A long long time ago, in a galaxy far away, he dreamed that one day he would rise up to be the best that ever was. To be the bestest ever, the goodest ever, the most awesome. But that was before he knew that life just didn't move that(more) way.
He stared at the computer screen. It was haunting him, calling to him, mocking him. It was just not coming to him, the next word, idea, concept or anything, it was just empty.
Empty. He felt empty. Like there was no point, why waste time doing things that didn't really matter. Like eating or breathing or something else that is mundane.
He looked at the time, quarter past nine. He yawned. He was tired. He was doing this all day. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to curl up and hide and go home. He missed his sister.
"Tomorrow, I shall write another word," he proclaimed. Convincing who, he asked himself in his head. He doesn't believe it. Living up to the standards of society is racking his brain. When was life ever this complicated.
The door buzzed. It must have been an hour since he had been staring at the same screen, not doing anything. His stomach grumbled. He got up and stretched. "I need to eat," he declared.
The moon shone brightly, illuminating the ragtag pieces of clothes strewn across the messy floor. He looked at it for a moment wondering if he should do something about it but decided against it. "Tomorrow," he promised, but to who, certainly not himself.
It was quarter past 10 now, and as the cats started meowing and the birds started chirping finally he could put another word in what he was writing. "life."(less)
Shadow: Noun. A dark area or shape produced by a body coming between rays of light and a surface.
Let me make it expressly clear, first and foremost, that I do not hallucinate. I've looked it up. The clinical idea of what hallucinations are, that is. I do(more) not have hallucinations. I do not see things, per-say.
I do have a very real reason to fear the dark. You would too, if your shadows moved like mine.
The definition says that a shadow is a shape produced by an object blocking light from the surface. It follows that a shadow is the same basic shape of the object blocking the light.
It is. They are. Or at least they start out that way.
Moonlight seeps into the room through the gaping maw-like window, passing the closed curtain lips, leaking into my space and painting the wall in its bruised tones as the moon’s dull blue light clashes with the darkened shadows.
The light doesn’t change. The objects don’t move, but the shadow waivers as if it sat on a lake instead of a solid wall. Slowly it grows, creeping its way closer at a maddening pace. It taunts me, forcing me to question myself. Is it growing? Perhaps not.
Just as I decide the shadow is safe, it morphs. The shadow thickens and bends in impossible ways, forming a horrendous shape. It expands and reaches out with teeth and talons, clawing towards my face. I’m helpless to move, forced to watch in silence and endure.
I blink and it’s gone. The shadow behaves as the sunlight flutters past the curtains, lighting the room in a brilliant glow, giving it color and forcing its shape.
Trembling leaves remain, plastered against twisted silhouettes that solemnly bask in a cold, even layer of moonlight.
I almost knew you.
A soft breeze rakes its way through my hair, rattling the too-thin fabric draped loosely over shoulders.
The silence of the night is comforting, centering.
How(more) did it happen that we almost saw each other? How does it ever happen between people, when breath becomes entrancing and you're tempted to look for the source of the disturbance, look right into the heart of it.
How do shadows see?
Our hearts were fire, blanketed. Mine by a child's hope, yours by fear.
It feels like choking on something I never got to taste.
If I die soon, find this, read this, and know.
The moon is really shining now, that same, dull, radiant gleam. Like an all-encompassing smirk, captured and preserved. Captivating.
And the brighter that moon glows, the more vivid those shadows can see.
in the corner of her mind
there's a shadow on the wall
stretched, but timid, cowering in fear.
but too dark to really disappear
a stain in our perfect world.
(more) stoic, still, huddled down,
the shadow will not move
a memory of the distant past
silent for so long, but still around
he's one of the ones that'll last
to her adulthood
and we hate him for that
and we pity him for that
he won't come out to play with us,
(the other memories here,)
but soon she'll drag him out to light
and see what he once was
and then we will know this man
hidden in a corner
the secrets that he possesses
and the trials she's trying to forget(less)
Masanori wailed louder, kicking his legs in Gotou's arms, face gone red and sticky. He knew what it meant now, when Masayoshi took the big bag out, when they went to the airport. Keiko too, wore a sour expression but she was glaring at Masayoshi as if he had(more) betrayed her, personally, one hand on Gotou's trouser leg.
"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Masayoshi asked, as Masanori squirmed against Gotou, arms out toward Masayoshi. He'd held Masanori the entire way, as he'd grown increasingly fussy as the realization dawned.
"We'll be fine," Gotou said, completely unperturbed by the screaming child in his arms. "It's not even a week, this time."
Masayoshi cast a glance at Masanori, and then back to Gotou - and Gotou said, softly, "he'll calm down once you leave, 'yoshi. I promise."
