Like Synesthesia: Take My Hand

The colorful considerations of an empath with a love of writing, and a wish to reach out of the turmoil in my head and touch someone else's heart.

[whisperedwavywords]

Today a friend told me: “Thank you for being a good influence.”

I had pushed a promise his way, slid it across the table that is the two electronic points by which we are tethered, and gave him a path to meditation that I too am following.

It’s a promise – not that you asked – to mediate daily, each month, listen to a soft, steady voice guide you through the art of breathing and grounding yourself in the here and now.

But… you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You wouldn’t know much about me, if someone asked.

You used to know so much, and you do know so much, about Who I used To be

You haven’t seen me since I started following the “2” in my age with a “3”

You haven’t seen me since I stopped responding to “she”

You haven’t seen me since I cut my hair short, you haven’t seen the parts of my upper back and shoulders always hidden by long strands of hair tied back and away from me I wear it down more often now because it is not in the way

You haven’t seen my cat since she got a new, blue collar, and you haven’t seen my office, filled with sunlight, trimmed with glittering lights and happy small plants who turn to me for nurturing

You haven’t seen me since my eyes became sharper, since my smile started widening, since the clouds receded from my mind and I could feel again.

You haven’t seen me in months that ache like years, blurred together, fluttering past like leaves

But you’ve been gone for much longer.

You pulled away, trying desperately to let our connection wither and only succeeding in pulling pain, tearing the tether, and sending us both seething to crash against one another without warning

You tried to disappear in embers and words like the smoke that used to pour out of your lips from the open window of a car behind a grin that told me “I’m leaving to try to die”

That car is dead now. Totaled, in a wreck that was your fault.

Your new one lets you get away with more, faster.

Your new one still fucking smelled like smoke when I last sat in it. I hope it doesn’t anymore.

The last I saw you, you hugged me goodbye without looking me in the eyes. You were hurt, and had chosen to keep us up into the night with your pain and your suffering and I had told you I couldn’t take this anymore. I couldn’t take your crying, your clawing at my soul while confiding in hopes for a crutch, I couldn’t keep catching you while you flung yourself off bridges hoping to be coddled Or to die.

I thought that was the beginning of regrowth But you poured acid on the roots Killed it before it began And hoped I would walk away when nothing bloomed.

I hope you’re happy. I mean that in both senses of the phrase.

I hope you find the joy you were seeking in this. In leaving. In finally finding the fucking words to say you wanted out. I’m proud that you tried. But don’t think I didn’t notice that it wasn’t your words that did it.

It was my strength that called the meeting, it was his ipecac question that forced your choking, vomited “No,” and your empty apologies from your smokeless lips

“That’s all that needs to be said. Whatever reasons you have for not wanting to be friends anymore… keep ‘em to yourself.”

His response was perfect. It was calm, but cutting. I went for soft and stunned, saved the searing anger for myself.

It still burns, though the salve of time is beginning to finally soothe the wound.

Fuck you, though.

Fuck you, and I mean that in only one sense of the phrase.

Fuck your list of grievances, of gross oversights, mistakes, wounds we have apparently inflicted. Fuck your silence. Fuck your decision that saying nothing and trying to tear away was the right thing to do. Fuck you for thinking that our friendship meant so little that you could just ignore us until it crumbled away.

Fuck you for forcing my hand to hold the shattered pieces of your heart that pierced my palms with your misdirected anger and suicidality.

Fuck you for the times I held you as you screamed and shook beside me and you wished your body would shake apart so you could be still, and quiet, and cease to be.

Fuck you for the laughter we shared on field trips to see canyons, for the concerned looks you gave me when I tried to take risks to ensure injury

Fuck you for the times you stayed and saw sunrises on school days, soaked in sweat and sweet tea in my backseat, sitting shoulder to shoulder and dying to try to leave. Try to get in the car and leave. Try to leave and leave and leave, together.

Fuck you for the fear of train tracks and the singing sense of forest fires.

Fuck you for the world we built with our bare hands for the characters we created together for the stories we told and the stories we made, for the art we created for the words we wrote, fuck you for hazel eyes and sun soaked faces, for naps and hugs, for the soft sounds of breathing together as we all slept away our sadness in sync

Fuck you for these memories that fall like broken glass across my hands, that mean nothing now, that only hurt and hurt and hurt.

But… you wouldn’t know about that, would you?

You haven’t known what I felt for months. You haven’t pretended to care what I felt for months.

