5/19/2019 ??:?? PM:
w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠
5/14/2021 10:53 PM:
The chair creaks eerily as he slides into position once more, his fingers gravitating to the google docs icon that loiters near the top of his open chrome tab. Tonight he’ll write a full chapter in an hour, fueled with ideas and passion like a refilled jet engine. A smile creeps across his face like ants forming a line between their mound and their meal. Tonight he’ll attempt to describe the ineffable sensation of death.
5/15/2021 9:03 PM:
The crackling fizz of the coke can is overwhelmed by the smashing of the keys along his keyboard as he furiously dumps his thoughts and emotions onto the page. Tonight he’ll insert himself into his novel once more, include a scene of something he experienced with his close friends long ago, because why not? He’s twenty nine chapters deep, and while he’d like to see more of his ideals before him, he’s slowly realizing the entire story is about himself, about his experiences. This was supposed to be a science fiction story, right? So why is it so real?
5/17/2021 3:03 AM
Tonight (or rather this morning), he’ll crush his fist into the desk beside him in frustration, the lonely house shaking as the thud from his hand, now surging with pain, echoes throughout the halls. He can hear the faint tapping of his yellow lab’s feet on the tile flooring eight feet above him as the ancient girl comes to investigate. He tries relentlessly to put pencil to paper, to do battle with his keyboard once more, but it’s useless tonight. Inspiration escapes down the drain of his shower along with the dirt and soot from a far too long day of both physical and mental masks. It’s almost his birthday, his least favorite day of the year. How long can he mask tears and heavy sobs with the ambience of the shower in the middle of the night? How long can this time loop last before something inside of him is more broken then it already is?
5/17/2021 5:27 AM
He has to be up for school in just over an hour. It isn’t worth sleeping at this point, he thinks to himself. He returns to the computer, salt burns stinging the skin below his eyes as his insufferable rage subsides temporarily. The silence that angered him before is now comforting as he decides to return to writing the only way he knows how, by placing himself into the story. In order to establish a realistic relationship between his main character and the girl he loves which forces the reader to care about each of them, he writes about himself, about what he had. He writes about the people he’s loved and lost. He tells their story through his eyes, describes dates he went on, silly things they told each other in the middle of the night, countless times he broke the law with her and his best friend, or even when they’d all get caught. It brings him comfort, makes him feel like both his friend and her are still alive. He’ll finally doze off maybe ten minutes before his alarm, but at least he’ll be proud of his work. At least it’ll be written beautifully with symbolic language and metaphors laced throughout it like fentanyl. After all, the two of them and his writing have always been deeply connected, and the only way he knows how to make something feel real is by writing something that is.
5/17/2021 11:59 PM:
After sleeping through most of his classes, he’s back on his computer. Today he’s finally at the action scene he had been hoping to write, where the main character meets with the person who practically raised him long ago, only to tragically realize that they’re no longer on the same side of this ever expanding war. No one knows who’s on what side anymore, because it’s not just a line, there isn’t just right and wrong. Instead, it’s a circle. There are as many sides as one can imagine, and there’s those trapped in between. As he writes he keeps glancing at the black sword hung beside him, with his name and another engraved into the side of the blade. Part of him enjoys killing off characters from his main cast. Part of him enjoys writing about the gory death of a beloved character, but at the same time part of him still finds it quite sad, because he won’t be able to write about that person anymore. When someone dies both in reality and within his novel, what other medium does he have left to express all of the unspoken words and emotions that he felt for them? He jots down in his writing journal his idea to kill off the entire cast, except for the main character, except for himself. He plans to end the novel with his self-righteous asshole of a “hero” stranded and alone, who slaughtered his endless array of enemies, but at a heavy cost. Will he still want to write when that time comes?
5/18/2021 11:32 PM:
He tells himself he should be writing right now, but he isn’t. Instead, he’s drinking. Instead, he’s telling himself not to watch his screen, because in the bottom right hand corner he’ll see the date turn from the eighteenth to the nineteenth. The world spins in front of his bagged eyes as the indigo lights slowly flicker on and off like moonlight weaving between thick gray clouds. He sees his reflection in the sleeping monitor and sobs, not sure what about. Maybe it’s because he can’t write while he’s drunk. Or maybe it’s because his inebriated mind perceives the stain on his shirt as resembling her face. Or maybe it’s because the black hole of frustration and fury is finally running out of places to store all of his anger. Maybe it’s because he fucking hates himself for not saving her and everything about his overly bland facade of a life that hasn’t had meaning since the day he became all alone. Or maybe there’s no reason at all. He reaches for his phone to write this, his thoughts, down, because he knows that he can use it in his writing. Afterall, the only way he knows how to make something feel real is by writing something that is.
