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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Aug 2004
Location: Newfoundland, Canada
Posts: 204
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Foretta
Ok so here's my first attempt at writing something serious, it's a bit interpretive and typo ridden(i should go fix those) but I think with some critique I could make it into something more than how I've ended it. If you could read it and comment it would be fabulous.
There was a modern minute of appeal once. It was a brief look at how far a leaf could fall. Funny that, being only a memory before it finally hits the ground; now forgotten- go figure. Don't You always expect something to grow? Like those stories of sitting around campfire seranades and grass earthquakes, to weave your footprints while dissecting the strands of time because they are what's truly meaningful. Were they never around when you needed them? Mayhap it be that my surrounding prison was so well crafted to suit my needs that I needn't touch the corner thoughts of my past to try and leave. There was this incling of suspicion though as I teased my fingers upon the ebony bars of lights pluto while pacing up and down this self-cylinder to which thought and imagery is escaping that there must be a way out of here. A prison thought upheld0- but could not puncture.
Green sinews that so encircle my feet were the first and finest effects of waking up everyday, as I live inside and there are no point for days anymore. This time in life (if it could be considered a life), held much meaning, but there is no such thing as meaning anymore, I think. I'm not smart they say, actually just that much the oppisite, I am very confusing. I'd recall a time when I could not feel to feel. Simply put I was alive, Trapped to a solitude of the many twists and turns of being a one-sided unrealist. In a shell of a wheelchair I was whole.
I've always wondered what the feeling was like though. The feeling to not exist. That was a very fine reason to accomplish my goals of becoming surreal. Yes they were goals of mine that never will stand again to level with me unless I find a way to break free and control my own destiny, or so I would think.
For in truth I'm stuck staring out a window where there's a man, Rick I do believe his name was said. Oh and he does a fine job of meticulously cleaning the grime, dirt, bird droppings and spiders web off of the 'sill every couple of days. Quite pleasant a sight if you ask me. He'll never diminish the boreal rarity of what lies beyond though.
The window offers A beautiful scene of a white willow tree surrounded on all sides by a cooling essence. Purple bloom you could tell fought dearly for control of that comfortable resting zone, that infinite kiss, upon the limb. It's about spring-time now as the flower exploitation across the tree begins to pollinate. Blowing true north in the breeze. Through the contrasts of the sun you could tell life danced about drinking and teasing each stamen at large, fulfilling the alabaster dream. Few petals falter, tough in their resolve.
Unfortunately it's supper time on a lambom. Meaning that babbling burnt blonde Mesuda was serving food again this coupled with the insanium racket manifesto playing in the background always seemed to make my day. Though thinking now it really didn't matter one way or the other, I still disliked this day and held much discord against that woman. "Oh, joy." I would always think when I heard her nagging voice complain about some trivial askance derivative because more than likely it was about me. I loathed always having to put up with her idiocy, every Lambom and Harlo (those being the days she volunteered). Though it wasn't as bad as most of the things that I and some others have to put up with around here.
"What great a slime will be funnelled down my fragile throat this time." I whispered. <i>Sigh</i>- Well as always I guess "You are what you eat..". Indeed you should know that's something she was always making heard clear. Constantly expressing reasons through her "turmoil of being a fucking retard feeder" so unduly put. Mesuda's trivial mocking mineralisms- one could say, was dissolving my resolve through sheer idiocy. The gruel that was delivered at this hour was usually drug-based, a mix-up of potatoes, hash and the terrible bread that on first glance might have been whole wheat. Red candies were served for dessert. They'd never tell you that the meals were tainted, but oh how I hurt after each meal. My brain feeling like the food we were served, creamed and runny. That on top of having to always hear a rasorial scratching from Agnus who always complained about the bad texture and sparsity of the meal seemed to say a little something about the quality of the meal this time, "They taste bad and I'm not having them, nope not one!". How pathetically true I'd think to laugh, before getting a little woozy myself. I'd always say within slurred speach "Serves you right you prancing fatso!" I had always made fun of them, especially Agnus. It's how I survived. It's what I was warped into believing throughout my entire creation, and for as long as I could remember to do. It worked.
There were so many voices I couldn't put a face to every day in that room. I might sometimes see them in the reflection of the window when the scene wasn't too beautiful. Mostly I'd just see Agnus dancing and blabbering incoherently about some time in asquencia when she met a "Meidop Honorary Caster who controlled the winds." Like that ever happened, and if it did I bet it was the worst and most terrible feeling in the world, or at least hoped.
I wouldn't busy myself with those fancies.
Other times I'd look and see the one of the worst cruelties commited here- sexual abuse of some harsh kind of human appeal. In fragile nudity as the nurses and doctors sometimes let them partake in their natural selves, revelling in their lack of self-control. I hated their smiles, I hated more the smiles of those watching and it was only for their self-enjoyment of course. The rapings I'd sometimes see and fall prey to were absolutley horrorsome. Monsters, excrevants, disgusting dogs, all of them. Sometimes three and four of our beloved care-takers exchanging fluids with us before leaving our helpless and completely incoherant residential peers alone. Respecting our bodies enough to not let it show that we were hurt. Some still have memories about these "mishapens" others don't, some seem not too. Poor girl, poor boy, poor child, poor us, poor world. At least all of them can close thier eyes. "Feel free to move and dance all day long you fucks! " I'd say after the drugs wore off. I think I was the only one who could remember what happened. Noone else ever showed any sign of memory.
After supper though I'm still stuck looking outside the window until the end of the radio segment finished- which was usually a little after dark, and ended one more completion of my cycle as a controlled human being.
I was not human, I was more the machine in an egg, broken and twisted by a fowl that has more plain than plaid. All voice to the diseased enthrope!
My - Fucking - Ass.
"Hey Ace, it's time for breakfast. Wake up!"
"My name is Jennifer, my name is Jennifer, my name is Jennifer."
"Sure it is.."
Yah it's not the best but I tried and I hope you can help me out with it.
-Druid
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