You’ve been leaving for months.

Coward.

I want to say I learned something from you. From this. Something to make these jagged memories mean something.

But all I’ve learned is that sometimes you can give everything you have to someone and they can take and take and take and then leave you when you will give no more. Leave you with questions you don’t want answered. Leave you with the threat that you’ve done something horribly, irreparably wrong despite disappearing for months. Imply that you have been hurting them for too long to count, that you’ve been cruel and that you're to blame for their silence.

What a shitty lesson, friend.

I guess that’s not your nickname anymore.

But he was right. Whatever reasons you had, keep 'em to yourself.

In parting I can at least take sick satisfaction that we’ve left you trapped with the silence that rotted our relationship.

I’m not to blame for this, friend, and you’ll never make me feel like I am.

[whisperedwavywords]

There isn't much to say, is there? We found you in the space of a place where music drifted feather soft along tendrils of smoke kissing your lips A rueful grin and you snuffed the cigarette in a tray in tune with a clinking glass I didn't count how many At least eight maybe ten glowing coal snake bites grinning up at me in a crystal basin of soot black sins, screaming Repent. My stomach twisted up into my throat and rage bubbled high as I forced a gnarled smile out of twisted tree trunk flesh, hardened from the smell "Cavalry's here. We're here to take this one home." The bartender winked at us as we left. I spat the word out in bile between us. "Keys." You looked, paused, sloshed through your swimming skull for the memory, and I walked. Hand held low, behind me. I couldn't look you in the eyes. Finally you pressed a stalk of a wry dry smile into my palm and I pointed to her and turned. Maybe I am Losing my touch She was sympathy and I was I was Ablaze. Cool blue fire pooled deep in the hole where my stomach once sat as it rose in my throat too high in the air in a car that was not mine. It sank back into the flames when you refused to hug me back. "Don't be mad at him for at least a couple days." "I'm sworn to secrecy." "He's going to come over tomorrow to talk about it." If You Can't tell me then Then Then Did I? The brand is yet hot against my mind, the tale not yet finished its sear into my soul But I am shaking. I am shaking. I am afraid. Your presence drips from jagged pieces of memories around me and the flame burns low in my belly So I sang to drown the sound of skittering pebbles down the side of my skull.

[whisperedwavywords]

Drum your thumbs along my head and block out the edges of the world in deep bass bursts beneath my skull

They’re tinged with treble now, don’t worry.

A dangerous slipping statement

“My presence comes with consequences.” “I’m prepared for any consequences when it comes to Tarryn.”

A dark laugh and a High pitched whirring in my head punctuated my “That’s a dangerous statement.” “Is it?”

Is it? Is it? Is it?

I’ve caught that I hope you know. That echoed turn of a phrase that all too often highlights a small chink in my armor. Step back, forced evaluation.

“Yes.”

Shrug.

“I’m ready for it.”

Would that I could will away your dreamscape tale of a javelin through your chest to the tune of my turned face at the far end of a tunnel. Would that I could trust myself to echo your conviction and belief in me

“What does your fortune say?”

A harsh crinkle. A sweet snap.

“Don’t let the past and useless details choke your life.”

“…wow. That’s a good one for Tarryn.”

It is. I swallowed my screaming gear thoughts with lo mein.

—

A moment hangs high, suspended in an ochre amber drop from the ceiling fan

Time oozes by My head is silent For now

This I can hold This quick-drawn breathing, this exhausted “I don’t know how to tell people how to help me,” This I can hold in cupped scarred fingertips because this is feather light.

The weights on my shoulders dig deep, but yours is not one of them.

Yours is a smooth pebble, carved carefully with what I can only assume is a caring hand.

Yours is a story yet being written into my soul

Yours is covered in tentative trails of

“I don’t ever want to do something like that to you.” “I was going to tickle you, but I remembered you don’t like that.” “I figured you might not like that nickname, and I didn't want to call you something you didn’t like.” “I’m glad you told me. That explains a lot, actually.”

Soft signals of safety that in no amount of thanks could I convey their importance

Yes, this I can hold. But know a pebble is capable of causing an avalanche And, quiet wanderer, I fear it won’t be me who lies dead at the bottom.

[whisperedwavywords]

It’s a romantic kind of night. A night swept by in ceiling fan blades as wide open windows whisper wind caresses across your skin A night where nearby cars crunch concrete in soothing repetition, cacophonies of crickets carve chords into the air A night punctuated by past pain yet protectively padded in the present A night where the world flows by like lava from afar Beautiful Entrancing Dangerous.