5/19/2021 12:06 AM:
This day is no longer the anniversary of his life, but rather of her death.
5/19/2021 3:55 PM:
Unusually, he’s sitting down to write early today, almost as soon as he arrives home from school. He needs to make up for the previous night if he wants to stick to his schedule, at least that’s the excuse he tells himself. The truth? Well he doesn’t want to be anywhere right now. In this moment he just wants to feel the warm light of the sun upon his skin as he reimagines the girl he loved on paper time and time again, desperately trying to match every feature and behavioral pattern to what he remembers. He just wants to hear the office lights hum and his keyboard click and clack as he pours his soul onto the document. Specks of black periodically dash across the clear teal sky as the vapor of yesterday’s rain can be seen rising from the scorching concrete. The tranquil scenery contrasts with the raging typhoon inside of him. Crashing waves of raw emotions beat and erode the cliffside of stability as he tries to decipher his future. It’s already been two years. How long can he hold onto a fantasy? The peace is what gets under his skin the most. The calm and mundane lifestyle that involves forty hour school weeks and living for the weekends is the most unbearable part of it all. But still, how long can he hold onto a fantasy?
5/20/2021 7:01 AM:
He’s writing before school about his main character, about his regrets. There are a lot of them. Drowsiness surges through his body like venom in the bloodstream as he drearily grabs his keys and heads towards the door. May 19th has already passed. Nobody asked him about it, nobody wished him a happy birthday, nobody forced him to think about what that day truly means to him. The only celebration he had was a casual dinner with his girlfriend. After putting on his shoes he circles back to his laptop one more time before leaving for school. The dim light from the screen hurts his sensitive eyes as he closes the device. The last displayed image is that of a newly completed chapter, a chapter he worked on perfecting for months, a chapter embedded with the closure he wished he had, but at the same time a chapter that will help him move forward, that will help him enjoy May 19th the next year. It reads “Chapter 18: Event Horizon.”
w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠w̷̧̠̘̰͚̱̻̜̝̲̣̲̦̐͒͗̐̾̔h̵̡͍̰̦̙̭͖͖͇͔̮̠̹̏̄̑̌̚͜ͅy̸̡̪͔̮̳̰̘͉̩̬̥͖̒̉͗̈̇̿̋̌͐̀͘͝͝?̸̢̡̛͖̦̤̦̹̪̰̘̤̈́́͋͊͑͂̓̏̕̕͠͠
5/14/2021 10:53 PM:
The chair creaks eerily as he slides into position once more, his fingers gravitating to the google docs icon that loiters near the top of his open chrome tab. Tonight he’ll write a full chapter in an hour, fueled with ideas and passion like a refilled jet engine. A smile creeps across his face like ants forming a line between their mound and their meal. Tonight he’ll attempt to describe the ineffable sensation of death.
5/15/2021 9:03 PM:
The crackling fizz of the coke can is overwhelmed by the smashing of the keys along his keyboard as he furiously dumps his thoughts and emotions onto the page. Tonight he’ll insert himself into his novel once more, include a scene of something he experienced with his close friends long ago, because why not? He’s twenty nine chapters deep, and while he’d like to see more of his ideals before him, he’s slowly realizing the entire story is about himself, about his experiences. This was supposed to be a science fiction story, right? So why is it so real?
5/17/2021 3:03 AM
Tonight (or rather this morning), he’ll crush his fist into the desk beside him in frustration, the lonely house shaking as the thud from his hand, now surging with pain, echoes throughout the halls. He can hear the faint tapping of his yellow lab’s feet on the tile flooring eight feet above him as the ancient girl comes to investigate. He tries relentlessly to put pencil to paper, to do battle with his keyboard once more, but it’s useless tonight. Inspiration escapes down the drain of his shower along with the dirt and soot from a far too long day of both physical and mental masks. It’s almost his birthday, his least favorite day of the year. How long can he mask tears and heavy sobs with the ambience of the shower in the middle of the night? How long can this time loop last before something inside of him is more broken then it already is?
