Note Archive: Writing

Beaumont

I stand out upon the balcony, blistering darkness still permeating my vision. The morning air holds still, cold but gentle, as it whistles silently alongside my ear. My head pounds, weary from the night long gone. Flickering flashbacks roll along the skyline, like a broken television set in someone else’s dream. Somewhere behind, careful breaths pace the quiet brown study my mind has fallen pray to. In and out, in and out; a reminding shiver along an otherwise lonely spine.

Suddenly, through the distant valley, a sun ray cracks the dark void, scattering my loose illusions into dust. I stand still, filling my lungs with fresh morning dew. My eyes wander, watching the light rise and caress the desolate mountaintop before me.


Every so often, I become bored of texting the simple “hi, how are you?” to my friends. This is what Kaylea received some time ago. She told me I should be writing novels shortly after. I think she liked it.

Awaken

Awaken! Gentle soul,
Too long you have slept,
Beneath bright stars and moonlight,
Time trickles to the next,
Ah! Fair wanderer,
Breathe deeply you are told,
For lost is but a place,
Where dustry dreams can unfold.

Lost, Reward If Found

I was digging through some old photos today and found this little one of a jacket I used to own. Beautiful was it, with its black & taupe panelling, elbow patches (yes!), large pockets and tartan lining. One of those rare finds, which you can’t seem to pass up despite the money and it not being your usual thing.

You take it home, dig out one of those antiquated padded hangers reserved for delicate garments and special items from lost relatives. You stare longingly at it, hesitantly shrug it onto your shoulders and strut around your room like you’re Freddie Mercury, wary of taking it into the big bad world. You begin forming a strange attachment, guarding it from possible pain and trauma, using it on only rare occasions… and one day, a friend asks to borrow it. Carefully, she knows how you feel.

Then it happens. A dark night, a chill in the air, a little too much tipple and vamoose! Into the dust of the darkness it disappears, swept into an underworld of lies and deceit.

You hear the news and like a scorned lover, you sigh heavy defeat; imagining scenes of it parading on less idyllic shoulders, hugging the curvature of another body and oblivious to your mourning. Your poor dear friend, mortified at the occurrence, finds a replacement, buys you flowers and very sweetly makes amends. You’re thankful that she cares – and the new jacket is warmer, simpler and still tartan inside. Time passes and your loss stings less, yet some days, you can’t help but think of that special, irreplaceable charm that the original held.

That, with a few artistic embellishments, is the tale of this little jacket. Thankfully, blogging in the past means that photographs of our time together exist, not relegating it to fading memories. One day I will create a replicate, with bells and whistles to make it more mine and infinitely better. For now, I shall have to look upon these pictures with idle hope, exhale a wistful sigh and slowly move on.

Our Empty Vessels

An oldie, but ambiguous enough to still work. Written as the prelude to the Hypochondria of the Heart project.

Beginnings


As the last wilts of the old year fade, we begin.

We begin,
From the deepest crevices of our cores,
From the ashes of our thoughts,
From our emotions and our lives.

We begin,
Because we cry and scream,
And laugh and smile,
And every aspect of our human being craves relief.

We begin, because we cannot hold on any longer.
We begin, because we must.