Thread: Stream Of Concience Piece

You would think...

Waking up with fear and living in fear and choking in fear and breathing out fear. I seem to be living for fear.
My subconscious cackles as it prods me with fear.
Unfaithful demons dance and present the reality -
That perhaps I'm not quite living for myself.

And is that living at all?

From one heart home to the next I bounce but never frequent the chambers of my own abode.

Why can't I learn to trust?

It's so much simpler just to be robotic. Plug in predetermined responses... Null afflictions. Go through life unharmed.
Upgrade or you will be deleted right?

But how can someone born upon emotions. Filled with love. Turn around and deny their essence ??

I was a child of ghosts, of supernatural fancies. I courted the spirit world and fornicated in the realm of impossible. I am an old soul stuck in this youthful body.

Therein lies the irony... Fore I meet those advanced in years and my eyes open their latches and windows and notice the premature soul struggling to understand. But it cannot fathom what is to come...

I'm not sure I remember everything. But I just know I'm older.

Thats why people cannot believe my age. They say I am more advanced than my years while they act their shoe size.

Now I'm straying from the point here. This whole self love is proving to be a harder concept to grasp than I first anticipated...

Maybe that's why I can't exactly trust.

And the moment that I do- my subconscious cackles and sneers. it provides visions and levels of hells that send me darting to the toilet. Flushing the water down three times.

Куда вода туда и сон. (rough translation: where the water goes there the dream too)

On repeat for the glorious triad.

Moma says that dreams show the opposite of reality. Moma is quoting the pagan beliefs that have transversed generations. Moma instilled this love for the natural and spiritual in me.

But she yells at my tarot cards.

She spits at my neglect of Christ.

Moma is not worse than my aunt however.

I told my aunt visions I have had and spiritual abilities that I do not remember because she exorcised the memory.

She said I should see a papal figure

That I was filled with the devil and needed to be purified.

Ha

Was Jesus filled with the devil when he preformed his miracles?

I digress.

(Potential for a short story of some kind maybe? enjoy the read!)

I think this makes a great outline for a short story...or stand alone. Personally, I'd like to see more examples in a short story, along with a character I can grasp. A name, background, recent tragedy...followed by a miracle perhaps. I do love your analogies and would hate to see you lose your wistful style by dragging it out. It's beautiful as is.

thank you very much for your wonderful feedback!!
your descriotion of your ideal short story was inspiring. Perhaps I can try my hand at it one day.
We shall see where this goes in the future !

Elena

I didn't really like this as a postmodern literary piece (too thin), or as a possible starting point for a short story (sometimes the implications and the inferences are better than the story itself; think Hemingway's classic six-worder; it implies a whole slew of events without clearly stating much of anything.)

As a free verse poem, though, it's brilliant. Admittedly, I know this isn't what you were shooting for, but with some rearranging and tweaking it would work perfectly.

All I really have to say. Anyway, stimulating read, and thanks for posting it.

Actually, while quickly jotting this I did think that it would work better as a poem. So I might just rearrange it and the like.

Thanks for the feedback - I will look into Hemingway's piece as well.

Elena