Eigengrau

Welcome to thy personal darkness.

[awdrumlach]

He was the textbook definition of a slugger. He was a force of raw strength and resilience that prided itself on how strong it was, using only the strongest moves in his arsenal. He took beatings that others would find devastating only to rise again and strike back with twice the force. That was his motto. It was his way of life. It didn’t matter what struck you down as long as it didn’t put you down. And when pushed to the concrete, you get right back up and tackle the challenge again. Some called it stubborn perseverance. He called it Tuesday.

[awdrumlach]

Each time she would press her lips into his with that scorching intensity she just couldn’t contain, he would return with his own amount of kindling. It was a sloppy mess, exchanging saliva and charging each other’s desires, but he was known for dealing with the messy. He quite enjoyed it, too. When her bottom lip would depart from his, he couldn’t resist the urge to capture it once more. His teeth would come out, nibbling on the soft, tender flesh before releasing it back into the wild. He didn’t dwell much on why he felt the need to do so. There was just a primal urge in the depths of his being that desired to mark this woman up as much as he could. Remind her that in this very moment, she was his and his alone.

[awdrumlach]

What happens when someone fueled by a desire to touch falls in love with another who has starved to be touched? What happens when a raging torrent of water makes contact with a barren basin? What happens when a harsh wind blows in the direction of a tree that yearned to rock? What could hope to occur between two diametrically opposed natures that could not be more perfect for another?

Poor decisions.

The tree threatens to snap under the relentless assault of the wind. The basin may overflow from the sheer power of the torrent, the latter leaving no time for its water to absorb into the ground. The two contrasting natures may swirl around each other, dancing in the reverie of their own making, never truly wishing to let go. They will prance around each other, humming to the tune of their bond and stare longingly at the stars that make up their past encounters.

[awdrumlach]

Every fruit I dared to pluck slowly filled me with a realization: I could not hope to live without you.

[awdrumlach]

I think you're really, really awesome, and I strive to one day achieve your level of raw talent. When I read your genius prose i wonder why you're so underrated

I appreciate the praise. If you wish to improve your prose, here are some activities I participate in:

I. Read. Look at what others have written. If you deem it good, discover what about it appeals to your liking. It often takes the work of someone more experienced than us to display how beautiful and art form can be.

II. Write. Write continuously. There is no one to improve a skill than to do it over and over. If you are not fond of your writing, then write something different. Oh, and beware the beast known as “writer’s block.” It is ravenous and will drain your creativity, but you must not let it.

III. Explore nature. Nature is simultaneously beautiful, intriguing, and utterly repulsive. It is our reactions to the gorgeous, the interesting, and the revolting that makes us want to share; thus, as people have done for centuries, we write those reactions down. We familiarize ourselves with the world, and in return, the world grants us the requisite knowledge to transform its aspects into literary devices.

[awdrumlach]

It stared at me. And I stared at it. From the distance of our contest, I could easily remark about how small it appeared. But no amount of blinking and pride could dispel the truth. It was bigger than me, even if it looked so small. And I loathed it for that.

[awdrumlach]

Once upon a weary time

A lowly man made the ultimate crime

Took the children from their homes

Broke their feet and stole the bones

Wrapped them up in string and beads

Poured them to a belly of mead

The mothers wailed, the fathers growled

The lowly man did not escape their prowl

Here he was sent to spend his days

Scattered the bones, devotion unswayed

Thomas Bell

Scourge of Fall

Thomas Bell

The Worm’s Thrall

[awdrumlach]

When man is cornered by something it cannot explain, it reaches into the depth of its mind, desperate for an answer. It fumbles for the right words to describe this enigma, but all it is left with is a stuttering mouth drenched with fleeting saliva. And when hope is lost, it unleashes but one sound for the world to ignore: a scream. I, Mortimer Knell, tried to scream. But I was not granted the luxury.

[awdrumlach]

There, in the corner of my eyes, I saw the the future laid out to me. But just like the tears streaming down my cheeks, it was gradually fading from view.

[awdrumlach]

Sometimes the most painful memories you have of a bad person are the ones where they made you smile.

[awdrumlach]

It all starts with a scream.

When offspring are sired into the unfortunate reality, they unleash a mighty wail that signals their presence, as well as their immediate displeasure regarding their circumstances. The screams travel through the ears of the practitioner, telling them that their efforts are not in vain. The screams bounce off the walls of the structure, telling everyone that new life has just been born. The screams echo in the attentive halls of the parents’ ears, bestowing relief. Their child is here. Their child is safe. Their child will live. For now.

