#force writing

suoıʇɔǝlɟǝᴚ pǝʇsıʍ⊥ ɟO llɐH ǝɥ⊥✦ 」

ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ. ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ. ʜᴇʀᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱɴᴇʏ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ꜱᴜɪᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴏʙꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀ ꜱᴇʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ Qᴜɪᴢᴢᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ, ᴛ, ᴏʀ ᴛᴇʟʟɪ. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ~

𐔌 . ⋮ WRITINGS:

TWISTED WONDERLAND

DISNEY

QUIZZES:

TWISTED WONDERLAND

DISNEY

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS:

He thought there was something safe and wrong about me, because I was quiet in the hospital, blended into their white tiles, and looked at you from outside the glass windows of your room.

I described your symptoms with odd words and examples, (we were odd), like she doesn't use sticknotes anymore. I even told him about the time the tiny knit moose was removed from the key-ring, and you took the keys away without noticing, you loved the moose. In the morning, you used the coffee beans we got from Coorg, and in the evenings, we had tea. You thought I didn't notice the discreet cup of coffee you brewed for yourself right after we finished, you had it on the balcony and you took a book along to hide the cup. It was funny, especially because you knew I knew (long ago).

'She will keep forgetting things.' 

And that can be okay, I think, as long as you remember steady breathing, and your heart remembers how to beat, and all your vertebrae remember to hold you straight and don't collapse, your eyes, they won't need to learn sight and colour again.

That’s when I began thinking of losing you. This isn’t the first time I am writing of loss and best friends and bits of my heart and people going away. It’s just that, with you, the deep sad sorrow I chose to immerse myself in and all the parallel universes I conjure for these words, for my sanity, it came true. And we are sad about that, which is good, isn’t it, because deep sad sorrow is the appropriate emotion for situations like this?

  My point though, in writing this to you, and these words come after I sat nibbling my fingers for a moment, is that loss isn’t romantic. As much as I vindictively wish that our painful parting of ways provided fiery fodder to the flaccid fuels (fools) of my imagination, there is no such thing happening – and we can see that here, can’t we? I can employ no wordplay and I shall join you in laughing at all the obvious attempts at making this seem literary.

  I am always hiding, and my words are no miraculous insight into my truth. They are the closest I shall come to surface, and that’s the best I can do. You know that, don’t you? You loved my lies, and my fiction loved you back.

  Loss hasn’t matured me. It has not suffered me, and it has left me precisely where it found me (that was a reference to a quote you loved from Chicken Soup for the Soul, it was the only book you ever read in the library). I don’t think either of us value or miss each other more than we ever did, so really, what is loss if it isn’t pillow tears, sad poetry and nearly dialing a number? My inventive what-ifs are so much more realistic than this pathetic reality.

  Because this then, is what loss is. It is awkward words and a verbose mind running astray, too much thought and too much reflection. It’s waking up one day and realizing he doesn’t matter anymore (he is so ridiculous anyway), you could kiss him and hold him and marry him and have three children with him; we are all selfish people, and there is nothing we crave more than everything which makes us happy, and if we have to pick between two, you pick whichever one you can keep around more often, and his address was nearer. How can I blame you (except when I did)?

  Loss is when you can thrive happily without everything which made your days and who you’ve had breakfast with for years. It’s when I realize it’s just one story less, and really, these things don’t matter that much. People come, people go. I shall too.

It's been seven years of resentful Mondays.

You're standing on the pavement, squinting at apartment numbers,

how easily my eyes superimpose upon you your youth, 

cleverly blurring, sharpening, the black formals turning into faded sneakers,

In a whirl, the face turns, the same persistent cowlick and embarassing feminine eyelashes,

These musical whispers slowly brush smiles onto her face, 

the unassuming spot on her cheek will shift, hidden kohl eyes disappear.

An artist,

fits of passion,

dashing colour onto his canvas.

She will love the swinging pendulum, let you fool and flounder her away from the menace of the t(r)icking time,

Sing her your songs, love,

strum away all your oh darling ever here melodies,

sit beside her, and mock together the simplicity of the aorta pulmonary heart.

Didn't you see, love, her smile when she saw how the music becomes her,

and how the Catherine in your writing always pulls back her straight hair,

just like she does?

I'll tell you a secret, 

it's a funny secret.

Her brown eyes will vanish when she breaks into the odd happiness she finds in you,

there will only be creases of her smile,

creases of her lashes resting on the folds of her eyelids,

you will sing the song, looking away,

and how it all fits neatly into the crinkle possibilities of the daily paper,

My favourite one is in the lovely contradiction, 

conclusion I can reach.

If we coyly begin assuming the cliché you are my world,

and if I could begin each morning with black and white impressions of you at my doorstep,

you wouldn't be contained, would you, in headlines and emboldened dates and regional languages?

There'd be no end to all the yarns and tales,

a little unbound Grimms for every dreamer's night,

exhausting my ink worded soul for the sound of the printer churning you warm,

the words on paper reminding me of the ones in my head.

There would be no end, only a merry sleeplessness;

of more writing,

Each time your hands wave, embrace, drum, clap, 

or that time you were walking, in a little dance, in the park.

That day when someone called, and you were so tired,  you shrugged a 'no', and did not understand why she kept asking you again, and again.

You ate a sandwich, hungrily stuffing in three kinds of spreads and old lettuce leaves, pushing your hair back with the same salt sticky fingers,

rubbing your eyes and wiping two fingers on a tissue before you dislodged grainy dirt from the corner of your cat's eye.

My favourite is the time you clicked a picture of the little girl sitting next to Ronald McDonald on the bench, grinning and saying yes of course, easily making sure she will never guess that you were walking home from another sorry but your words don't fit our list,

and you come back to the one room you call home, writing the words which will smudge your fingertips, as you breathe and buy newspapers by the sidewalk,