^^^cutest series ever ^^^
I lost my camera, I am so sad. We lost it while we were moving.
fuck :/
Well, it has been pretty uneventful.
I am signing up for Adult High.
I saw Winds of Plague, sweet.
Stayed up most of the weekend.
Got dehydrated like a bitch.
Watched Into the Wild with Nick.
and then did some other shit. not too bad.
now it’s raining.
fuck shit. i need sleep.
there is a woodpecker on my tree. hah.
what did you do?
fuck, i didn’t do shit.
I have been staying home from school often, this shouldn’t be a suprize to anyone who actually knows me.
anyways, why do people always have to brood on the mistakes people make. I can understand making a wide variety of mistakes often but just once or twice should be excusable considering we all mistakes. Why judge the hell out of someone for making one mistake even if a major one?
Anyways, this is more or so a short story I wrote for Creative Writing class.
There is this place of abstract art, where the body demishes and the mind grows with a bounty of free time.
Q: How was the war for you, or what abstract thoughts do you have on the war?
A: Even before the war was over, it was over. It was hard to grasp the concept of us losing the war. I suppose we all thought that concrete ideas would live on forever, everywhere. After 190hte, (hte = time period of here, there, & everywhere.) we lost everything, everywhere. Thinking back on those days; my war days. I miss them. Before that war, we had these concrete ideas that we thought would offer us salvation. I went on living on the sidewalk…oh to the gutter. The concrete so smooth and hard. There and never to go away, well I think we were wrong. Terribly wrong.
Q: Uh, I don’t think I quite understand. Well, im uh going to let you finish and all, but uh. …How was the sun like? What happened, why is it not here?
A: Oh, the sun. I remember the sun. Nothing can compare to the sun. The warmth it breathes unto your skin, making your skin tingle. Now I get so very timid. Uh, uh, well, uh. The…(loses name, train of thought, tries to remember.) The abstractions, they came in and well, they did not so much blow up the sun as they blacked out our atmosphere with a chemical of dark blues called (has a hard time pronouncing) Indophenots. They saw the sun as, as emotion. As a happiness that binded us concretes together. What made us a solid form. I am rambeling but okay. . . The abstractions, they thirst on emotions. Hard to believe, y’know? -chuckles- Oh, well.
Q: That’s fine. Peachy Keen and all. I heard they used a strange tacktect, and that was what? Can you forget those memories and remember to tell me?
A: If I think back on it.They gave being a prisoneer of war a whole new meaning. They held us in rooms without walls and these walls without rooms often caved in. This was our imagination after all. They used to make us fire on eachother. Oh, God. The horror I saw. You have no idea. My comrades, crying out in holy fear. Petrefied by their own fear. They used our emotions against us. One by one, I saw another one of my friends crack under the pressure of impressionalism. Realism was gone and I was stuck, trying to logically figure a way out of this place. There was no logic in the room without walls and logic only made the walls without rooms cave in on concrete.
Q: But, you did fight back didn’t you? You had to withstand this somehow? What training did the CF put you through?
A: The Concrete Federation…they normally, well normally on a normally normal day would feed us Indoleacetic and Indolebutyric acid to get us ready to go inside the abstractions clustered minds. To make us tough enough to endure the long dreadful hours of freeform abstract poetry we were going to be fed through our poetry gland by thought straws. I remember those dances of melodic literature fluttering through me. The horror. I can’t say…I am sorry.
Q: It’s quite alright, we are almost finished. If you could just plug this in to your hand moniter, that’d be appreciated Mr. Stolen. We don’t want to have to fight you today.
-a nurse comes in and plugs abstractions through a vien in the hand moniter strapped to Mr. Stolen’s feet. His last words before his thoughts became abstract are as followed-
“The day I forget the war is the day I die. The day I tell about the war is the day I remember what I have been trying to supress. Oh God, I can feel them strapping me down. Why won’t you help me. You are one of them. No please, one poem before I go! (poem down below)” -screams-
And now we are all light.
My thoughts vibrant with endured spring.
flowing nowhere but into brain matter,
twisting like string.
I live in my abstract mind.
I climb in my walls with no room.
and my room without walls caves in,
and i die.
I think the last part might be alittle unessacary considering it doesn’t really add to the plot line too much but i thought even if you didn’t read it, it was there for a nice add on. Okay, I wrote a story on a war between people who write freeform poetry and people who write in a concrete style, and concrete lost, so what? ^^
old
http://alexzandriae.livejournal.com/ <—- old livejournal link
I never post serious writing. So I am thinking about using this wordpress to put my serious writing on. Not that I really have any at the moment, fail. I thought maybe this sudden outburst of rain would spike my writing gland but I have never been the person who writes about the rain nor get inspired by the rain. All in all thought, the rain is cold. It feels nice on bare skin. Also, oranges have been abundant and I do love oranges. Yummy. Along with other citrus fruits.
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