Erotic Umbrellas in the Rain

Wed, 24 Mar 2004 22:05:44 GMT

You may have thought that I had abandoned this journal and all hopes of getting up the energy to type up more of what I've written.

Alas, I have come to assail your eyes with... fiction.

And Harry Potter fanfiction, at that. So, if that's not your idea of a good time (and for most of you six people, I know it is your idea of a good time, so you had better read), just keep going. And don't look back. It will only hurt you, and that is not my intent.

Mind you, also: this fic mentions cutting, and suicide attempts. If you think it best not to read this, by all means, do not. Also bear in mind that I have never done either thing, and if I am wrong about something, I apologize. I am not trying to trivialize anyone's personal experience, it was just a way I wanted to portray the character.

That being said!

His breath forms white shadows in the cold winter midnight, phantoms sailing out across the lake, disappating into the happy oblivion between visibility and existence. The water reflects them, but records nothing of their quiet passage, trapping them for but a moment. The air is still but tense with expectation, hanging on the edge of the moon, the watchful eye of night. The shadows are expecting him, he parts the heavy gloom with familiarity. Others fear the darkness, but he embraces it; it is a part of himself, woven into his blood, knit into his bones.

After all, how many nights had he spent in absolute darkness - that inky void that fills you up, pouring in and out and through you until it has become you? Countless. How many times had he turned his face into the blackness, allowing it to swallow his tears into nothingness? He had always hoped that it would swallow him, too, but it never had. It was a part of him, it embraced him, but would not absorb him.

Weakness prevented it. He could easily send himself into those comforting arms - he had come so close... dancing on the edge of a knife between life and death, but he had failed. When the euphoria of blood-letting had worn away, he had found himself heavy, scarred, and miserably alive. He had blamed it on a spell gone wrong, and they had pretended to believe him, their condescending piteous stares haunting him back to his darkness - the darkness he loved and hated.

He rubs his wrist absently, feeling that familiar bone-deep ache that wasn't entirely physical, letting it echo through him. The slightest breeze ruffles his hair, a gentle sting across his pale cheek. Black eyes do not weep black tears, despite the ineffable desire to, to see those droplets borne of feelings so dark, to see taht tears mean something. The wind coaxes them out, or so he tells himself, but the bite at the corner of his eyes, hot and panicked, denotes something else. Numb fingertips fumble at the heated drops, wishing for the darkness to swallow them again.

Also, some prose that may or may not be used in a story I'm trying to develop.

I screamed, and the world split open like a mouth and echoed me - a deep wail of anguish that no physical pain could ever define. I screamed, and the violent rush of images cut me open like butterfly wings made of glass. They sliced my lips and ears and the blood ran up into my hair and cooled there while I whirled away into eternity. I screamed, and I couldn't have been sure whether it was the dream that shattered, or myself.

Mwah. Thoughts?

And so, it begins.

Thu, 18 Mar 2004 00:42:27 GMT

We are starting off on the most unfortunate foot of my background being slightly distorted. And I really haven't the time to fix it right now, but I'll be doing that shortly.

Anyway, some poems, just to get into the swing of things.

About the gleaming pinnacle
That on the precipice of night
Gives glow to fathomless oblivion
Whirl capriciously
The moonlight wings of insect aviators
Seduced by the scintillating light
That dances, trembling, on the trees.
An earthbound star, this pulsing heart
Of the roiling, raging earth
Sings its silent siren song
And calls to the ageless silver sphere
Of the full-waxing moon
A frozen face that never weeps.
And so the silk-steel of magic flows
Wrought with sleeping dragons
Whose ember-amber wings reflect themselves
In fallen leaves, unnoticed
And falls upon the drowsy moors
In a storm of faerie wings
And ancient thunder’s laughter.

Pandora sees the words
That she has written
On her thighs
In Red Letters
Like the words of Christ.
And they burn her
With their honesty,
A truth she can’t escape –
So she decides to write it down
In blood
So it will last forever
In a litany of scars.
Pandora’s eyes are void of tears
She’s weeping ink
And shattered stars
And she can’t find a way
To love herself.

Cruel anonymity
Not unnamed by any choice of mine
But named a name
Whose faded history is meaningless
A title to a barren land.
Nameless in spirit
Silent, hopeless
My screams cannot be heard
Discerned
From all the preaching
Of nonvalues.
Shut up, society
You’ll have your say
You always do
Converting my vocalizations to
Quiet angry meditations.

All rather old. And I'm disliking them as I'm re-reading them, but that, alas, is typical.

Tell me what you think, won't you?

Wed, 17 Mar 2004 21:24:25 GMT

Testness.