confessions for the thin air

[dieuntergehendesonne]

heya!! i have been a tumblr lurker for ages, however this is my first time trying to run a blog here. since i was a kid, my world has been full of art, however, only recently i have started to seriously consider dabbling in my own, and this feels like a good place to start. to me, this is a last resort as well as perhaps a foolish hope for a start of something new. i have a telegram channel already, but my lovely friends have encouraged me to start posting my fragmented pieces of diarist prose poetry somewhere where it can reach a wider audience. i intend to share a piece of what i have so far written day by day until i run out, and then write some more. i pray that someone sees this and can resonate enough to perhaps consider following the progress of my admittedly still very amateur work, and am desperate to hear some response. thank you all for having me, wherever it might lead.⭐️

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“For as long as I can remember, I have always bit my nails. Being a nervous child I was perhaps prone to odd, nasty quirks. It’s something no slap on the wrist would ever help, I kept gnawing and chewing when nobody saw until plump morsels of meat from my fingertips popped under my teeth and my cuticles stung raw. To this day my nails grow crooked. I couldn’t tell you why I did it. I was a very good kid; I studied well and went to bed on time—but I always bit my nails. I maybe did it on purpose, for someone to shout when they caught me. I was maybe bored sitting in class. But could you really blame me, when I was such a good kid? I must confess that it wasn’t my only fault. Being the restless child I was, I have always picked my skin. And I always hunched my back, and I always swung my feet, and I always played with food, and I always pulled my hair, and I always flinched at noise, and I always nipped my lip. I couldn’t tell you why I did it. But I clenched my little fists so tight that my knuckles cracked and my tendons spasmed. Shuffling on my tiptoes, I would say I didn’t mean to. It was upsetting to the adults, because I was such a good kid. Other children didn’t like me much. The things I told unsettled them. It scared teachers and doctors—I had no reason to be troubled. So I did it all in secret, to not make anyone frown. I understood it was strange to do, and that something must’ve been wrong. Though, nothing wrong ever happened. Maybe I forgot. I must’ve forgotten. It bothers me. Why did I bite my nails?”

—S.K.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“turn out the lights and dance, against the laws of thermodynamics, sweat out the decadence of human inheritance, like it is your very last chance to bare your teeth to the wind and declare, that you want to keep squinting, with your hands up in the air, face forever a grinning grimace. saying: carry me to where the sea is, because, by god, i will see it this summer, and i will not sleep a blink, before i feel the sand fall from my insoles, for it is my hard earned right, to witness every grain, and love it as my own.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

CHAT VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!!! i just sent 3 polished pieces to my first literary magazine. it’s not a horribly big step, and i will continue looking for open submissions, obviously. i don’t even know if anyone will accept. but this feels huge, and the blog i run on this app has been immensely encouraging to me. thank you to those who continue to follow my slow but steady progress. much love.⭐️

S.K.Kosyakova--'Confessions for the Thin Air' submission material

Confessions for the Thin Air S.K.Kosyakova On the Use of Feeling Blue (~140 words) I weep for the mangled cat on the side of the road. It

