Category Archives: Creative Prose

Freedom

How is it that we can contradict so easily and hardly explain?

Your presence is a need and want but neither is because of the terrors you cause at night when my mind catches up with my heart.

As much as it wants to run away from the realities behind the emotions, it can’t control the waves of uncertainty and darkness taking over its too long denied fragility. What will become of me

when you take it all away?

So easy for you to forbid and ban and deny, but it isn’t that way for me when there are so many roadblocks placed in my life. So I lay low and crawl towards my goals instead of sprinting ahead towards the long craved sunrise.

Your blockade of my light won’t hold back my life, only slow it down, so what’s the point?

Pushing me to my breaking point is cruel and coming back with a hug and an apology won’t give me back my time, rewind my mind that already has lengthy songs of pain on replay,

I think sometimes of relaying these thoughts to you, running them through your head with a wire, reinforce the idea with a screw, but what use will it be when the wires are cut by you, all the effort thrown away, screwed.

I wish I could get through, shine the light that is truth, free myself of the burden, the contradictory thought that is you–

It: Self-Hatred

Everything I did seemed inferior.

The gloom of its presence overshadowed me. I wanted to break out of its confinement. But it wouldn’t allow something like that. It held me tighter each time. I needed something more to get out. I needed a stronger will, or a heart less deprived than my own.

Perhaps I needed a different skin. If I wasn’t so… so malleable, molding into whatever it wanted me to become, I could’ve just walked away. In retrospect, I did try to change at one time, but that’s exactly what it wanted me to do. Changing is just a symptom of this disease overriding me.

It’s pushing me further now. Is it too late? I wasn’t over the edge yet, but it was telling me to take one more step.

“So this is it,” I whispered shakily that night against the sudden breeze that sent my hands into an uncontrollable tremor. I didn’t like the abrupt sharpness of my voice in the cold, tranquil night. I decided not to speak again. Instead, I listened to its earnest encouragement, forced my shaking to subside, and I took one more step.

* * * * * * * *

The ripple effect. One thing led to another. They said drugs take away your sense of self-identity. I didn’t do drugs. But I did something worse.

I did have a choice. I didn’t have to do any of the things venomously whispered to me. I had a future. I had people who would have cared. I didn’t have to do the horrid thing–to myself–that changed lives, my life. Or well, lack of one now.

She Wrote

A young girl woke up and scanned the world for a place to begin her life, sharpened pencil in hand.

As she ventured out, she bent down every once in a while and wrote green grass and rainbow flowers onto the dirty gravel. When she got to a building, she wrote pink hair, orange feet, and indigo eyes onto the walls. She gave herself a couple more colors and read it a few times over, editing here and there. When she was satisfied, she walked on the newly written grass over to her house. No one was there. She wrote family onto the living room wall and left.

* * * * * * * *

Deciding that the world’s sky was too dark, she wrote blue. On the flat clouds, she wrote puffy and on the dying sun, she wrote bright. That night, lying on her bed of words under the stars she wrote, she read her world. She knew her world but she had no clue who she was. And she was alone. She rolled over and wrote friend.

Scanning the landscape, the expansive horizon, the seemingly endless, lonely world, she unwittingly wrote the word afraid in her mind. She thought of her bubble–broken with her sharpened pencil as a young child–and wondered if she should’ve stayed inside.

* * * * * * * *

The young woman read her own words for the 15th year in a row. She didn’t like what she read even though she tried her best throughout the years. Not knowing what to do, she wrote tears on her face.

Quickly, she realized she was wasting time and tried to erase the tears from her eyes, but there was no eraser on the pencil’s end. She’d have to let them fade with time. With that in mind, she walked on to finish her story so that her mark may be made upon the world before she left it.

* * * * * * * *

The old woman glanced at her old memories, masterpieces and world. Back then, she thought she hadn’t much of a life. But in fact, she was writing it marvelously and facing the world valiantly. Since her younger years, she had transformed her scribbled words into exotic phrases and transfixing sentences.

With the now-dulled pencil lead, she wrote a smile on her cracked lips, light in her pale blue eyes, and love in her defeated heart. She no longer wanted an eraser. She knew all of her mistakes were fixable without one, and none of her memories needed erasing. Some of the sad faded away, smudged or overwritten, but the happy ones always stayed.

With this happiness, she read and read all that night until she fell asleep for the last time with a smile written on her face, dulled pencil in hand.

No Escape

He scrutinized her every movement. Her body’s beauty was beyond anything he ever dreamed of.

She thought he couldn’t see her. She was almost out now, flying daintily across the dark stage of his delusion towards the tiny window–unlocked today–which spilled a thin stream of light into the empty room. Her one slim chance was right in front of her.

She reached up, her pale arm glowing in the afternoon light. Her fingers felt the cool glass, felt her freedom, causing her sickly face to flush, creating a temporary illusion of health.

Spellbound, he couldn’t wait a second longer. He took her in his arms, ignoring her terror. He knew she would appreciate him in the end. He embraced her and showed her what he could do for her, and proceeded to do just that.

When it was over, he took her out of the room, back to her cell and wrapped up his reddened bedspread with a satisfied, ear to ear grin plastered onto his face.

He walked outside to board the window.

Silence

It was a silent sort of night, dark and uninhabitable. She felt the black creep up into her veins–veins that were screaming for impending Doom to halt, but why would it listen to the piteous, skinny components of such an inferior creature? The unwelcome gloom seeped into her bloodstream, infecting her happy hormone secreting glands, turning them into oblivious vestigial organs that merely squatted in the cage she called a body.

Infested with parasites as she was, she could not maneuver much but her mind. Her mind. Firing off electrical pulses that tried, burst, and fried. They too could not function very well anymore after all.

So there she sat, sequestered in the melancholy dark, being consumed slowly by her own self. There was no one else. Or at least, she could not see them. Or their hospitable hands.

She remained stuck and still. Still here. Still there, in the silent sort of night.