I suppose the best kind of freedom can be found in listening to old records, sitting, alone, in your room, a cool drink in hand, book open in your lap. You take a long sip of your drink, savoring the burn of carbonation as it goes down you throat, resting, dormant, in your stomach. The book is subsequently propped against your bare knees, pages flipping against your fingertips as you regain your place. The words, as they come, pull you in, (it's quite good, really) and before you know it, you've finished, and the light outside is waning, the moon gliding into view, taking the place of the sun.
I miss an incredible amount of people. Those who have left me, and those that I have left. It's disappointing, I think, when someone we consider a friend--which, to me, is an extension of our souls--take a different path in some crossroads we find. I knew a family, once upon a time, that I barely recognize now. They've changed. My father and the husband had an awful fight, and they haven't spoken since then. My mother tries to keep the peace, and speaks to the wife often, (or, often enough to consider her a friend) but I miss the peace of driving along their dirt road, the trees and clouds and dust a lovely companion to my melancholy teenage loneliness. I still love her, I still love her children, I, even now, care deeply about her husband, their father, but this friendship, to be rebuilt, will take soul searching. The union of our hearts and minds, the agreement, clash, and then agreement again of our morals, will take time.
I have forgotten just how difficult it is to leave someone. It really tears you apart, I think, and will stick with you for such a long time. A boy I know, who I did—and still do—consider my first boyfriend, broke my heart. Repeatedly. And I don't think he's a bad person intentionally, (though my best friend thinks differently) but there's something about heartbreak. You cannot truly forgive someone. At least not for a very long time. And redeeming yourself is a long and complicated process. Many choose another path. Sometimes, friendships and relationships are not rebuilt, and two individuals will live without peace for decades, if not longer.
I am trying my best to forgive, but it is a dangerous game—too many times I have caught myself at the wrong hand of kindness, and it has not served me well.
It's 9:27 P.M. I'm sitting alone, in my bed, and my head is racing.
America. What do you think of when the word pops up in your mind, on your feed, flashing across your TV screen? Right now, I'm pretty damn sure that the answers aren't as great as a lot of people would hope.
Fictional account that I made of World War ll that I was kinda into. Enjoy, history nerds. -------- December 24th, 1938 Berlin, Germany Someday, I'm going to be traumatized. Someday, I'm going to hate myself, everyone else, and the world. But, right now, I don't have the time. The fight against the Nazis is constant, a terrifying spin of death and fear that taints our hearts and minds. The same thoughts flood my head, just like so many others; "What are we doing? Are we doing it right? Are we going to survive?"
Terror is just as heady as happiness, really. It clogs street drains like acid rain, dark and damp, suffocating and awful, weighing on our bodies, our skulls, our lungs.
YOU see him first in a record store in the middle of L.A., snagging the last Pink Floyd LP from its confines in the wooden compartment, secure; safe; unused; unplayed. It's 2021. Records are few and far between these days. You're both fourteen, born way after these times, and no one expects you to know what records and record players are, much less how to use one.
Your Victrola sits on your desk, waiting to be played. Just as you are, with the exception of needing anyone to play, instead of just one person. Always and forever: just one.
Him. You don't even know his name. You will, soon.
Snow fell outside the window in large, spiraling flakes, slipping into liquid the moment they into contact with the water-fogged window panes, hot, steaming air spilling from the bathtub as Cassie through the water, lathering shampoo into her dark hair. One look through the glass revealed the early—but no less joyous—arrival of her mother, returning from a long ( and what Cassie could safely assume was hard, from the set, stiff line of her mother's shoulders) day at work.
Cass leapt out of the bath and staggered over to her bathroom sink, slinging a towel tightly across her chest. She barely glanced at the mirror as she bolted out the door, sparing no time for clothes as she bolted down the staircase leading to her kitchen, trailing lavender scented soap behind her. Her mother was just taking off her coat when Cass barged into the mud-room, bare feet slapping against the cold tile.
Sunsets in Montana are stunning. The way the sun dips below the mountains, hiding its face from us before it falls, the blankets of pink and orange and yellow covering the expansion of the sky, the edges of their watercolors blending with the twilight that slips over the sky, just at the top. My bedroom is located at the back of the house, and I have two clean, clear windows stacked one on top of the other that look out on our ranch, starting with the pond in our backyard and hopping over the deer fence into the valley, spreading out towards the border, hitting right at the edge of the sky.
