74

I'm blissfully happy and want to tell you, however you're not online, nor are you by my side.
So for now I'll pocket this happiness to keep it safe, and show it to you when you can be there to join me in it.

73

It's horrible not being brave enough to tell you.

72

So... here's the deal.
I write insignificant and relatively vague things, and then post them on the internet, just to watch the little green line of infrequent views rise and fall.
I write and post these vague little stories and quips because I need to tell something.
I write because in a world of anonymity, there is liberation.
So this, these writings and unseen posts, are my mental liberation.
Today, Today I...
I.
I'm this kid. Right?
I sleep too late and wake late.
I like to write.
I seem to be constantly aware of the fact that what I write now? I will scoff at later.
I will degrade it, I will render it futile, emotional, impractical, but above all; ugly.
I am so terrified by the emotional crippling I have been brought up to expect, that to feel emotion, to write it, to actually acknowledge it in the most cliche of fashions... I find it ugly.
I find myself ugly, in that respect.
So, I'm young, I'm afraid of emotion, and sometimes wander into an almost autistic state of mind.
I have degraded and taken apart every aspect of the delicate things, and turned them into science.
I have taken love, for example, and reduced it to nothing, absolutely nothing but chemicals and evolution.
So, when I find myself lying in silence listening to someone breathing in their sleep, and being unable to let go of the smile that lines my face, I am a pawn of my own degradations.
My scientific opinions catch me in the night time.
Sometimes, they catch me when my head is burrowed into his shoulder, and I only press my head in further.
I sit here, and, may I tell you?
Every day the degradations of my cynicism and past hurts degrade the imperfection and, in honesty, purity of what it is I am so fortunate to be, this very second, experiencing.
But it is not because I don't see it's value.
It is because I can't believe it could exist.
It is because I can't believe any living thing could care this much, regardless of whether you're beautiful or ugly.
It is because I feel that what is so so good, must be chemicals and nothing more.
But, I cannot deny what it is I feel.
I cannot deny there is no other person I wish to hold.
I cannot deny, it is his eyes, and not another's, that keeps me still.
I cannot deny the reality of this.
For I have done that, and it does not fit.
My head cannot deny the tangibility of their touch, their skin, their voice, and the effect it has upon my pulse.
But most of all, I cannot deny the tangibility of louder heartbeats.
And it is things like that, that draw out my cold scientific protection, and render the sweet things to jokes.
But.
I cannot deny, as much as my distaste holds me from saying the cliche of all; How I feel.
It is a marvel, is it not?
You're brain conjures one emotion, your heart physically feels it.
I didn't think that was real.
I thought the words, "Heavy heart," were just easy lyrics and poetic nothings.
But no.
Within my chest, hidden behind a cage of white bone and blood, lies an anchor, that sinks further and further every day.
Sometimes within elongated kisses and lingering breaths, that very heart feels as if it is drowning, without lungs to take in air.
How very odd, is it not?
An organ that needs not breathe, feeling as if it could drown, living inside a once cold and icy being.
And so, I sit here, and I type, unsure as to the unease resting under my skin, seeping into the anchor tied securely to my heart.
For the past two days, an unexplainable sadness gripping me in the silent moments now bringing me to this; a meager attempt at finding answers within an answer itself.
I cannot explain it, nor can I find it's answer or cause, however, the further I write, the closer I feel to the root of my unease.
Funny, is it not? Within an attempt to alleviate sadness, a heavy anchored heart was drawn into the equation, despite my own personal claims that it had nothing to do with this seemingly unexplainable state of self.
Even funnier that only one face was brought to mind as each word was set down.
I fear my heart has realized something before my mind could even comprehend it's existence, or even possibility to exist.
And so as the realization dawns, it only descends further, drowning ever more within itself, and another's.
And within another's.
Ah, I have said it myself.
The anchor falls further into an ocean, for fear only that it will reach the ground all too soon, and become lost among the sand, never to have called out the echo of it's thud upon the ocean's floor.
But I fear telling him I love him only to be met with an expression of remorse.

71

Fuck, You're amazing.
Got that?

70

And she just smiled, and felt the edges of her lips rest against her cheeks.
She was happy.
And this is exactly what it felt like.

