#hellonorik

@hellonorik for olive

"Mane."

Cyrus is the lone audience to this show, and as he raises his mug of tea to his lips, a single pea bobs to the surface, and he starts to laugh.

In short, I will almost copy what you wrote on your blog about that everyone has their own unique style. I like to see how people embody certain ideas into characters and you just read them and think: "Yes, that’s how it should be". Many have their own unique style, and I'm not just talking about the writing style, but rather about how they play their characters. You see, to describe the actions is the one thing, but to play them and understand them is another thing, and it's so good to see so many talented people.

“You’re supposed to put things in cereal?” 

He was always coming home at the witching hour, that odd lull between three and five in the morning, too late for people to still be awake, too early for people to be starting their day. He was once told that the early morning was cursed, that something bad is seen as having a greater likelihood of occurring. He thought that might be true. His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, the lights passing over head were growing sparse as the roads changed from city to residential.  He thinks maybe he has everything he ever wanted. That’s what all of this was for, right? A home, love, freedom. He had it all, didn't he? Somewhere deep in his skin there was an ache for the past. He wasn’t a drug addict, he always said, he was a scientist. He experimented each day, sent the smoke down into the deep mine of his chest as though it were a rope with a hook at the end of it to pull the emptiness and pain back out. It never removed the emptiness but further became it. Even now, three years sober, his mouth still waters at the smell of whiskey like some sort of twisted Pavlovian response. He hadn’t fed his skin a blade for five years for fear of what it might let out. There are still days where he can’t go ten minutes about someone asking him if he wants some kush, some glass, some white, some snow, some jack up, some ‘good shit’. He think’s, he knows, the answer is yes. He closes the front door quietly, taking off his shoes so he can take the stairs silently. He’s thinks he’s creeping through his life like a thief, that all the sleeping monsters will one day wake. There were days he went so far as to hold a bottle in his hand, but he couldn’t swallow because there was a promise stuck in his throat. He thinks maybe he loves Jax. That being together makes them stronger, that since they’ve been together Jax smiles more, has a reason to get up in the morning, more to say, more to laugh about. And he likes that. He stands in the bedroom doorway, watching the sleeping form in the bed. The strongest he has ever felt  was the first time he said no to a drink. He has said no every morning since. He says no thirty-eight times before breakfast, one for every step he takes from his bedroom to his fridge. He says no ten times on the way to work, one for every billboard. He says no a million times every day, one for every curl in Jax’s hair, for every time Jax laughed, for every time they’ve sat and read together, for their first date, for their home.He changes clothes and slowly gets into bed.He think’s maybe he will never be able to love Jax the way Jax deserves to be loved. Sometimes he hears his father’s voice ringing in his head, asking him “do you want to die, Toz?” No, he doesn’t want to die anymore. He doesn’t want to die because just yesterday scientist discovered a new ligament in the human knee, just yesterday he found out a whole new set of reasons he can’t sleep, because three years ago he committed to not killing anyone (especially himself).Just today he found a new way to say “I love you”.Maybe tomorrow he can find a new way to feel.