Nights like these ooze sleepy admissions From starry eyes and unguarded wishes Moments suspended in molasses As time drips slowly on

Sighs mix with lullabies and laced fingers from evaporated echoes long since died away Soft smiles swim slowly across scars and kiss salve into their stinging A night where moonlit-made bad decisions wash into the waves of wind A night in which it is possible to simply Exist.

It’s a romantic kind of night A seductive kind of night A night to fall madly in love With being Alive.

[whisperedwavywords]

There is something Romantic about Someone sulking out a window, Quietly pining. It conjures imagery of brooding heroes And young maidens Clothed in long linens Clutching concerns in soaked handkerchiefs and words left unspoken. But you are no hero And I am no maiden You need to close your book and move on.

[whisperedwavywords]

Sometimes a thought will Echo back to me in my head in Your Voice

Because I can still construct Your Voice out of whispers Out of syllables of ragged sobs from raw throats Out of seconds that used to drag like hours Out of darkness and faded orange light pattering on a windshield no longer mine

And it makes my smile wilt at the edges

That wound you left is still sore and Though no longer festering it Makes Your Voice in all its forms grate Just so Just so Just slightly against the Scar

That echo is not Your Voice because Your Voice is something foreign now So my Your Voice and your Your Voice no longer align They haven’t for some time

And though that fact turns my stomach with wilted petals I hope you’re happy I hope you’re happy I fucking hope you’re happy

Because I was Until Your Voice echoed Back To Me.

[whisperedwavywords]

A Farewell

I plunged my hands into my chest, like shattering the glassy surface of a pond

Wrapped my fingers around my heart and squeezed

Not to break it but to feel it ooze like thick wet clay through the open spaces that tie my hands together

Wring out the feelings that well in my chest and claw into my hands

Rinse it clean

Spread the urgency, the need to move, the desire to drive, the breathless sourceless laughter, the harsh grin, the blade of my tongue, spread it up and out and mold it

It belongs everywhere, not trapped in here

Carve another statue, plug the scars and smooth them out with hands that cannot stop moving, but you will not fire me brittle.

You wanted a reaction. You wanted to pull me apart and you wanted me to pour my pieces at your feet and beg for your glue, beg to indebt myself to you, force a concrete attachment for you to suction my life and make it your own.

Foolish.

You’re too late.

I already shattered, and I melted myself down, and I am remolding myself. Something you wish desperately you could do. Good.

Look at me and know your thumbprints form dents, not cracks. Know I can smooth them back over. You, fragile, angry soul, may have dented me but you are the one who has broken.

Don’t think I wasn’t angry. Don’t think I’m not angry. You found weak points and pried at them, forced them open, released pressure from the molten magma filling my chest and trying to cool -- do you know what came forth?

Piano wire puppet strings.

My no-longer-commander will tell you how well I wielded them years ago. How well my words can wind torment in tiers around a tear-stained throat and tighten past the point of breath. How deftly I could pull forth armies for protection. With a flick of my fingers I could force fear and degradation down someone’s soul. Ah yes, there is pleasure in power, pleasure in pain, and you had queued the strings around my fingers, a cat’s cradle snake’s nest of venom, ready to strike.

But

Magma cools so rapidly, you know. And as I solidified I saw the stains on my strings and I released their tension. You’re not worth it. You’re not worth sullying my hands again.

The strings are hung, my words written, not sneered, my pain quelled for now, steam vents placed to release the pressure.

No, you will not break me. You’re too late.

I will keep spinning creation from fingers that once destroyed. I am made of wet clay. I pulled myself from the ground, and I am art.

You? You’re dismissed, little worm. You will not bring me down to wallow in your tear-filled mud. Goodbye.

[whisperedwavywords]

I was her knight.

[whisperedwavywords]

It’s the kind of day that makes all your scars ache at once.

[whisperedwavywords]

“Can we just hang out all the time? You’re really fun.”

I don’t know who you are Lonely drifter, Aimless wandering soul

Face pressed into a pillow across a line drawn in the cushioned space beneath us

But there’s something whirring in your mind I can’t yet place, (Though I can’t say I don’t have a guess) There’s something spinning beneath your icy eyes, hidden beneath a pane of glass, And it murmurs into the air in the spaces between words.