69

I will never tell you that sometimes I know...
I think...
I will never tell you that when you speak about her, just sometimes, it makes my day a little bit sadder.
But I'll still be there when you need to talk.
I'll still listen because I know you don't understand it in the same way.
I will never tell you how sick it made me feel when I saw her name in your calls list, her name above and below mine as you scrolled through your inbox.
I will never tell you because... Because it's nothing.
Because it's just...
Because you're so good.
And... And because I understand.
Because I know it's just me feeling sad because... Because I remember how you spoke of her before.
How her absence tore you apart.
How much she meant to you.
How much she still, and always will mean to you.
It just makes me sad because I sometimes think I could lose you in a heartbeat.
And... That sometimes I'm just... There'll never be anyone like her for you.
And the sad thing I find is that, I often think there'll never anyone for me like you.
But I'll never tell you that, Because that's the way it goes.
Because that's the way it is.
I'll never tell you, because you're good, you're you, and... the past is the past.
The heart is the heart.
And they say it never dies.
They say you never truly get over someone.

68

Everything is going to be OK.

67

The most sickening of sweet smiles began to drag across her ivory skin,
"Not going already, are we?"
Her tongue clicked to the back of her teeth as he began to slink away.
Tracing one thin finger along her skin, her black eyes narrowed, closing in on his palpable fear.
"Now now," she softly murmured, reaching to touch his jaw, smiling as he shuddered upon the feel of her hand,
"No need to fret dear. I'm just having a little fun."
As the words left her lips, she exhaled deeply and turned, her deep scarlet hair encasing her shoulders as she did so.
He could do nothing but watch.
His worlds called back to him,
"She was beautiful. But she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful; To be admired from a distance. Never up close."
He bitterly chuckled, it's tone quickly drowning to nothing but a groan.
He stepped forward.
She froze, momentarily, before turning to face this rugged worn man.
Her eyes were the deepest green, with dashes of black and gold scattered across their watery surface.
Every time he searched through them, he drowned in the ocean they seemed to embody, the ocean filled with a thousand mysterious creatures never to be found.
Every time she blinked, he swore the lights dimmed, and he could no longer see the world.
She drew her slender figure closer to him, her eyes wary of him, hungry in curiosity
Her right hand lay limply by her side, the other pressed into her chest, wedged between her rib cage, convulsing methodically.
One-two. One-two. One-two.
With each beat, she took the opportunity to breathe.
Every time she did, he could feel himself reawaken,
"You're not leaving."
She stared at him blankly, as he stood his ground, his words echoing in his ears.
He was made of grey.
His eyes were a light faded blue, sparkling only in the harshest of sunlight.
His skin was the iciest of whites, while his lips had the memory of blue imprinted upon it's edges.
His ribs were torn right apart, inside nothing but a hollow cavern.
But now, right now, his eyes were ablaze.
His feet stuck solidly to the ground as his teeth hit off each other in the restraint it took for him to stay standing.
She gently cocked her head to the right, her spine curving away from him,
"Say it agai-"
"You're not leaving."
Her face was, for once, void of this distant smile he loved to hide her behind.
Her expression was withdrawn, her eyes boring into his.
He could do nothing but stare on.
Her lips pursed slightly,
"I am born to break."
She smiled weakly at her chest, her eyes tracing the blood that lined her convulsing hand.
He nodded,
"And I am born to function. No more."
As he said so, he could feel her stare upon his ribs, he removed his eyes from hers and continued,
"But I am not human," he softly murmured, his head hanging lower as he did, "and to survive, to live, rather than function, even you know..."
Both stared on silently.
He stood so still as her hand convulsed between her bones, and she continued to breathe.
His eyes took in each piece of her, the smooth skin encasing her, her slender form, her burning eyes, her cracked lips, her shock of wild hair, the scars lining her cheeks, the pins pressing against her arms, her shoulders, her chest.
They briefly lingered on the chunk of soul torn from between her ribs.
"You're not leaving." he conceded, one last time.
Raising her head, her eyes reached out for his,
"Pretend to breathe. As if you're tasting the air."
He began to inhale, the air hitting his lungs harshly, the memory of life now dawning upon his mind frame.
Reaching from her chest she drew out one pin, the other hand solemnly convulsing like clockwork,
"Life is not how you remember it, " she sighed, almost to herself,
"I will break easy."
At her words, both solemnly nodded, before she reached for his hollow chest with her empty hand, digging it under his ribs to gently pull him closer.
Closing her eyes she waited until he was close enough to feel her warmth, and as his body warned him to run from such heat, she pushed her hand deep within his chest, and finally he breathed.
One-two. One-two. One-two.
Her hand began to convulse.
He was reunited with Heart once more.

66

We.
They.
There is no one.
What are we?
Pixels and thumbs, calling out to others.
We are beings spawned from dysfunction, loneliness and the era in which denial has reached it's final, crucial numb stage.
We are the era of liars.
We are forever learning the hard way, this life was never intended to be pretended.
Turn off the lights.
This time; Really see what is it you're looking at.
See it.

65

We live for lights and sound.
The 21st Century lives for hollow breathers.

