#narrative?

[savrenim]

.

[anteyethesis]

thoughts.

1. i dont owe *** and **** anything. i mean -- i do, but i’ve repaid that already. 2. what the fuck do i do about my parents. they are absolutely loving but absolutely insufferable. is this teenage rebellion?? or is this just growing up??? i just need agency goddammit. i need to FEEL independent. everything i do is fucking hinged on them. i cant believe they dictate the time i go to SLEEP what the fuck??

i want so badly to talk back at them but it’s goddamn useless. i want to bring up the fact that she is doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING W HER LIFE and she’s wasting her time taking care of us. can’t we come to her when we need her rather than respond to her every question?

maybe if they weren’t so paranoid or narrow minded. but my god, i dont feel any older and i am most definitely going to have to keep on manipulating my way through this as i already am.

how am i going to survive living with them. tangina i am 100% willing to get married to get the fuck away from my parents

3. im no homebody. i never realized how adventurous i actually was until now. i want to travel and explore, im naturally inquisiive and i love dwelling in knowledge. walking around foreign streets by myself sounds like a goddamn dream.

4. i never realized how old i was and how much life i have in front of me until now. seeing *** write about how she wants to grow up and stay in a nice apartment with the woman she loves, no damn about her job and all about her happiness, sounds beautiful. hearing ****** talk about how she wants to die and do it again is fucking terrifying. i’ve known these people just wanting to graduate and now we are thinking about the rest of our lives, about how we want to spend the short time we have here. 5. i need to strike a balance between my happiness and my work. i know that a huge portion of my happiness stems from working, from achieving, but how do i achieve goals that seem somewhat nearly impossible? why do i keep on setting a pedestal of greatness that may never be achieved, then just rationalize and justify everything as worth it, as i always do? 6. i cant imagine removing the things that make me happy that are beyond work. i cant imagine not being in touch with friends or stanning groups or loving fandoms. sometimes they are my only source of happiness when everything else feels too difficult.

7. what kind of person do people think i am? i used to be happy about how different i was but sometimes i get shoved back into the corner of acne-prone, awkward, goody two-shoes that i get conscious that nothing has really changed. people dont change, but i at least hoped i learned to be more confident and sure of myself.

and i am, really. im more sure of myself. i just wish had the agency to act on it.

i used to think that growing up meant a different mindset. i do have a different mindset, but i also think growing up is more about expressing myself better than i did as a teenager, where everything is shit and the world is horrible and we relegated it as that. the world isnt shit, it is what it is.

that’s one of the saddest things i’ve written in my life.

[psychoticopera]

the wicked king sits silent upon his ruined throne.

eyes wash over all his work

pillars crumble

the ground beneath begins to collapse

the subjects that once loved him have all fled in fear

except for one.

why do you stay? he asks

i don’t know. he hears in reply

i’ve destroyed everything. you were supposed to leave. he sighs

you were supposed to save yourself. he is pleading now.

i know. is all he gets back.

as silence claims the two again

a single tear drops 

as the dying king fades away

the only words left are

thank you

[smell-no-evil]

Mike is a person who values his space intensely -- a person who makes a habit of ignoring things like the advertisement he sees on his dash in the afternoon, sweating and covered in wood chippings.

This one makes his stomach drop. He checks the blog attached and feels his gut drop further, right through the floor, straight to the core of the earth. 

So like him, Mike thinks. So like who?

He can picture greeting the man, taking his hand and feeling his world shatter. Feeling that he never got to say goodbye, so at least he can say hello again. 

He can picture living with him, deep, rich cello notes beneath the earthy thump of cutting into thick wood, smoking at night, sharing stories.

So much like old times, Mike thinks again. What old times?

He imagines a life with this man that he can swear he's had before. Tremendous hands cover his face as he hunches before his battered laptop, sweating, scared. He wants so badly for Erwin Smith to be in his life, but to face Erwin Smith would be to face...something else entirely.

Mike gets up, retrieves his adze with trembling hands. He strikes at the raw log of maple in the center of his room -- not carving, but slicing, as he'd been taught, a motion so natural to him. He slashes like a man possessed, paces, presses his nose to the warm glass of the window.

Erwin Smith. An old friend. Say goodbye to him. Say hello. Say you miss him. Say you value him. Why say any of this?

He returns to the computer. He sends a message.

I'm in no condition to take roommates. But you're welcome to stay any time should you need to. My name is Mike Zacharius: I feel like I may know you.

I'm interested in meeting you.

Clumsy, weird. He hits send before he thinks about it.

[stealsfromthieves]

The Deteriorating Man

He was commanding, loyal, and loving.

Now submissive, dispassionate, and skeptical.

Every moment growing up, I wanted to be more and more like him. Only because that was the only figure I saw through tunnel vision. I was unaware of others' potential to lead until my flaws became more prominent.