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“predictable outcomes are so fascinating in how tantalizing they often are. there’s juvenile wonder in watching a rubber band snap back, gawk at the sun long enough to cause permanent nerve damage. sparks fly in behold of steadfast mirage—electrical impulse to pick at the scab. chimerical boils of chrome fat and tallow, treat them like putty, it’s only numerical. to photopsia shocks with your third eye wide shut, worked into a frenzy by sweltering ardour.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“i met a girl with a fly tattoo in the crook of her left elbow. a memento mori, she said. clever, so clever—except she is no royal painting. sneak a squeeze of ichor in her favorite recipe. a hint of natural musk for a sophisticated brew. her precious knitted sweater was a navy blue. she’d argue with the idiots who said it was pure gray. she’s the artist, it’s what her apparition for today is. a delicate soul hears how muted colors whisper to make up for short sight and lacking height. endure her shrieking laughter when she makes a pun about her major in tautology. brags that her name translates to forger of wisdom, though in practice it’s synonymous with bad decision. stuffs her drawers full of gauze and paracetamol; but a pretty box for pills doesn’t make them go down smoother, and choking on vitamins doesn’t help her deficiency. it’s a backhanded gesture if she says she really gets you—equivalent to excommunication, on the off-chance that she means it. she has no enemies, the angel, so there’s nobody to sleep with. can’t convince her to be frank; it’s worth a try to instead catch a glimpse of the secrets she hides in the lace of her underwear. only you might have to wait a while, she’s a master of building anticipation. swindling attempts will not be solemnized by clergy.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“i have been wallowing in thought regarding family business. please don’t ask if things are fine at home. they are. but my siblings don’t want me to read them bedtime stories anymore, and my mother mentions that i should maybe try living on my own. i was growing tired of re-learning the route back each night anyway. i still collect chestnuts on the walks i take to put in my pocket, just to have something round and smooth to hold onto. shiny things distract me. i am starting to forget what is was about people that tethered me. i could never bear a child, let alone raise one. the idea that this abomination feeding from the fumes i run on could propagate in a gushing womb—a part of me out of my control fumbling amok—seems terrifying. for the sake of public safety i make myself uninhabitable. it would have the murky eyes of a dead fish. i am not cruel enough to give a creature with eyes like that the right to be born. i wouldn’t love it. i wouldn’t love it like i don’t love the ballroom guests waltzing in and out of my tunnel-vision. i wouldn’t love what is mine and i wouldn’t love what isn’t. i am sorry to everyone who has to bear my child.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“a self-absorbed fool tumbles down the path of least resistance—«anyone but me! i’m not it, you can’t make me!»—he cries out to the world with each riffle. despite the distance he travels, he ends up right back where he started uphill, looking down at the barren meadow through a green lens. his mailbox was packed with letters from loved ones expressing their profoundest concerns when he strayed from home to embark on his journey. it left him quite unimpressed. for where he stands now lies the freedom to shed secular dread. no more missed calls or unanswered messages, in those he’s too often addressed as child or imbecile. no more guessing what jacket suits best. he’ll walk and talk and get pink-eye just the way he wants to. but he’d only ever taken up impractical pastimes before in his waste of alacrity. he wouldn’t know what to make of this. in the end it’s desire for a lack of desire, not immolation or even twisted vengeance on others. such a trim perfect naught he could be.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“here’s a riddle for fellow pens-men—what kind of poet despises their craft? one who’s ashamed of why they decided to humor it once. run out of half-meaningful matters to yowl about? tough luck. if domestic days and hectic nights make you look like a giddy coke-head from that side of the bus, then you’re back on the road to enlightenment. remember that salvation is a radicalist concept, and nobody is immune to propaganda. ripping the dead ends of fried hair strands from a buzzing scalp, hear that god awful sound bubble up in your throat, the thick gurgle of copper shaking forced silence.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“lately i’ve been writing like i’m running out of time, and perhaps that is because i am. so much unnecessary fuss to describe a simple absence. this can’t be my legacy. there has to be more to this. wind and unwind the springs of unfamiliar mechanisms. i’m a spiral; i’m spiraling, stretching, coiling. touch the live wire, that’s the only way to know me. i’ll do anything but admit that i’m sad.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“hands grasp at my sleeve—rubber-gloved hands, callous hands, gentle hands, hands with their nails yellowed and chewed, hands with their nails unevenly painted a deep red. they grasp at my sleeve, poke and prod, count up the fading silver lines on my wrists. there are no wounds to dress just as there is nothing to look forward to. does she maybe just need a person to talk to? things aren’t amiss. flew under the radar, i’ve dug out a damn good spot to burrow in. how naive is it to insist that i see no point in whatever they offer? shouldn’t honestly be rewarded when i say i find it mediocre? you will have to excuse my spitting indifference, i’m not sure if i meant to offend. call me a spineless coward turned recluse exhibitionist. all of king’s horses and all of king’s men couldn’t figure out what the deal with me is. all i’ve ever wanted to hear is that there is no fixing this.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“candle-lit evenings bring a fragile peace—this must be what it means to live nicely. i still spend most of my days sick in bed or playing hooky, always the first one to withdraw early. pull on a pair of ornate woolen socks to combat the morning chill, but my tea’s gone cold as i stalled. what was it that i had to do today? i can do anything i put my mind to, always the late one to, either way. well, i’ll lose a few pounds just to gain them back, put together an outfit i will never wear. should i read a while? should i sleep a while? can’t think of what comes after i clean my room. neither happiness nor unhappiness slowly grows into compulsive idleness.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

i am so glad I stumbled upon your blog. Scrolling through it feels like a lucky day in a thrift store when I keep finding all the books I've been looking for. I love your style, and have been thinking of trying something similar. Would you give any tips for someone trying to get into this kind of writing?