64

Marks of black, strokes of grey, lying softly upon drooping lids.
With one stark flash of blue; it was all over.
There was no draw, no second place, no survivor.
Everything had already been said and done, in the silence of her glare.

63

With lips of the slightest red tinge; She smiled.

62

Smothering won't protect me, now will it?
You're forgetting a world exists after this.
You're forgetting you'll be able to do nothing.
Bit late to start cocooning me.
Bit fucking late.
And... it is the things that were presented before my eyes in stark truth that I learned from.
Smothering me now will only teach me to cross the road without looking, thinking someone's gonna pull my hand back if I'm in trouble.
No one is gonna pull in reality.
No one.
So, rather than pulling my strings, be there for when they are cut, and I am lost.

61

Guide me in my choices, don't make them for me.
You say I'm to look after myself, and yet you won't let me decide for myself?
"Am I not being fair?"
You're never asking that question looking for an answer you'll listen to.
You're never really asking.
You're just reminding yourself and I who's boss.
You're preparing to tear down any answer contradictory to your own.
You hear.
You don't listen.
You really don't.

60

6 days ago feels like a year ago.

59

Why do days seem like years ago, and yet everything moves so fast?
Time has become warped.

58

The pads of thumbs upon keys is tangible enough for the memories to exist.
Skin is memories.

57

If you were just a fleck of paint upon a page, would you not be just as important?
That page is forever different because of your existence.

56

We are just details in a grander story.
We are the paragraphs before the dialogue, the author's frivolity before the plot takes hold

55

"What do you mean? What's worse than that?"
"..."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"..."
"You really are terrified of it, aren't you."

54

Little steps, remember those little things.
Remember the things that you forget, but another survives on.
Learn to wake.
Learn to feel.
Remember both were once your sustenance.

53

See the colours.
Overwhelming, isn't it?
Ripping up a piece of paper, the size of your floor, and sticking it to your walls.
Those colours, those shredded bits of paint on white... Scary, isn't it?
I guess it shouldn't be.
These colours, this humanity, it shouldn't reduce you to hyperventilation, it shouldn't force you to sit and watch it in awe.
But it does.
Doesn't that just... show how strong it was?
How wrong it is?
Even for yourself?
Doesn't that just... It makes me sad to think it.
To think I had just fallen back into something I swore never to return to.
Senses shut off. Mind in control.
It's cold, you know?
You feel so... Dull sometimes.
And you feel tired in place of sorrow.
The harder the pain would have hit, the more lethargic you become.
You just don't feel much... You feel because you should, not because you are, so everything is just... Duller.
Colder.

Numb.
Nothing changes, everything is so static, and as each day goes by, you find it harder and harder to find things to keep that hollow feeling away.
Sometimes in the night when I was alone and writing, I'd wake up.
I'd feel again.
And I'd become so scared, so upset, so at a loss.
In the morning it would be as if nothing happened.
That was every morning.
Every single morning was the same.
Every. Single. Morning.
Wake up, feel hollow, and then, feel nothing happily.
I missed this.
I'll say that, I'll say it; I missed emotion.
I missed feeling alive, properly.
I missed something that felt real, that felt human.
I missed being able to be frivolous and expressive rather than so...
Practical.
Cold.
Strong.
I missed being able to hear a song, and it reducing me to tears.
I missed it's ugliness, and equally fear it's return.
But I'm sick of being numb.
I'm sick of not having anything that I'm afraid to lose.
I'm sick of being so solitary, so...
Trapped.
I'm sick of the good things being hurt, I'm sick of the great people not being allowed to understand, I'm so, so, so sick of pushing the best things in life away.
I'm sick of pretending everything is so fucking OK.
It's not.
Everything is not fucking OK, and know what?
For now, that's all I need, to just... be allowed to say that to myself.
Everything is not OK.
I am not OK.
Heck, feeling numb for another year, and this time unaware?
Things couldn't be OK with that happening.
Time does not heal all wounds.
In fact, if left alone, time alone can cement those wounds into the figure you grow to become.
I used to feel so much.
So much it was very nearly crippling, but it was better than this.
It was real, human, and because of those vulnerable foundations I was not left alone now.
I had found the people that would still be there when I no longer was for myself.
I have to learn to not be afraid of those torn pieces of colour, and so I stick them to my walls.
I place them above my door, at the bottom of my bed, at the side of my room, so every day I wake up, they are there.
That fear is there, and that awe is standing alongside.
You wake up to emotion thrown in your face, forcing you to experience it.
You cannot deny what is right before your eyes.
I refuse to deny this.
No more.
I've pushed away enough already, there is too much that has been lost, and far too much to lose.
The monochrome world is too lonely to be eternally lived.