when my head is stuck deep in the cavern of art i feel safe. with music in my ears and imaginary people living their lives in front of my faces. then i quit ostriching and pull my head out into the sun and suddenly life seems bleak. i can think i'm feeling all right, music spiraling through the air and blocking out anything that might hurt, then the music stops and i remember. i'm miserable. and i love art, but i don't want to live my life like a symbolic ostrich who can't bear having her head out of the sand.
i think a lot about fear and about death, and i've come to the conclusion that i'm not afraid of death. after all, death is nothing. and there's no point being afraid of nothing, since you can't exactly do anything about it, can you? no, as much as i dislike the idea of sliding away into oblivion and never thinking again, that's not the bit that frightens me. what frightens me, what really frightens me, is growing old. not arthritis and needing hip replacements, although that's sure to be unpleasant, and not even just slowly losing my mind. no,
i keep clicking on the write button and then staring at this blank screen for a few minutes waiting for my braingears to click into action. they never do. maybe because i'm not having writeable experiences, or ... something like that but then i just wonder whether this campaign of mine use your time better, get your work done, be less stressed is even doing me any good because i don't want to prioritize schoolwork over my writing but it seems like doing the inverse just makes me more stressed and god knows i don't need any more stress than what i create in my head for myself already. i've got this cold, aching, scraped-out feeling in my head and my eyelids feel all droopy-- only one more block left til the end of the day
this is kind of like a tv pilot type thing in my head. it might be terrible, but it's a thing i've been working on for a while so i wanted some feedback. this is approximately the first act (4-act structure). also, a friend helped me come up with the idea, so it's not one hundred percent my brainage. the writing is mine, though. also, the lady thing is based off an irish ghost story i found on the internet. i can't remember from where now but it is not my original idea and i don't mean to steal credit.
FADE IN: ACT 1
INT. CLINICALLY NEAT OFFICE - DAY
A BANKER sits at his desk. Across from him is a very nervous SCARLETT MONAHAN, mid-to-late 20s, frazzled.
BANKER Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you more but you just aren’t qualified to work here.
Scarlett bites her lip.
BANKER (CONT'D) Maybe if you went in for a degree?
i discreetly wrote this in science class, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was prowling around, ready to pounce on me for being off-task, which is why it's so short. if anyone was wondering.
weathering doesn't happen quckly, you can't wear a mountain down to a speck in a day. no, it takes a long long time, centuries of raindrops streaking the surface, centuries of gusty winds whipping at a raw nose, hours and hours of awkward stares of plaguing thoughts i'm wrong, i'm stupid, i am being judged. people talk about flames going out but a flame is snuffed in seconds. and it takes ages to wear a person down. so i say, i'm a mountain. buffetted by wind someone else's tears washing away my face. making a brave last stand that's slowly making me disappear into
i sit pressed in between the two of them. they're in hysterics, tapping their phone screens to airdrop memes back and forth. if i'm not mistaken, these are all things they have all already seen. are they hilarious just because airdropping... automatically makes things funnier? my parents used to look out at my brother and his friends as they sat side by side on the porch phones to their faces and make exclamations of disgust that phones had replaced face-to-face communication. and as much as i may think that adults are a little bit phobic about technology, this seems sad. to come all this way to lunch break away from class and to see people you sometimes don't see at all the whole rest of the day just to sit here staring at your phone airdropping memes. and it feels awfully... lonely.
i'm starting to think there should be a genre of poetry in my honor called "leaky brain overwrought spills" or something. does that already exist?
soup i don't know why i titled this soup maybe life feels soupy right now whatever the hell soupy feels like i think for some reason i've come to call soup synonymous with confusion. it's like a confusion that's less actively not knowing and more wailing, swimming thoguhts they drown sometimes that don't make any sense. like how you know those moments when you get so tired of being you? they tell you to be yourself it'll make you feel better but myself is stagnant. is there a myself? i come to think of myself as more an empty walking head full of characters in stories like i'm just a character in my own boring story except i'm the kind you don't care about and my egotism