(original fiction) imaginary friend
Title: Imaginary Friend
Disclaimer(s): This is an original work.
Summary: I have an imaginary friend.
A/N: Something I wrote last night; it has nothing to do with fandom. If you read it, I might love you forever.
I have an imaginary friend. This friend has no specified gender, no hobbies, no personality. This friend grows on me like moss, moulds into any person I want. This friend trails at my heels like a lost puppy, tail wagging and ears drooping, nose poised up high to sniff my surroundings. This friend opens into a blindfold, draping thick wool over my eyes to obscure my line of vision, to help me squish silence into the confines of a jar, like a dream-catcher. This friend touches a finger to objects around me, amplifies the contrast between stray strands of dirty blonde hair and my wooden yellow pencil, chipped into a mini canyon-like structure at the tip.
This friend is my childhood blanket - soft-spoken, forgiving, and warm. When chills prickle down my spine, when a slow, constant ache seeps into my chest - this friend is there, tugging at my sleeves with measured patience. My pen scratches the word love onto scraps of paper, and this friend rips it up, tears it into meaningless pieces. Je t’aime, this friend whispers, wisps of warm, shallow breath. Te quiero. Wo ai ni. Saranghae. I love you, my friend continues, but with each repetition, each switch of language, it begins to dissolve, fading into the air, the murmur of the silence captured within my jar.
This friend grasps my pen, tracing the outline of a piano onto the paper, scattered black dots of notes beamed off the edge of the page. Your love, this friend points out, guiding my fingertips to brush against the indents of ink, the imprints of my soul, flats and sharps I know better than the back of my own hand.
I tell this to my friend, and this friend smiles, a flash of brightness. The pen is back in my hand; tip smoothing out scribbled letters across my paper. This friend is quiet; pouring warmth into the spaces I leave between my words, between the layering hidden beneath elaborately formed sentences, between the synced poundings of my heartbeat that rolls down my arm to my fingertips.
I look at my friend, yet all I can see is a mirror image of myself. I look at my friend, this friend who has matured with me over the years - from frolicking through fields of tall, sharp-blade grass to drooping eyelids over the microscopic black-and-white of my history textbook - and all I see is me.
I have an imaginary friend. This friend floats in the air of my dreams, paints my world into millions of words, into the ink I splatter onto numerous pages, into the silence holed up under the heavy lid of my jar.
I have an imaginary friend.
This friend is Writing.
Disclaimer(s): This is an original work.
Summary: I have an imaginary friend.
A/N: Something I wrote last night; it has nothing to do with fandom. If you read it, I might love you forever.
I have an imaginary friend. This friend has no specified gender, no hobbies, no personality. This friend grows on me like moss, moulds into any person I want. This friend trails at my heels like a lost puppy, tail wagging and ears drooping, nose poised up high to sniff my surroundings. This friend opens into a blindfold, draping thick wool over my eyes to obscure my line of vision, to help me squish silence into the confines of a jar, like a dream-catcher. This friend touches a finger to objects around me, amplifies the contrast between stray strands of dirty blonde hair and my wooden yellow pencil, chipped into a mini canyon-like structure at the tip.
This friend is my childhood blanket - soft-spoken, forgiving, and warm. When chills prickle down my spine, when a slow, constant ache seeps into my chest - this friend is there, tugging at my sleeves with measured patience. My pen scratches the word love onto scraps of paper, and this friend rips it up, tears it into meaningless pieces. Je t’aime, this friend whispers, wisps of warm, shallow breath. Te quiero. Wo ai ni. Saranghae. I love you, my friend continues, but with each repetition, each switch of language, it begins to dissolve, fading into the air, the murmur of the silence captured within my jar.
This friend grasps my pen, tracing the outline of a piano onto the paper, scattered black dots of notes beamed off the edge of the page. Your love, this friend points out, guiding my fingertips to brush against the indents of ink, the imprints of my soul, flats and sharps I know better than the back of my own hand.
I tell this to my friend, and this friend smiles, a flash of brightness. The pen is back in my hand; tip smoothing out scribbled letters across my paper. This friend is quiet; pouring warmth into the spaces I leave between my words, between the layering hidden beneath elaborately formed sentences, between the synced poundings of my heartbeat that rolls down my arm to my fingertips.
I look at my friend, yet all I can see is a mirror image of myself. I look at my friend, this friend who has matured with me over the years - from frolicking through fields of tall, sharp-blade grass to drooping eyelids over the microscopic black-and-white of my history textbook - and all I see is me.
I have an imaginary friend. This friend floats in the air of my dreams, paints my world into millions of words, into the ink I splatter onto numerous pages, into the silence holed up under the heavy lid of my jar.
I have an imaginary friend.
This friend is Writing.