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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
Insanity is there for me.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:29 PM

Dated: 2 Feb 2009
English class: I completed yet another composition in less than two hours, which was worth celebrating; usually it takes about three hours to pen out something really well. There's a feeling of satisfaction, like as if one has just emerged from a refreshing shower, except the fatigue still remains and slowly melts into incurable ecstasy. I couldn't stop wondering if anyone else's was done.
'Heroes': what a simple yet deceiving title about maybe saving a drowning citizen or a puppy from potential abuse. Frankly I'd steer clear of happy endings to avoid the plot spinning out of my control and turning into hyper blooming parks filled with blissful children. I would turn every story I write into a tragedy in retrospective if I could, because tragedies are what keeps the plot moving with energy fuelled by pain and suffering. I would like it a lot if my teacher would sing my praises.

I ended with an eulogy: not about how a war hero was put on a pedestal in honour of his country, but rather of a humble mother educating her daughter after the demise of her husband, then perishing from a fire which she saved her daughter from. It is not a tear-jerker, but (hopefully) some piece of writing that leaves people with strange unexplainable feelings lodged deep inside their hearts like shards of diamond.

I wonder how I would fare attempting to write a long-drawn out affair of a murder; the outline (or skeleton; in fact, that was the name's true origin) seemed encouraging; usually what I write in a dreamy stupor at night turns out horribly pathetic in the morning, but this time it was alright.

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