He only wanted to change my flaws, not help me live with them. His love was strong but misguided like a one-way mirror where we both saw ourselves on the light side but my true self was hidden behind the other side in the darkness.

He refused to see me bloom in the dark room because he couldn't trust me. Mostly because I broke his trust.

This is what starts to break him down.

I've made him lie for me, not the kind of I'll cover for you one time lie for me. The lie that betrays it's own blood. The lie that drives guilt throughout one's mind, body, and spirit.

I broke his spirit, I no longer recognized him as a role model. He was losing power like the light bulb that flickers only during moments where it wants to shine, but getting dimmer each time.

He looks lonelier each time I see him. The light in his eyes, like the light bulb, are starting to fade. He sits alone on the couch erasing his mind with bullshit t.v. of stupid shows that prove no worth in his life. They are but a mere distraction.

I see him there without a clue of what to say. It's different between us, he and I both know it, but won't acknowledge it. If there was an elephant in the room it would be the greatest circus animal in a flamboyant costume with a goddamn mardi gras parade around it.

The last show he watches claims that only real families are the ones that are together. This upsets him and draws him closer to the screen. He sits with interest as if the reality show was his own reality. As if he felt a fucking connection of images broadcasted around the world was meant only for him.

Now he's confused what to believe, what to feel. He swings the sacred band tied by the holy golden chain as if it were a toy. Delegating within himself what it's message really means. Has he given up now? Could it be that his God is being questioned by him? What meaning of power does the man have anymore? He thinks these questions as he somberly walks back upstairs. To his wife, oh how the wife would follow in his footsteps behind his shadow and nearly in the back ground. It is he who follows the darkness leading up to the room.

Things have changed now. The wife is in control, but it's because a different god has given her more power. The green linen with many faces. Ah she's the breadwinner, and it pains him because he can't do a thing about it.

He sleeps on the couch, I know this without entering their room. There's a reason why they keep an extra set of blankets and pillows folded neatly near it.

His eyes red from pain each time I see him now. His wrinkles are slowly getting more and more visible as if the marble is starting to crack. I can nearly see his own kingdom come crumbling down. All I hope is that he will allow me to help him rebuild it. I know the fall will come, what matters is if he will get back up.

[persephonesocean-blog]

They miss their lusi. You know it. But you miss yours, too.

Not the creature of curling tentacles, so much, the more you grow in touch with Beforus.

Not the creature that held you captive in the deep waters as cool as the blood in your veins.

No.

You miss a person who's right there.

A troll just outside your reach.

Your friends, the ones who have their culler within reach, don't know how lucky they are.

They don't now the agony of a man who's forgotten you, who shows no sign of having held you through day terrors as a small one.

You remember it more every day. It's an ache in your chest you can't erase with any amount of accomplishment or exercise.

The laughter is still there, but it's not for you.

The hand raised to celebrate whatever happened in your shared existence is an action you've not seen in...

You can't count the sweeps.

You don't know anymore.

You watched him age and pass before your eyes, like your moirail, like your advisors.

This person who inspired the culling system, who showed you a troll can raise another troll safely...

Sparks has commented on his state in the past, but you think there's not a single person who remembers it more intimately than you.

He didn't even react to your Beforan self's hug the way you'd expected.

You don't imagine there's another person on the planet who knows how much it hurts to feel so 

alone.

You miss your lusus. You miss him more because he's right there. Right where you can reach out and touch him...

And it's not fair at all.

[shoolis]

Yoshi's Story

The vertical line in the word document flashed, almost impatiently, on the screen. Only two words had been written on the page: Yoshi's Story. Yoshi stared dejectedly at the screen, praying for some form of inspiration.

Without him noticing, his wife strode up behind him. "How's the novel coming?" she asked politely. Yoshi grimaced. "What the hell does it look like, Martha?" Martha took a half-step back. "I was just asking, Yoshi, you don't have to get defensive." Yoshi turned to face her, eyes red from strain. "It'll be finished when it gets finished, so back off, for God's sake!" Martha looked taken aback. "Yoshi, I know I I supported your decision when you quit your job to write, and I still do, but it's been two weeks without any progress. We're getting low on funds! My job alone can't support us forever."

Yoshi began raising his voice. "Well MAYBE if somebody wasn't barging in every five GODDAMN minutes, I would get some work done!" Tears of shock and indignation began forming. "Well," she replied shakily, but with force, "if you think I'm such a distraction, maybe I should go visit my mother for the rest of the week." "FINE!," Yoshi replied, gritting his teeth. "Go! I don't need you! This novel is going to be great! I'll show you and everyone at the office that I can create a masterpiece!" Martha stormed out of the room in tears, running to their bedroom to pack her bags. Yoshi stomped back to his desk and slammed his hands on the sturdy frame. "DAMMIT!" he yelled, to no one in particular.

Yoshi stared at the monitor, the black line flashing mockingly back. There were still only two words on the screen.

Yoshi's Story.