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I'm not sure why, but 100 words was down the last two days for myself and a friend. I hope that wasn't the case for other writers but if it was, then at least we were confused together. At least now it's working! Last month was incredibly enjoyable. There was something about writing a limited amount that was both drawing and interesting. Sometimes, it was quite difficult and other times not so much. I'm excited for this month, though. I need to practice some things and February seems like the perfect month. So, hello again, writers - may we carry on!
Almost apathetically, she admired the ambiance of the atmosphere around her. What was apparently amiable was acutely acrimonious, almost amplifying in animosity as time passed. Audibly she sighed, taking an ample sip of her drink.
It was impossible to articulate the atmosphere - doing so felt almost awkward. The artificiality of it all was contradicted yet somehow accentuated by how abstract it all seemed. To accept such an alarming anomaly would be to accept an unspoken assertion. Something akin to acceptance and adoration yet strangely hovering within the ambit of agitation.
She took another sip, calmed by the action.
Quite a bit beyond where the girl was sipping at her beverage, a boy was battling his own beasts. The internal, belligerent blitzkrieg was burdensome and he could feel himself beginning to burn out.
Brimming on the surface of his skin, he began to brainstorm breaking out - an idea that began to beguile him as the days blew past. It beckoned to him through breath and body until he believed he would burst. Between buildings, the thought would badger him until finally he broke.
Truly he wanted to bask in bliss, though his fear of bolting was barefaced.
Composed and calm, the girl caught sight of something coruscating through the sky. She contemplated it as it collided with the ground, clipping trees and crashing into rocks before coming to a circuitous stop. A clandestine moment; cautiously she conceded to how compelled she felt to check out the comet. She chastised herself for her craven pace. The calamity called her forward almost as much as her curiosity - which she was certainly determined to cease.
With chimerical thoughts, she climbed through crowds of rubble, becoming circumspect at the possibility of consequences. Still, she continued, slightly cynical as to this conclusion.
The damage that had been done was disappointing. However, even with the deceptively dangerous display, she was not discouraged, deciding that something delightfully deplorable had to come out of this. Dirt in her fingernails and a disgusting smell in the air - both of which she could deal with - she delicately drew forward.
It was a disappointment that in the distance came the distinct call of a demand; she was distracted. This disruption was definite and dejectedly, she dutifully turned in the direction she had directly drifted from, disengaging herself.
How disheartening. To be so close to a dream.
An effervescent purpose yet somehow entirely egotistical. To eloquently embellish the essence of an idea seems enticing at first; enthralling even in how to extend this endeavor so that it does not need exemplifying. It is easier in the echoes of empty rooms to embody egoism if only to entertain. It is either that or emote false elation, forced to endure envy and evade truths. To avoid evoking such emotions means to elude one's self to certain everyday concepts. To beat the urge to expire and do what is expected.
Over another enriching beverage, she enjoyably examined all of this.
By a fortuitous fluke, the girl wasn't the only one to find the falling star. Nearby was a fallible feline. Constantly fraught by fatigue, food fascinated this feline. While feasting on foliage, the comet fell. It landed close to the feline who was fortunate to foresee the fiasco and fleetly flit away, avoiding a fatal and frenzied finale. Still, flabbergasted, the feline flew from the force of the hit.
A flurry of fear. A field of light. Then, a lull. The feline, with a flash of fortitude, fumbled forward then faltered.
A figure faced the feline and smiled fondly.
The day glided by at a glacial pace for the girl who glumly went about it. Sometimes, she would groan and gripe but in general, she grudgingly accepted her glib, gamut world. She was neither going or getting but instead was gently gathering galvanizing glimmers of hope.
Finally, the girl found herself at the gnarled spot where the comet had gouged itself into the ground. She guessed there would be something grisly, something grim -
But gazed upon a guy gabbing and gesturing grandly to a cat.
Oddly pulled by the gravity of the two, the girl gregariously stepped forth.
"How did you happen here?"
The boy halted, scratching his head while he thought. Honesty was a hard habit to break, but history harped on hecklers and he hated the idea of humiliation. Still, honesty was honorable and couldn't hurt. He hoisted the haggard feline into his hold, giving a hefty sigh.
"Horrifically. In the hype of the haze and a hole in the hemisphere."
Hesitantly, the girl gave half a shrug then heard a howl for her help and hurriedly motioned to the horizon.
"Two hours," she said, then hastened to get home.
The feline happily hiccupped.
