Anonymous asked: I miss your writing. Please write again.
How I wish I could. It seems like words literally just drifted away from me. I miss writing. But the thing is, I can’t. :’(
Recent book finds.
The streets are dark and cold. I rub my hands, trying to create heat. I could feel the callouses from my fingers peel from the friction. The light from the lamppost flickers, steadies for a second, and for a long moment, finally dies, taking the long shadows of the dented trash bins and road signage with it. The moon is cut in two: the other half casting a luminous blue, the other half nowhere to be found. The scattered trees, foreign against the backdrop of metal and glass rising to the sky, mutter a weary sigh of regress. A few blocks away, I could see the light from a local coffee shop so warm and inviting. I walk towards it as I light my cigarette; my lungs scream of relief and despair. With every drag, I could hear my lungs fail with raspy clicks like the sound of the lighter’s flint rubbing the trigger. I coughed—a stabbing pain hit my lungs as if ivies were growing inside, occupying the hollow expanse, leaving no space for air to settle.
I crush my half-consumed cigarette to the ground as I arrive at the coffee shop. There were only a few people. I order my usual cup of hot machiatto and found myself a chair at the far end of the smoking area, away from sight. I open the lid of the cup and stared at the froth and the thick lines of caramel placed on top. I could see smoke rise from the tall paper cup. Enticed by the smell, I took a small sip. It burned my tongue. I like how the warmth settles from my throat to my tummy.
I light another cigarette, only this time, I’m going to consume it to the butt. Nicotine calms me. I take my book from my bag and started shuffling through the pages where I left of, feeling the crisp, brown softness of the paper, and started reading. I was engrossed; I became oblivious to the people and the steady drone of the cars passing by the secluded street, oblivious to the laughs of the teenage kids inside the shop and the stars incessant twinkling.
“Jack Kerouac. I don’t see a lot of people reading that.” A stranger pulls a chair from my table and sits without permission.
(to be continued)
Anonymous asked: Will you still love me when i'm no longer young and beautiful?
Stephen King and brewed coffee for breakfast. Good morning!
I want to write again, but it seems that I have forgotten how. Even words betray me now. My papers are creased and my pen has lost its ink. Adieu.
We are what we write, aren’t we?
We are the darkness that lurks in the shadows of our room, or the light that seeps inside our windows as the sun rises. We are the sound of the tranquil seas and the roar of thunder as the rain pours. We are the birds that pierces the sky, and the fluffy, white clouds.We are the heart that shatters into a million brittle pieces, aren’t we? We are the pounding in our heads as the world closes in. We are the blood in every paper cuts, or the tears that comes after it. We are the baby who cries in the evening, and cries some more in the morning. We are the soft kisses and warm embraces. We are the passion that soars high, and the hate that runs deep.We are the mere ink that flows through these papers, drowning its purity in a pool of black. We are the folds on our sheets, or the dried tears on our pillows, aren’t we? We are the smell of coffee, and the nicotine that runs through our lungs.
Behind this wall of words and letters, we are but figments of our own delusions. We spill this ink on paper and wait for it consume us. We are trapped inside our own worlds—of words floating everywhere. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Soon, we’ll grow roots, and words will sprout from our pores and from our fingers. Our eyes will bleed letters and our mouth will puke words. Our bones will shatter from the weight of our delusions. We are what we write, aren’t we?
Read. Sleep. Love. Write. Go out and see the sun. Hella hipster.