It’s a curiosity, imploring to know more, Raise the curtain, show me who you are A silent request Silenced further with my grin

No, not yet.

Though this comforting chaos feels familiar, I know better I know better. I should at least, know better.

This is pockmarked with guilt and shame This is reminiscent of a former mistake This is tentative, angry, upset, sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry to everyone I hurt in the aftermath of that destruction

This is me. For now.

I have my panes of glass too, though they don’t rest on my face bridged between my eyes.

I have invisible walls hiding yet more invisible scars I have sticky remorse that fills my throat, that will not go down though I swallow, I have scrapes and stitches and when you inadvertently brush them with your words-- “Your hands are really cold!” “You’re easy to mess with.”

The pain that shoots through my chest reminds me I am not yet healed, Tells me I am yet broken, Shows the cracks in my armor, dredges apologies all around like sap, And the remaining rot in my root-filled chest blossoms into burning on my tongue

New soul, I have erred before. New soul, I am trying desperately to learn from my mistakes. New soul, I want more than anything to simply accept this offered olive branch, plant a new friendship in my garden, and enjoy that I enjoy your company.

But new soul, I am farther away than you know. But I know you can see it. Your glass panes shine with the reflections from mine.

[whisperedwavywords]

There is venom in this, unintentional and unbidden, but present It froths forth foam from a wound not yet healed Press it and pus flows out.

It was better than I thought. I was able to maintain my mood, I did not falter I thought perhaps I had overcome the anger but the Blood and Pus under my nails Smeared across my face and shoulders, Raking nails along my shoulders, back, belly Reminded me that what was, no longer is, What will be, will not be what it was, And like a kind man with light eyes told me in a room whose speckled view of a tree I have carved intricately into my brain,

“It’s a loss.”It’s a loss. This will scar, when it heals. And I will heal. But don’t you think for even a single damn moment that you will not be a scar.

[whisperedwavywords]

“Can I see?”

Yes. I’d wanted you to look since I’d stopped scratching symbols into my hands at the end of class I’d left my hands idly on the table, wondering if you’d notice

He did, of course, and Rightly Did not want to engage in More of my gleeful self-flagellation But you took my hands in feather-light fingertips, Rolled them over, eyes scanning slowly, Following each frozen flame licking into my fingertips Words dripping red, ripping scars into my wrists A cigarette butt burning one finger, a list of four words we’d carved into tables and trees tore the others, Hollow syllables fell into the fire, stolen from a song we couldn’t stop singing, And pills, pills, pills

Your lips slid down into a deeper frown as your Concentration warped to concern I believe when you finally, gently returned My hands A soft “no,” followed my fingertips, and disappeared

I couldn’t look at your eyes. I very rarely can. But I could feel the crawling of a blooming bruise of panic under your skin

And soon thereafter there were thousands of frantic letters filling your arms, buzzing across my vision, bile brimming in my throat alongside regret and hissing reprimands that I was a bad example and if I closed my eyes and opened them Could I Could I “Can I

See?”

Take a breath

Yes, I’d wanted you to look since I delicately hung this small crystal world against a soft beige wall that ached for color

She did, of course, and Rightly Guess the stone inside to be More of my amethyst, a stone of emotional stability.

I took a plant in feather-light fingertips Rolled it over, explained its care slowly, Following its tendrils as they pressed against my fingertips, Ends dripping water, running clear across my wrists, Its form filling four fingers, dried flowers and soft moss sat against the others, Gentle notes floated forward from new songs that I now love singing, And here, here, here

Her eyes slid wide as her Question turned to awe, And when I finally finished, she returned A smile And a “Nice!”, followed by an “I love that idea,” floated by and Disappeared I could smile back And did And I could feel the blooming burst of pride in my chest And soon thereafter there were a dozen silver-green plants filling my desk, decorating my space, butterflies bringing color to the world around me alongside crystals and shells, reminders that the world is beautiful and I am alive and if I closed my eyes and opened them I could Can Fill the ashes filling my once flaming hands with New Trees.

[whisperedwavywords]

“I think I I could use a little break, But today was a good day.”

There’s a soul sleeping soundly in a bed beyond a three foot gap (maybe more, maybe less I am bad at math).

I can feel the impending pull of leaving and the quelled desire to grasp tighter to that soul I can’t hold in this place

Nothing here is mine to hook an anchor round regardless

There’s something silently soothing about a slumbering soul

Sleeping nearby says to me I’m safe, here I feel safe, here I feel safe, with you, here

And inspires a passion to protect.

