Cinq Heures

25yo amateur writer - Non-native EN - Criticize and correct me !

[cinqheures]

Requited

The lingering touches of our greetings, the sustained silences of our conversations, the steady meeting of our eyes are all of a comfort invited, but, will the sweet regret of our farewells, the delicate dance of our messages, the persistent yearning in our loneliness, ever be love requited ?

[cinqheures]

Red light, green light

I have always associated the term “idling” to the hum of the expectant engine. A state of waiting and readiness. Pistons in a synchronized dance of pressure and release, a dance that only changes in tempo and never in step. A well oiled machine, a trusted mechanism, with predictable inputs and outputs. Mechanisms, inputs, outputs. Concepts that I found peculiar to link to the way our mind works, but that ultimately took meaning in my life. If the idle engine runs waiting to take you somewhere, why does the idle mind take you where you do not wish to be ?

[cinqheures]

Hello folks

Earlier today, I posted the first bit of writing I've done in years. It is a long way off of the silly little stories I used to write for my friends back in my late teens, but tries to be more genuine with my feelings.

I don't think myself as any good of a writer, but I take pleasure in the task of writing in a language that's not my main one.

I've set myself the goal to post anything and everything I write, down to the worst bit of poetry that mankind has ever seen ! I hope you'll enjoy it, and if not, I hope you'll take some time to tell me what you think.

Thank you !

[cinqheures]

Intrusive

Intrusive : adjective. “Causing disruption or annoyance through being unwelcome or uninvited.”

My intrusive thoughts, the ones that matter the most and in turn, the ones that matter the least, are all of perceived self-worth, pessimistic future and of a regrettable past. Thoughts sneaking through the back window of a sixth floor two-room apartment, thoughts smashing a raised portcullis. Thoughts that shake up a moment of turmoil, thoughts that darken a winter night. Always at the most appropriate of times, in the most expected of manners. Thoughts always familiar, and yet always new.