As the child’s limbs grow longer and their mind becomes more developed, the form of their screams earns a similar progression. Instead of crying for attention, they release “goos” and “gahs” to show infantile affection. They perform a rhythmic repetition of the same loud sound to convey joy. They mold their screams into words, conduits of meaning and clearer communication. The child can finally hold a conversation with their parent, no matter how lacking it may be. They can finally ask for things that appeal to them, much to the parents’ dismay. They can lower the volume to be conspiratorial. They can raise their voice to make their underdeveloped and irrational opinions known. They can do so much, but realize the impact that very first scream has.

To scream for the first time is to light a candle and let it burn. Over time, the candle’s heat will keep radiating against the wax, melting it. The melted wax pools at the bottom of the candle, waiting for the moment when the wick reaches it. And when that wick draws near to the disaster of its own design, it succumbs, drowning in the pool of its previous flourishing. Screams function similarly. The moment one is unleashed, it carries through the hall, growing weaker until its energy is gone for good.

There is one difference between candles and screams, however.

You can snuff out a candle for it meets its regular demise.

But you cannot destroy a scream once it has begun.

[awdrumlach]

I sat in the chair, the one she always sat in, and reflected on all the conversations we had in this very room. The books she would always drone on about, her friend’s new bakery or even my lackluster days at work. They all seemed so distant, like her laugh echoing through these weary walls.

People constantly reminded me that as time marched on, the path to more of these conversations would grow shorter. But how would one know if infinity got smaller?

[awdrumlach]

Writing essays is one thing. You find your topic, take your stance, construct your outline, then add the meat of your argument and polish your words while writing. It was a step-by-step process that anyone with a reasonable amount of understanding could pick up. It was a simple checklist that anyone could follow to success. It was the copy-and-paste method that led him to his own youthful success. Writing a book, however, was entirely different.

When you write a book, you still find your topic and construct an outline, but the meat you have to provide becomes much larger than that of an essay. Additionally, your meat has to be seasoned. Because of the larger amount of content, your diction and syntax have to be appealing to the eyes. Otherwise, readers become bored with your stagnant structure. This also means the amount of polishing you have to do increases.

Needless to say, writing a book is a much more strenuous activity than writing an essay.

It requires much more paper.

It requires much more time.

It requires much more sanity.

It requires much more focus.

It requires much more everything.

[awdrumlach]

I don't mind my father complaining about the restaurant's decor. He had a long day at work and was reasonably tired. But I still find it odd that he chose today of all days to stab at it, considering he has been to this restaurant many times before.

I don't mind my mother taking issue with the, evidently, new waitress. She has always been an emotional woman, prone to her driven words rather than he collected mind, yet she always made sure to talk about people when they weren't there. But I still don't appreciate silently harping at a tired waitress over every little thing.

I don't mind my younger sister being buried in her phone. She has always found it difficult to connect with others, and now that she has a medium to make friends, I could not feel more relieved. But I don't understand why I had to be the focal piece to your online buddies, or why you couldn't put your phone down when I tried to talk to you.

I don't mind my younger brother distancing himself from the family to play a game. He has always been competitive by nature, and rarely did he take a break from that game for anything other than his own interests. But I cannot fathom why he had to constantly unleash diabolically-smelling gaseous clouds and glance over with that devilish grin of his.

I don't mind that my family only talked to me when it was about what I was ordering. I don't even treat this day as anything special. I've lost most enthusiasm for it and have to rely on my peers to gain that excitement. For all that it's worth, it felt warming that my family took the time out of their days to spend it with me. It felt nice.

But it also felt hollow.

I don't mind that my family treated me like I was invisible on my own birthday. I was the one who suggested we all go out to eat together, even though I'm the person who doesn't feel the need to celebrate my birthday. Even though I am not great at having conversations. I suppose I didn't want to feel alone.

I think I'll go to a birthday dinner by myself next year.

[awdrumlach]

He wandered across icy plains, admiring the simplicity. He travelled through snow-ridden forests, observing the actions of surviving wildlife. He skated across the frozen planes of water, reflecting on his new appearance. A few months ago, he had finally felt whole. Now…he feels aimless.

[awdrumlach]

You’re still young, so it’s no wonder that your mind is set the way it is. Festivals are fun. Nobody can doubt that. The laughter and music serve to emphasize that. Though, as you grow older, you’ll find that your excitement wanes. It’s still there, mind you, getting a brief smirk from watching children behave how you would have, but you will find yourself unable to act how they do. It’s more solemn, observing from a distance.

[awdrumlach]

It was only as he choked to death, surrounded by the screams of men, children, and joyous raiders, that he vowed to eliminate all who partook in this tragedy.

“The only mercy you shall be granted is the mercy of having me as your executioner.”