I am always the knight It is a duty I carry with honor With regret With resentment With pride

In protecting, I have pressed my lips to many foreheads, slipped strands of hair through the smooth spaces between my fingers in combing comfort for me and my charges alike

I have stood guard in empty rooms Held heads in my lap Against my shoulder Against my chest

But many times Like tonight I merely sat nearby And protected unconsciousness with consciousness.

Few have asked me for this service and fewer still know they have received it but Rest assured that many have, if they have found rest in my presence

For I give my love (perhaps too) freely.

There is a longing and a loneliness mixed into this protection There is a small scar of desire slashed across my heart – desire for those whose dreams I guard so steadfastly to return my service with their smiles or Their presence

But slumbering soul, tonight I will slip to sleep on my side of this gap

Because tonight I look back on today

And today was measured in your transparent lime greens and pale reds, tinged with periwinkle

In your grins, soft chuckles, loud laughter, and wide eyes

In long trails of your smooth (lightly cracked) voice swirling high in the city air with mine and my cousin’s, or dragging low and contemplative after a weighty performance

In a new feeling of comfort, knowing that dressing no longer pauses a conversation, but does not make either of us feel unsafe

In your forgiving smile when my family draws apologies from my lips

In warm smiles, fond memories, and a “goodnight” before rolling over across this three foot gap

In adventures In purchases In sarcasm In learning In friendship In family

In pictures In which I am laughing

So I will sleep too, to awaken and see you off, slumbering soul of a friend.

I can’t thank you enough for this, But as we scurried back through scuttling passersby, my camera pressed to one hand, melting gelato pressed to the other, laughter floating behind us

A voice My voice In my head Whispered “Are you happy?”

And I skipped a step and stopped And peered down at my hands and then up to you

And I smiled

“Yes.”

And I took another step forward.

[bunnyfan194]

Cave Musings

I am BORED TO TEARS at work, so I wrote a little piece about Lyrik’s thoughts during a quiet moment last campaign. He, Celeborn, and Reylyn were confined in a cave cell, awaiting pirates to return. Celeborn had been tortured for hours, Reylyn had been shot at (but not shot, thankfully), and Lyrik had endured an intense interrogation from the captain of the pirates, in which he made a deal for their safe release. This is Lyrik’s inner monologue, set between the party discussing the deal and awaiting the pirates’ return.

Keep reading

[whisperedwavywords]

Being creative is easy. Creating requires hard work.

[whisperedwavywords]

A forest aflame Molten tongues licking at damaged limbs The heat pierces through the sky and earth as one, rending branches from their brothers and burning all to the snapping, writhing ground All around you painted orange, orange, orange, sliced with black, jarringly two-toned in a world you know is shaded The screams of the unlucky are outweighed in grief and agony only by the screams of those who escaped Charred flesh, flora and fauna alike, serves as fuel for a climbing pyre that licks the sky and grins for its consumption You close your eyes. It hurts. You open them again, face pressed to the same glass in the opposite direction -- the sun now illuminates the scarred landscape. The pyre is gone. The trees, skeletal now, remain. They sway slowly in the soft breeze. Ashes coat the ground, the grass, rain down gently from above. The once green ground is now grey and brown. "Why do you have to set the forest on fire? Why does it have to burn?" "It helps refertilize the land. Burning it keeps plants from overpopulating, and provides grasses a place to grow, for animals to graze on. It helps keep diseased trees from spreading their disease, and provides new habitats when the earth grows back. Most importantly, though, some plants only drop their seeds during a fire. It takes extreme heat to make them open their pods & release their seeds, and then the seeds use the ashes from the fire as nutrients to grow back, like a Phoenix." Tears spill over now There is no glass There is no drive There are echoes of a thousand conversations Fires happen naturally They clear the way for new growth So let the embers of anger die out, now You cannot burn forever Water the fertile ashes with your tears You cannot burn forever Inhale long and deep before your grey and brown canvas, then paint yourself with new green growth You cannot burn forever. You are a Phoenix. From your ashes, you will rise, anew.

[whisperedwavywords]

Stay your hand

Put down the quill

It’ll morph to malice

You know it will

Don’t write this late

Just go to bed

Don’t pen the screaming

In your head

Though anger drips

Tears you won’t weep

Don’t wallow now

Just go to sleep.