It should be included about the incident that all acts of indecisiveness were invited. Indeed, though incredulous to imply, it was done with no incentive other than identity. I do not mean to imply insatiability but instead insecurity in spite of confidence. The immoral insensitivity lead to an illusion of inferiority that influenced ideas and impressions of the self. It was inconveniencing yet required and once instigated, soon initiated. This incident was and had been impassively ignored, almost made irrevocable. It was kept intimately private, never indulged without invitation.
In two hours; implying her return. Instead, it was months.
The boy was jostled joyously from sleep. Had she taken him for a jest? As if this entire thing had been a jaunt and he was joyfully joking like some jovial jester? That he was some juvenile taking a jubilant joyride?
Jittery, he jumped to his feet, setting his jaw. The feline stared, judgment like jewels in its eyes. He had no job, no justification to show his journey was necessary. He was jinxed; jagged and jeopardized. The feline made a sound and, jadedly, he interpreted it as a jeer.
Two months - but just like that, she was there.
The kinship was knit together by both an understanding of knowledge and kindness. Even the kitten was a kindred soul. Months would go by but the two knew the girl would always keep returning. They kept up this routine for a long while, keenly aware of the kindling that the girl kept at bay to a mental fire; to the knots she kept untying.
"It's killing me," she said at last, sitting on her knees.
The kitten had a knack for comfort and kindly nodded. The boy knelt down.
And he gave her a kiss as a keepsake.
The feline would listen and leisurely laze in the company of likable and lovely people. The lady would leave and return, the boy a library of literature. Caught in a fine line between lethargy and liberation, the feline would loll about. Feeling limited and low, watching lovers loom, the feline lost speech.
"You're no leader," a lie loudly exclaimed. This the feline learned, accepting this logic almost loyally. Anyone was liable to fall for such a ludicrous lure if left to their own devices.
It was such a shame, though.
The feline had no idea that she was a lion.
How does mankind manage melancholy? Maternally? Sheltering it like madmen only to strike the match and bring the monster to life? How does one feel misunderstood without being mistaken for misusing the mentality of an adolescent? It's possible to misrepresent it as merely meager and mundane. Perhaps this misrepresentation is murder.
She mentioned once that it could be a mistake. It could be a misjudgment. Making this choice, he told her, was meaningful maintenance though caused a maddening migration. It was mercy to the self.
She stood, going to leave for months again, but momentarily paused.
"I miss you both already,"
Naively, they believed that their nice narration could continue forever. To nurture and normalize until all melancholy was numb; all noble ideas - nifty, really. They neglected to notice, though, that nestled nearby was a nightmarish foe. From its nest it slithered nimbly, making sure to creep naturally, nonchalantly, and normally.
The girl was nudged into a needless neuroticism, always noiselessly nervous. The boy, nameless and nowhere near home, gave into negligence, becoming nomadic and negative. The feline, lacking nourishment, succumbed to nihilism, believing herself to be nonexistent.
They had never met such a nefarious foe.
We call it reality.
Reality, from its origin, was omnipresent. With no clear objective in mind, it overran any opponent. Opportunists often leapt at the chance to oblige reality, working to beat the odds. There was no predetermined outcome and no one group was offended - this oppressive yet occasionally optimistic omen was offered to overdose all equally.
Offhandedly watching this, it occurred to her that the overwhelming and overbearing sense of reality was not an oddity, but an ongoing occurrence for both the young and old. The only options seemed to be becoming overwrought or obedient.
She smiled. Those weren't the only options, though.
It was the perfect example of poetic justice. Perhaps even payback for their naivety - or they believed. It began with the feline. With a pattern for pleasing, the feline put away all personal dreams and let the world pollute and pierce her. She fought back passively, placated then plucked of the self she wished to portray. It robbed her of a purpose. Like most, she was powerless against reality, but the feline particularly became pessimistic. It is possible that the doubts preoccupying her mind performed better under stress. Tame and petrified in pacifism, the lion became a mere house pet.
There was no question: the world was quickly devouring itself. With mass quantities of quarrels blooming, people began to clash and quibble. They would quaff down self righteousness as a quick fix. Many held no qualms to such actions - if offended, their pleas were quashed by others. The world was caught between a quietude and the quaking qualities of quarreling.
Nothing seemed to quell this madness. Quite frankly, those who could quench it remained quiescent, quarantined by their fears or quaint perceptions of themselves. Such as the feline, girl, or the boy.
The world found itself in a quandary.