oh my goodness!! any day on which my work reaches somebody even a little bit is a lucky day for me too. thank you for making the decision to stop by. what you write is so lovely as well, even if there isn’t much of it on this platform yet. it has a soothing cadence, in my opinion.⭐️ as for tips, i’m afraid to say that i largely have no idea what i’m doing. i write in the way i feel like writing. but i suppose the main point for more of a “sprawl-of-consciousness” approach would be to latch onto a thought and form your piece around it like a snowball rolling downhill until it feels right. most of what i post is done on the spot to not lose the abstract idea, unless something is very clearly wrong and i just know there’s no way it could work so i have to sit on it for a while longer. something else i noticed is that rhythm is times more important than rhyme, you can take liberties, that way form mirrors content. think bukowski, it makes for a raw, honest but also sort of panicky sound. a spoken, breathless quality, i guess??? just my work usually has a more baroque inclination. and i look not only to authors but musical lyricists for inspiration as well(might i mention amanda palmer yet again good god i’m a whore for that woman just so you know exactly who i steal from), it helps shape the tune. the devices i use are mostly intuitive, but i happen to think that liturgical repetition and word-play are really fun. either way, i believe that the best poetry is senseless, and should be born from your own inner world, so your experiences flow into not just your words, but your style. i hope that wasn’t a whole lot of nothing and it actually tells you something haha. thank you again for being here, i really appreciate it.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“all my favorite clothes are hand-me-downs, somehow they sit just right on me. wearing my mother’s sagging suit, fiddling with my father’s broken camera, i come up with countless roundabout ways to say what has been proven as an axiom centuries before me. it’s adding fuel to the flame of genetical predisposition—a patchwork of stolen meta-ironic pelt, borrowed from the hind of the latest victims of keen awareness. go window-shopping for a spanking new set of flashy values to try on; can’t blame me for eccentric fashion, i was raised poor. wouldn’t i look so good wrapped in fur and a mourning veil to go?”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“the issue with living under the barrel of a gun is that by narrative rule it must always eventually go off. the direction of point or the vitality of injury is largely trivial to what one might see in the splatter. study of anatomy was invented to practice dissection with a clear conscience—hospitals shelter patients out of fondness for decrepitude. forensics is a noble pursuit for those eager to mar their hands flyblown. set up a home lab to check the pulse of severed wrists and necks attached to heads sealed in jars; the deceased hardly care what is done with their requiem. is that lump a bother? inflammation is abnormal. be your own surgeon, a health assessment is in order. recite a verse, count back from ten. a lead lobotomy connects at last, no heart or brains come oozing out, just a vortex on the forehead—the skull is an empty pandora’s box. how’s that for a hole allegory?”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“love is supposed to be hiding amongst the littler things. in fine china, in apples and spices, in bittersweet black tea that i’d once negligently said you carried the flavor of in your mouth. i’ve read so much about it that i almost tricked myself into believing that i was full to the brim with it, and through it i could’ve lived a life, or better yet a thousand and one. to be the hopeless man hanging over a balcony railing. to be the nameless woman fixing her high stocking. to be the blameless child raised by a pack of wolves. but what’s the use in eating if it’ll taste no good? what’s the use in seeking warmth from a cadaver gone cold? my face falls out of place again, without it i’m stark naked. stood half-bare in front of the mirror too long, seeing how my lip swells, seeing how my hip juts, wrenching on my person-suit. aren’t i just the doll? can’t fit back into my old skin today, so i take to it with a hunting knife, leave it strung up, feel dull as a tattered old coat set out to dry. what a messy job of a field dressing.”

—s.k.

[dieuntergehendesonne]

“a young girl tragically passed on the dreary night of her sixteenth birthday some long year or two ago. her body was found in a ditch near the riverbank, throat sliced wide open, no signs of struggle to speak of, dressed in her sunday best. that’s how i wish the story would go, it would have done me a great favor to not have to sit at my desk now, attempting to write a eulogy with not a single word of praise to sing, trying to discern what invisible forces placed the jagged shard of glass, broken off from a bottle of white dry wine—which she hated, but kept guzzling anyway—in her trembling palm, and what red strings of fate tugged on her hand to toss it away far enough out of reach, and dragged her wobbling feet to stagger back home to a family that didn’t yet know to mourn. i bet she could tell you with perfect clarity what was so wrong then, but my brains are all mush lately, and it doesn’t seem to matter one bit anymore the source of this trouble, only that it doesn’t feel justified, and solace is a sore scab in an unfortunately placed spot that itches to be scratched raw. on my eighteenth birthday i’d be inclined to rather croak of boredom.”

—s.k.