I wanted to practice creative writing, so this account will be all over the place. Any and all feedback is very much appreciated.
about me
After switching majors away from English to something else, I feel as if there’s been a part of me that’s being left behind. Hence, this blog. I really enjoy my major but I want to continue writing as a hobby.
about this blog
This is going to serve as a space for me to experiment and document my writing. Topics will vary based off whatever I feel like writing about, so that might range from poetry to fanfic. Requests are welcome and I’ll try my best to get to them. I’m open to writing about almost anything, however, I will not likely write anything explicitly sexual.
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Life has changed drastically in the past couple of years, and so has my writing schedule. Life got insanely busy, and though I'm grateful for all the opporunities I was afforded, it's time for me to start getting in touch with myself again.
So, here I am.
I might be screaming into the void with my writing. That doesn't quite matter to me anymore. At the end of the day, this is a space for me to connect with a part of myself that has been dreadfully overlooked for far too long.
I'm glad to be back, and hopefully we get some good pieces of writing out of all of this.
I don't even remember how we met. You existed before I could even process my own existence much less others'. What I do remember, though, is how much I fought for our friendship. When it came time for me to move countries, I made my parents promise to take me back home every year and allow me to finish my studies with you. I was so desperate for nothing to change that I even managed to postpone my move date just so I could attend your birthday party.
I can't remember any details about our friendship, perhaps because it was too long ago. Maybe it was too short-lived or its subjects too young to process all of it. All I know is that even in all of my naivete, the first thoughts I had when told about the move were not whether we'd remain friends, but rather, how I could squeeze out more time with you.
In the end, it never really mattered, did it? I've only seen you once since moving away; only visited home twice since then. We don't even speak the same language anymore. But in the moments I remember our friendship, I am content knowing that we are both chasing happiness, even if we have to do it separately. And even if I have to do it alone.
Sight, sound, and smell all blend when breezing through the market. Even at night, the city is alive with the buzz of people. Below all of the hustle and bustle is a cat with a moon-shaped marking, a frequent visitor to these markets. It weaves its way through various groups to find the gyoza shop owner that always leaves a bowl of water out on hot nights. Today is special, because it marks the date that the cat started frequenting the shop, so there’s a small container of fish dumplings next to the water. After finishing the meal, the cat goes up to the kind man and purrs, careful not to disturb him since it’s a busy day. Next to the stand is the kind grandmother who runs a fruit stand. She always has a small serving of fruit on the ground, carefully picked out to be non-toxic to cats. She completes her sales with a cat on her lap, making sure to welcome each of her customers. As the stands close down for the night, the animal will pounce away, only to reappear when the next night market comes. Though the cat always travels alone, it will continue be cared for and loved by those around it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Qualityâś“ Free Actions
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It brings back memories of sneakily tiptoeing through school halls to surprise your homeroom teacher. Avoiding hall monitors and dodging cameras. You giggle at the friends you’ve convinced to aid you in this endeavor. Unbeknownst to your mischievous group of schoolmates, children are not particularly good at avoiding attention. But the hall monitors don’t mind, and the security personnel turns a blind eye. They all remember the times they thought themselves to be the most mischievous children in the world, akin to the spies from their favorite movies. However, instead of chaos and graveness, they brought joy to the adults around them. Because they, too, knew what it was like to be young and unafraid of the world. So when you finally crack open the door to place an apple down on Mrs. DeOrian’s desk, maybe you’ll spot the sneaky hall monitor, quietly placing a doorstop to help you on your “mission”.
The sun sets and it lays broken in the middle of a courtyard. Damaged beyond repair, the connoisseurs say. Countless stories lost within a matter of seconds.
No doubt, the artist would be the one most affected. It was carved from marble by a man that hoped that this piece would be the one. The one that allowed him to live without fear that every morsel of food he ate would be his last. The one that got him back the jewelry belonging to his mother that he traded in exchange for a night’s worth of shelter. The one that saved him from the world he was born into. He was loved, but love was never quite enough to pay the bills. As the days went on, he fell further into madness, creating even when his hands shook far too violently to hold a brush.
Or maybe it was the owner who was most hurt by it breaking. She may have never quite noticed the statue, but her father insisted on displaying for the guests. That man may have never cared for his child correctly, but her therapist assured her that he tried his best. He showered her in presents and fame, but he never quite understood that what she wanted wasn’t more money, but rather a parent who gave a damn. The statue’s owner grew up with wealth, but no one to talk to when it all went away. When it was all gone, it was all that survived, for she, too, lost herself in the fire.
Perhaps it was the person who served as the artist’s muse. They never minded that their lover had traded stability for happiness. Unconditionally, they loved, even when the person they loved gradually lost himself. Try as they might, the artist was too far gone to save. And even after his hands stopped creating, they knew that they’d still be his muse. While he made his way through the dark abyss of loneliness, they followed, holding a flashlight along the way. He may have forgotten them, but that was a luxury that they never got to have.
Who could’ve done it? A mindless passerby? A reckless child? An enraged lover? Regardless of how the pieces are put back together, it’ll never look quite right to those who knew it.
