingers all the rings that she possesses, in her eyes all the stars that she watched that other night.
“Go back to sleep”, her head utters, but her body doesn’t allow it. She’s just too tipsy: her head, a mess, a pandemonium, it screams and it erupts at every face or voice she feels. Her whole life is an ordeal, she realizes it now.
She sucks on the end of her brush, and the hairy tip is barely seen, but full of a thick black ink. Compulsively she starts painting her bedroom walls; her clawy hands silently caress the rough yet wet areas. Her nails are filthy, but she can’t chuckle. She just glares at her annihilating process with an amazed concentration.
Only she can see the dark acrylics staining her white walls. Only she can see the monsters that form under her hands. Only she can see the terrible meanings of this.
No one else. She feels like she holds some kind of truth. A truth she couldn't evert think of sharing.
But she likes the process, the procedure, the operation. She likes the feeling, the flavor, the taste of such uniqueness.
Her appetite for destruction makes her head detonate. The nerves of her brain barely respond anymore. And yet, the brush is still hooked between her lips. She doesn't let it go.
She can’t speak up - she was never the loudest voice - but she still manages to mourn out:
“Where are you?”
She gasps to the window. Her eyes are starry again.
“I’m about to collapse.” She thinks. She looks drowsy. Does he even listen? Does he feel it? Does he sense it? Does he hear the calls?
“I want your body, I want it saying hello to mine. My veins are thick with blood…
...but I’m cold.“
She clenches her teeth; her brush is broken.
Last edited by Pandemonium; 25-09-11 at 02:52 PM..