#invisible words

[inkedinvisible]

I am sad.

It came out of nowhere.

A bullet fired from a gun too obscure for me to see it's origins.

It usually does these days, sniper silent.

I am sad.

It hit me right in the chest

I feel it radiate down each of my ribs

Like a xylophone of sorrow

Played to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

I am sad.

A soft sad, a harsh sad, a thousand needles in my heart sad.

I feel sadness in the hollows of my eyes.

In the back of my throat.

In the place between sternum and ribcage

I feel sadness in my heart, dropping through to the bottom of my stomach.

I feel sadness in my blood.

I am sad.

At times like this it is all I know how to be. I am sadness.

I am sorrow.

I am anguish.

I am hollow.

I am so very tired.

[bookaddict24-7]

Sometimes, writing is like plucking words from the air. 

But when you’re experiencing the early stages of writer’s block, writing is like trying to pluck invisible words from the air.

[inkedinvisible]

The only thing growing up taught me is that there is no Fairy Tale more unrealistic than Beauty and the Beast. Turns out in real life saviors and gentle souls don't go out looking for enchanted castles to dig through the damage to find the royalty within.

People don't fall in love with monsters unless their visage is already beautiful, and I am still caught in my curse, petals running in short supply, no Belle of any type in sight. No hope for a Beast, broken, battered and bruised. 

Hope is as cruel as she is kind, but she's never much cared for me, doesn't like the way my breath catches when she flashes a smile, so I'm more than a little scarred from her double edged nature. 

Turns out, kids, wishes lose potency if you make too many, and there were a lot of years where I wished every night for the pain to end. 

Now my wishes have no power to get up off the ground, they just sputter out and die a sad death. 

Where does that leave me now, anyway?

I guess if hell isn't a place you go to, it must be something that lives writhing in your chest, and I'm exactly where I've always been. 

A cursed girl turned beast, too far gone to save, count down to destruction in three, two...

One last wish, sent on a deathbed whisper, 'teach me what happily ever after feels like.'

Don't need to keep it, I'm not greedy.

Just desperate to feel anything but this. 

Sad.

Alone. 

Cold. 

Twisted. 

See? I'd take a glass slipper, tower high, or spindle needle any time. Give me sea witches, wolves, or huntsmen. 

Instead I'm wasting away in a broken down and cursed castle, the Beast unredeemed.

Fairy Tales in Real Life // a.e.j.a.

[inkedinvisible]

Don't tell anyone, okay? But some days the sadness is so soft and quiet all I can do is sit with it and wish it would never end because I hate the numbness so much more than the sadness. And some days the sadness is so sharp it cuts through the heart of me and unearths the wellspring of tears I always think is dried up and then I pray for the numbness because anything is better than this. Because have you ever cried so hard it hurts, makes blood vessels rupture in your eyes and bloody your nose? Let my sadness be soft or let it be not at all.

~ a.e.j.a.

[inkedinvisible]

If I've learned anything in my lifetime of hurting and healing, breaking and rebuilding, being destroyed and salvaging all that's left to piece some semblance of yourself back into being, it's this: don't run from it. It hurts, it hurts like hell come home to live in your bones. But don't you run from it. You gain nothing and you only exhaust yourself, burying the pain only gives it more chance to grow roots, gives it a chance to smother you. Don't run from it. Look it in the eye, learn it's name and shape and smell and taste, learn how it was made, and then knowing... unmake. There's no poetry in ragged sobs that steal your breath, no romance in the graveyard of your illnesses, no beauty in your suffering. But there is still poetry on your lips, romance in your body, and you are beauty made manifest. Don't run from it. It hurts. Hurting isn't evil, it isn't the end of the world, it just hurts. But you survived the hurting, the breaking. You'll survive the healing, the rebuilding. You might always hurt. I know I always will. But pain is just part of life. Stand your ground, this is yours to fight for. So don't you run from it. You're made of the stuff of legends, Stardust and Earth, heaven and hell. You stand and you fight. That's what I've learned. Because it'll catch up to you, and it'll be hungry and you'll be tired and it will have sharp teeth and you will have a soft throat. But if you don't run, if you face it, if you do the hard work, you may be haunted and hurting but you'll really be alive. And that's so much more than just struggling to survive.

~ a.e.j.a.