With it comes the rearrangement of a life already thought to be redone. The reentry of reflection and resentment, where what was refurbished becomes rebuilt. Does this reinforce the reluctant giver? Does this relieve them of any remaining repressing remorse so that they can be reinstated into society? To remove and relocate them before rendering them well - when can you say they are repaired? To live as a restricted recluse and then to recommence what once was - will they receive the same respect? Or revive the same end result?
Is it possible to reverse something so repetitive?
She watched, shackled to the shamble of a life. She had sought out a seamless, supporting shift but reality had stolen the show without any sorrow. She had struggled, stubbornly scraping by but all succumb to reality's will at some point.
While she could not spot the boy and saw the feline spend her days as a sedated pet, the girl found herself suffocating in the symphony of silent rooms.
The seduction of substances, the superficiality of suitors, the spot light for the self-conscious.
She was sloth-like.
From where she stood, she slowly stitched her lips together with steel.
Was it treatable? Was this trauma too much and too terrible to toss aside when it all turned around? Who could tell?
I can only try and testify for it.
The technical term for the threat is known throughout but treated thoughtlessly. Many experience it.
Telling is to tattle and to toughen up is to triumph - this theory is a trick. To think of yourself as a trifling matter is a terrifying thought. The tiresome weight that terrorizes the body is tactfully ignored; tersely regarded.
This isn't a tale.
This is a tentative admittance of inner turmoil.
Ultimately, where does this lead? Do things keep going until they meet an untimely and unfortunate end? In an unforeseen turn - they don't.
While nothing can be unwritten or unwound, it is through a universal unity of man that the unwell can become nourished. With no ulterior motive and an unfaltering understanding, this unison can undermine what is seemingly unlikely. Almost unknowingly, they unearth the urge to protect the unprotected and want the unwanted.
It seems unorthodox to some. An unrealistic utopia to others.
Unquestionably though, they are the uprising that will either carry us upwards or unmask us.
There is something very vital in being verbal. To be locked in a vicious circle that validates all sense of wrong produces a vacancy of what is right. It is violent and sometimes visibly startling. Other times, the speaker is victorious. To be able to vent such venom with such a valiant effort demands applause. Victory; victory at last. I would venture to say, though, that variables may create different versions of the outcome. It depends on the viewer - and what they view. A viral, vile belief that halts this verbal venting.
Words make us very vulnerable. Even just 100.
The boy was alone for a while but he eventually wandered upon the girl. I'd wager that in the whirlwind of reality, they welcomed familiarity.
"Where were you?"
No answer. From weekday to weekend, both watched, beginning to grow weary of the repetitive pattern the world went through: the wanted white-lie that seemed whimsical yet willingly would woo the weak and breed wickedness.
She feared for her welfare. He was washed out.
They sat. I cannot say whether they withstood reality but I will whisper this:
Watching, wondering, and worrying - it was wonderful to have company in these things.
Many yearned for the youthfulness of the past and found themselves yielding to the zeal of reality. Some fell into the zestful lure of xenophobia. It was a zone full of zealots, the wicked, and those who succumb to all they previously yearned for; sometimes all in one body.
Yet, not all yielded. While seemingly zany and zealous, there were those who could yoke together the believers and nonbelievers.
How many years went by, I can't say. The feline, the girl, the boy - you'll find them all over the world in friends, family, and loved ones.
You are not alone.
Well, that experiment is over. And how very personal and vague it was.
It's raining today - this means one thing: all the work I wanted to do is not going to be finished. Rainy days make me horribly slow. I pause to take breath more often than I do to exhale.
February is almost over. I'm hideously nervous, however, about the upcoming March. It will be a test and I don't expect to be accommodated. A battle of my own strength and will. I won't be able to stay long. It's sad, but I'll do my best to prevail.
-Lovely compliments on poetry
-Writing seems to be coming together
-Feeling quite healthy
-Comfortable and warm
-Strong presence of coffee
-Prepared and excited to exercise
-Feeling incredibly curious
-A horrible headache (see sun note)
-The beginning of a cold (?)
-Writing is tedious
-The hours feel too short
-Too much to catch up on
-Strong desire to simply lay and not move
-Lack of creativity
-Strong presence of coffee
-Far too sunny outside for my eyes
-A lack of original thought
Wednesdays. I am in a writing slump.
And so ends February.
How was it? Like most months, February had some ups and some downs - unfortunately, most were down but hey - waves will do what waves will do. I merely ride with them. Sort of. Whatever.
My headache persists and it's a tad hard to concentrate on letters and words and etc. What helps is the sound track I have humming around in my brain right now. It's gorgeous. And it helps clear up some of the fog my headache causes so I can write some.
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