An End and a Beginning by Eviltwinears, literature
Literature
An End and a Beginning
The train station bustled, all the hurry and motion of a railroad at its zenith. Locomotives chugged their way through, smokestacks bellowing something not born of trees. Perhaps it was the ghosts of smoke that dissipated in the air dragged behind moving trains. Whatever it was or had been, it brushed along the cathedral-esque ceiling of this station at the border of life and death. A young woman sat stroking a guitar, her touches the caress of one playing for pleasure, of one who knew where they fit into the world and was content with that. The tune she crooned softly, though upbeat, was morbid and did not quite fit the old air of the st
Newcomers' Halloween at the EA by Eviltwinears, literature
Literature
Newcomers' Halloween at the EA
"It's a good costume because you're dressed as an anthropomorphic representation of an abstract state of being. It's a fancy way of saying that there's no way the real thing exists, so you can chill out. We won't be running into any grim reapers tonight."
"And your costume? We both know angels are real."
"Well duh. I'm just celebrating an ironic portrayal of my heritage." The lanky young man gestured at the feathered wings extending from his toga-clad shoulders. "Two wings? How could anyone hide enough of themselves to keep from blinding poor mortals with only two wings? It doesn't even make sense, especially not the toga. Which is
No One Mourns the Wicked -TEN- by Eviltwinears, literature
Literature
No One Mourns the Wicked -TEN-
Journal 1
I have never felt so useful. We used to chill here. This old wreck used to be our clubhouse, my hideaway from responsibility. Anthony and I used to come here whenever my parents would pile on more chores than I wanted to deal with or if we had homework that needed doing. God, I miss those days sometimes. It would be great to go back to when avoiding schoolwork and thinking were my biggest worries. Those were some good times. I had my first beer here. Ian snuck them in one night. Anthony and I thought he was so cool. Aki wasn't so impressed, but she always was so much more mature than we were. In he swaggered, already drun
There is a moment, just a moment mind you, at the arrival of night when, for but the briefest sliver of a minute, barely a moment really, everything stands in starkest contrast. Shadows strike out, loom large about their source. They bay victorious at the set sun, no longer an oppressor to their twists and tendrils. It is not long after that moment when shadows achieve that communion so long sought and strived for by the likes of man. What we work constantly (but far from tirelessly) towards, that true intermingling of self, the drive to fit in with the crowd, that is all succeeded by the shadows at our feet through no effort of their own. W
I slump,
Shrugging Atlas.
My back
As it appears strong
Fades from
Crisp to creamy,
Worn down by gravity.
I curl inwards,
My back bent in indecision.
Shrivel
Shrivel
Shrivel
Solid no more.
Thoughts whirred through my head, clattering together like a train on an old track.
I must admit, at this point I was thoroughly licked.
No one's voice had ever stuck in my head like this,
not even my mother's.
My head was a CD player stuck on repeat.
What was it about her that made me feel like I was searching for a needle upon finding myself in a field of hay?
A raspberry bush stood reproachful at my agitation as I paced that tiny cliff, if it could even be called that,
repeating her words in my head.
So, I gave up and watched the clouds, heavy and fat.
A drowning man is not troubled by rain.
What is the difference between dreams and reality, really? Both are just electrical impulses flitting across the brain. We search for meaning in both, but give up so much faster on dreams. Why? You can't feel pain in a dream. Why does that make them any less meaningful? Is pain really the definition of reality that allows us to ascribe real meaning and depth to it? Then all victories are cheap and pointless. It only counts if you lose.
Dreams are just the body sorting memories and making sense of the day. Is that not true of the entire day, as well? So much shit happens that we are always struggling to connect it all. Too much happens when w
Her hands are light and soft, constantly moving, always brushing or tugging. Small with unnoticed knuckles and chipped nail polish.
They reach every so often into her hair, brushing with her fingertips, parting the strands, occasionally seizing one and pulling it from the rest.
It was an hourglass for the universe, that place, shifting and huge.
Can you really find the one that is different or do you just guess and hope?
Who doesn't?
I spent the day with the same thing in my head as jarred it yesterday. It is not so common for my thoughts to remain on such a tether.
What is healthy in a decision?
In a relationship?
Do I choose the path of most present happiness and comfort or do I decide to excise what might grow to cripple me later?
This alone is a quagmire, a conundrum.
But why is it that life is never so easy as "happy now, hurt later" versus "hurt now, happy later"?
This isn't even so cut and dried. I am advised that maybe aiming for the later hurt will allow me to build walls, to soften the eventual blow and all blows after it.
Do I really want this?
My walls