[inkedinvisible]

It's a dark fucking place to be when you desperately want something that you know, in your heart of hearts, is romantic drivel and fluff that has no place in your life, in your world, cause nothing ever works out that way, and good doesn't prevail and you're not even the hero in your own fucking story because hell, you can't even figure out the goddamn plot. So you sit in the darkness, with the pain, and the wanting, and you let it eat at your heart until it's raw and aching, and you go frostbite cold at the edges like you'll die or forget what warmth ever felt like. And I'm not even mad at it, or sad about it, I'm just fucking tired of living in a world that loves to tell me I am not enough, never have been, never will be. I am Manic Pixie Dream Girl or I am Psycho Ex Girlfriend or I am mess of symptoms no one wants to make eye contact with. I am not breath caught in your lungs beautiful, I am not burned into your mind brilliant, I am not caught in your sight and stuck in your mind, I do not linger in the air or on your skin or in your mind, I am a dissipating fog. I am not the girl in the story, I am just the one night stand fantasy for the sad and the lonely because I chose to let my pain make me soft, make me kind, I give pieces of myself away to people who want to drain me of my life, I am little sister, best friend, fellow warrior. I am emergency first aid to hemorrhaging heartbreak and devastation. I am 5AM phone call when he's drunk or she's sad, I am last one you invite, the almost forgotten guest, the "oh, that's right... how is she?" girl in the middle of a conversation that doesn't even use my full name. There was a time I thought dreams meant fulfillment and wishes should be made at 11:11, falling stars and eyelashes. There was a time I thought even broken mirrors still could reflect a happy ending, not just be bad luck. There was a time I didn't beg myself not to want, because wanting is wishing is hoping is hurting is open chest vulnerability. That was a long time ago and I am so fucking tired of living in the dark.

~a.e.j.a.

[inkedinvisible]

In myth and legend there exists a million stories lost to time, a thousand voices silenced and, hundreds of names forgotten. I am such a story. You know, do you not, of ancient wars fought with ancient weapons? Of gods descended to the mortal realm to wade among the dead? Do you know how they cross the borders humans have drawn on the land, how Hades walked side by side with Hel, how Anubis and Izanami would gaze out upon the dead? Do you know Azrael and Erlik would sit together and lament? Do you know that of all their progeny, their scions and their workers, I was alone in my duties to cross the borders of birth and land, I knew each life, each psychopomp, each death god who would attend upon you? The mortal world knew not of me, so they had no name to call me, not knowingly. But I was called Asra, once. In a language that became Arabic, it would mean to travel at night, and that was what I did. I traveled to the night realms, of all gods, of all peoples. Asra, my lords and ladies called me, or Amaya, sometimes they called me in the East for the Night Rain, Noctis in the West. I was a title, more than a name. Born from the battlefield as blood mixed from far flung lands, as night fell and bodies cooled, I sprang forth from the Earth who craved all her children find their way to home and hearth in the night lands. And Hel kissed my cheek, and Hades and Persephone bid me rest offering me honey and pomegranates, Anubis and Osiris gave me welcome, Izanami put flowers in my hair, Azrael gave me feathers from the wings of angels, and all the many gods and demons from every death, sanctuary and hellscape did open their arms to me, and I was much welcome. For I would know all the peoples in all the lands, and I was who would make sure no soul was left forgotten nor lost amid the ether, in the space between. I am the wanderer, the traveler, the wisp. I know the blood that runs in your veins, the history of your life, I know which gods dwell in your hearts, and which were those of your many eras gone family. When you die, you creatures of mix and myth, I am at your side, and I sing down your psychopomps, and I make your way ready to your gods. I walk you to the night realms, I carry you forth to the beyond. I have no shrines, no followers, no worshipers. I am unknown to you. But you, O children of life and such limited time, you are known to me. I am the night journey, the last you’ll ever take. They call me Asra.

A Story I’ll Never Write // ~ a.e.j.a

[mastertimothyreturns]

A canvas vast, on each we stand, A story etched by life's own hand. In lines and curves, a whispered rhyme, A verse unique, for all of time.

But not all eyes can see the whole, The hidden depths that fill the soul. Some skim the surface, miss the grace, Of freckles dancing, laugh lines embrace.

So let your heart be open wide, To read the stories that reside. In every wrinkle, every scar, A strength unfolds, who truly are.