5/17/2021 5:27 AM
He has to be up for school in just over an hour. It isn’t worth sleeping at this point, he thinks to himself. He returns to the computer, salt burns stinging the skin below his eyes as his insufferable rage subsides temporarily. The silence that angered him before is now comforting as he decides to return to writing the only way he knows how, by placing himself into the story. In order to establish a realistic relationship between his main character and the girl he loves which forces the reader to care about each of them, he writes about himself, about what he had. He writes about the people he’s loved and lost. He tells their story through his eyes, describes dates he went on, silly things they told each other in the middle of the night, countless times he broke the law with her and his best friend, or even when they’d all get caught. It brings him comfort, makes him feel like both his friend and her are still alive. He’ll finally doze off maybe ten minutes before his alarm, but at least he’ll be proud of his work. At least it’ll be written beautifully with symbolic language and metaphors laced throughout it like fentanyl. After all, the two of them and his writing have always been deeply connected, and the only way he knows how to make something feel real is by writing something that is.
5/17/2021 11:59 PM:
After sleeping through most of his classes, he’s back on his computer. Today he’s finally at the action scene he had been hoping to write, where the main character meets with the person who practically raised him long ago, only to tragically realize that they’re no longer on the same side of this ever expanding war. No one knows who’s on what side anymore, because it’s not just a line, there isn’t just right and wrong. Instead, it’s a circle. There are as many sides as one can imagine, and there’s those trapped in between. As he writes he keeps glancing at the black sword hung beside him, with his name and another engraved into the side of the blade. Part of him enjoys killing off characters from his main cast. Part of him enjoys writing about the gory death of a beloved character, but at the same time part of him still finds it quite sad, because he won’t be able to write about that person anymore. When someone dies both in reality and within his novel, what other medium does he have left to express all of the unspoken words and emotions that he felt for them? He jots down in his writing journal his idea to kill off the entire cast, except for the main character, except for himself. He plans to end the novel with his self-righteous asshole of a “hero” stranded and alone, who slaughtered his endless array of enemies, but at a heavy cost. Will he still want to write when that time comes?
5/18/2021 11:32 PM:
He tells himself he should be writing right now, but he isn’t. Instead, he’s drinking. Instead, he’s telling himself not to watch his screen, because in the bottom right hand corner he’ll see the date turn from the eighteenth to the nineteenth. The world spins in front of his bagged eyes as the indigo lights slowly flicker on and off like moonlight weaving between thick gray clouds. He sees his reflection in the sleeping monitor and sobs, not sure what about. Maybe it’s because he can’t write while he’s drunk. Or maybe it’s because his inebriated mind perceives the stain on his shirt as resembling her face. Or maybe it’s because the black hole of frustration and fury is finally running out of places to store all of his anger. Maybe it’s because he fucking hates himself for not saving her and everything about his overly bland facade of a life that hasn’t had meaning since the day he became all alone. Or maybe there’s no reason at all. He reaches for his phone to write this, his thoughts, down, because he knows that he can use it in his writing. Afterall, the only way he knows how to make something feel real is by writing something that is.
5/19/2021 12:06 AM:
This day is no longer the anniversary of his life, but rather of her death.
5/19/2021 3:55 PM:
Unusually, he’s sitting down to write early today, almost as soon as he arrives home from school. He needs to make up for the previous night if he wants to stick to his schedule, at least that’s the excuse he tells himself. The truth? Well he doesn’t want to be anywhere right now. In this moment he just wants to feel the warm light of the sun upon his skin as he reimagines the girl he loved on paper time and time again, desperately trying to match every feature and behavioral pattern to what he remembers. He just wants to hear the office lights hum and his keyboard click and clack as he pours his soul onto the document. Specks of black periodically dash across the clear teal sky as the vapor of yesterday’s rain can be seen rising from the scorching concrete. The tranquil scenery contrasts with the raging typhoon inside of him. Crashing waves of raw emotions beat and erode the cliffside of stability as he tries to decipher his future. It’s already been two years. How long can he hold onto a fantasy? The peace is what gets under his skin the most. The calm and mundane lifestyle that involves forty hour school weeks and living for the weekends is the most unbearable part of it all. But still, how long can he hold onto a fantasy?
5/20/2021 7:01 AM:
He’s writing before school about his main character, about his regrets. There are a lot of them. Drowsiness surges through his body like venom in the bloodstream as he drearily grabs his keys and heads towards the door. May 19th has already passed. Nobody asked him about it, nobody wished him a happy birthday, nobody forced him to think about what that day truly means to him. The only celebration he had was a casual dinner with his girlfriend. After putting on his shoes he circles back to his laptop one more time before leaving for school. The dim light from the screen hurts his sensitive eyes as he closes the device. The last displayed image is that of a newly completed chapter, a chapter he worked on perfecting for months, a chapter embedded with the closure he wished he had, but at the same time a chapter that will help him move forward, that will help him enjoy May 19th the next year. It reads “Chapter 18: Event Horizon.”
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