He sighed deeply. "I hate traveling," he said, and Gotou nodded his head and shifted Masanori in his arms. "Baby bird, please stop crying," he ran his hand over Masanori's head, and he inhaled deeply and kept wailing. "I'll be home before you know it."
Keiko finally detached herself from Gotou's leg, and wrapped her arms around Masayoshi's. "No," she said firmly, and buried her face in his trousers.
Masayoshi picked her up - after he got her to release his leg - and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't go," she said, and Masayoshi sighed deeply.
"Wish I didn't have to," he said, and touched his forehead to hers. "But I'll be home real soon, okay? Keep an eye on your daddy for me, Masanori'll wear him out."
"Oi," Gotou said, and Keiko giggled, just a little.
"Okay," she said, and Masayoshi kissed the top of her head and put her back down.
i feel beads of sweat sliding down my forehead,
gently, like bits of silk have just squeezed through my pores,
and the fan is on the other side of the room.
it doesn't quite seem worth the effort to turn it on,
but i do it anyway,
and the(more)n i approach the window and look outside. i see a puddle that seems like the sky, condensed,
and then i see a sky that seems like a puddle, stretching endlessly above us.
when a bead drips down my cheek,
i think of the storm yesterday--
i catch it with the tip of my finger
and then lick it.
this is going to be a long day.(less)
there was something in him i never wanted to see-- that part that drank too much, worked too much, hit his children in his intoxicated rages. there were parts of my father that were dark and cold, and i didn't ever want to touch them.
I watched them like they were nothing to me and in that particular moment they were. How dare they? I felt my anger spike and it poured over me. I had an endless supply of anger, it was a dark pit where I held it all.
They called m(more)e a whore and it made me angry. Why couldn't I have just contained it a little longer? Maybe because it was true and I was not ready to face the truth myself. Hypocritical? Maybe, but right now my anger was like a warm blanket protecting me from myself and their words.(less)
They were still on the limb and they were shiny. All of the trees in the disarrayed orchard were abundant with apples.
The robust luscious orbs were dangerous to eat. Birds didn't imbibe on the fruit. Neither did insects. Because they looked so untouched, that's how we knew(more) not to eat them. Still, we hadn't eaten in days and our bellies were collapsing.
being alive seems a chore; clouds grazing on sunlight that should be mine, my bones, my skin, the fleshy highways in between. the lower half of my brain is screaming for company, but in the winter all sound is swallowed by the weight of the cold. suffer in silence,(more) like so much of the world.
fix your posture and brush your teeth. self respect can only sink so low; like corrosive liquids of unfathomable colors, they sink into the pores of the concrete, the steel, the rust, the earth, and bore their way to its churning center. a race to a painful death, the pressure and heat so alluring from far away. distance creates illusions only defeated at the hands of actual experience - its a damn shame.
what does it mean to be comfortable in your own body? what does that 20% of your active thought life then switch over towards? what great accomplishments and feats of mental fortitude do those without such inhibitions claim for their own? break. break further. ice caps in the advent of spring, waves on rocks before the sun goes down, a family.
the serrated edges of an old notebook. i run my knuckles over them, daring the fates to cut me with something as fickle as paper, love, memory. the string snaps.
somewhere, empty rooms sing a somber chorus for the souls, the heat, the footsteps now long gone. far from home and beyond all comfort, like eels, like snakes, like fish that live in dark mud, the veins twist and turn - a knot, an obtrusion. here, life is barred.
structure. composure. a smile and some skincare ointment. the smell of eucalyptus, mint, charcoal.
trembling, my hands try to remain afloat. the water is soothing, but its weight scares me. (less)
The anxious beating of my heart upon awakening, gazing into the nothingness that is the dark of night, has caused me to reach out to you. Your companionship, after so many years of trying to push you away, is what I now desir(more)e most.
The memories take over: the fear in result of my immobility during your visits. I've never gotten used to it. Your presence intimidated me; never a clear expression across your face. As a matter of fact, I was unable to see any facial feature beneath the hood. You visited regularly, sometimes four to six times a week.
You brought a visitor, once. I can only assume that she was shy, being that she never faced me. Should I have been afraid to request that she turn around? Would the reality of viewing the features opposite her long, grimy, unkempt hair have caused a horror that I would not have been able to emotionally manage? Deciding to take focus off of her was for the best, though. Deep sleep ensued, shortly after.
That was long ago. Your visits became fewer and fewer after my pregnancy. Now, in place of your existence, come terrors that I do not wish on anyone. Nightmares, night terrors, sleepwalking, irregular high heartbeats, RBD, NPD... in other words, worse symptoms of Parasomnia.
I'm afraid of the inevitable pain that I will cause to myself and my family. I wish that it was just me and you again, Shadow Man. I've started to believe that you were with me for over a decade to protect me. Protect me from myself.