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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
Results.
Written on: Saturday, January 9, 2010
Time: 12:11 AM

Monday might be a tragedy, the culmination of my stewed hopes and dreams may simply fall flat on its first flight. The nervous, flighty chick might plummet to the ground in mid-air to its bloody end. I say 'its' as a dead foreign animal is no longer an animal as it's a dead one. It's no longer a loved, warm snuggly creature; it is but a thing.

I'm overcome with anxiety like the rest. Don't you dare lie as you are too, despite that comforting ray of overconfident sunshine you exude. That is not you. It was never you. No matter how intelligent one might be, nervousness permeates all into the core of your being. It's all part of the genetic code explaining why you're human, bundled together like a special package with the tendency to tell the world aloud how you feel, what you did, who you loved, who you didn't anymore. Like they really care if you had slightly-burnt toast for breakfast.

Anxiety makes me peevish, and I realise that easily enough. Maybe on Tuesday when I'm done mourning for the lost hopes I'll feel better.

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