Sunsets in Montana are almost always marvelous. Only when I miss them do I deplore them. Only then do I resent them; because I wasn't there to see it. Only then.
I read something recently. It hit me really hard, actually. I kind of stared at my iPad screen for a moment, blinking through the mist in my eyes. Because, guys, seriously, this was such a game changer.
This is a bit of a dark story. If you don't want to read it, I don't mind. Thank you! ------- I watch his mouth. I watch it twist and sneer, curl and spit, arching around words like knives, like the pierce of a bullet to the chest. I watch him catch the edge of a heart in his hands and dig his nails in, those long, elegant, gorgeous fingers tearing in with the kind of cruelty only men like him can muster. The kind of cruelty that comes with dragons, with lions. Ripping and clawing and drawing gashes across unblemished skin, reveling in the marks, in the claiming.
I watch him. And I wait. I wait to tear his walls down. I sit in the shadows as he plays and pushes and kills and taunts. Then, I let him put his hands on my hips and his lips on mine and his heart in my palms.
I'm terrified of the dark. I can tell you that for a fact. It's a deep seated root of my trauma, from fighting in a war I never should have fought in, from watching people I loved fall around me, my memory still fresh of that feeling, that ache. It was always at night. No one attacks during the day. If you're a war leader worth your salt, you know. It's why I almost kiss the ground every time I see the sunlight come through my windows, the waft of free-falling sun-beam fuzz a familiar sight. It's horrid, I can tell you that. I can never get my feet out from under me when I end up in a dark room, can never manage to get any air, to just calm down and breathe, and tonight is no different, the feeling of my lungs crushing behind my chest, inky blackness blooming all around my eyes, a dreaded, but no less suprising, weight.
This one's for you, Treblemaker. I basically made it as an explanation for why the main character's mother died. You can take it the way you want to, but I think it has a couple of clues. Tell me how it is! I hope it isn't too awful. -----------------------
Long sips of red wine held between elegant fingers The scent of blood lingers A flashing warning sign Blue eyes, black hair Terrified swallows My chest hollows Breath wafting in the air Toes curl, lights dim Sweat glistens The silence listens A goblet filled up silver to the brim A gasp of breath My body shakes One last glimpse of past mistakes It looms, death I bring the glass to my lips They round the edge in a featherlight kiss For a moment, all is bliss Then death's hands clutch my hips My lifeline snaps Eyes roll back Legs go slack As she watches our world collapse
To me, women are the calm before the storm, the moment of peace before the whirlwind hits; a silence; a clash of sound and then, a celebration. They are the beginning, the middle, and the end, and they rise above the tide, beautiful and merciless and so captivating, my breath is stolen with their smiles. I am utterly enthralled with women, for what they stand for, and I welcome the capture they have on my heart.
Men, however, are the storm. A brand of chaos, controlled and yet uncontrolled, the edge of a wicked smile and the sinful shift of muscle beneath bone. To be held in their embrace is to be consumed, as if by fire, of the rage of their hearts. I will never understand them, and that, in and of itself, is an irresistable driving force of my desire to know and yet not, holding me in my place. Men are terrifying, and they are beautiful.
THE LIGHTS IN the old school gymnasium were on, a sure sign of habitation. I knew this, after a long, hard year of working there, cleaning and waxing the floor, and making sure that the stands were free of dust. Dad had put me to it, so that we could hang out here together on the weekends, or, if I wanted to bring friends (I had none, but go Dad!), I could, so I wasn’t complaining, but sometimes, it got tiresome. I didn’t mind working there, exactly—it was actually sort of fun, peeling the dirt away and revealing the real condition of certain things—but I had never really liked chores. Who does? But, it was nice, sometimes. Staying alone in a recently renovated (and cold) gym, shivering good-naturedly under one of the woolen blankets I’d stashed in the back as I read my books. Sometimes—oh, who was I kidding, all the time—I met a special little hooligan in the corner, next to the bleachers, and we would read together.