(no subject)
one word: Life
two words: renewed endlessly
three words: Filtered words, Thoughts
five words: Recycled, Reused, Refined, Reimagined, Reincarnate.
ten words: The feeling of a hundred voices pounding on your walls.
twenty five words: Aching to blend them all in a way that will befit the gravity of conducting an orchestra of the dead. The Glorious Harmony of Souls.
fifty words: Longing to feel the thrumming in my veins. The vibrations of every ancestor who contributed to the rivers and lakes in my body. Those hundreds of men and women who sculpted the landscape of me from their own hopes and dreams, fears and lusts. A being distilled, rather than diluted.
seventyfivewords: I skulk here in my mediocrity, a young dragon waiting for the ink in my veins to explode into flame. Violent and hot. Dangerous and unavoidable. Searing friend and enemy. Leaving virulent wounds that resolve into scars, reminding both forever that I existed. That the combustion of me had effect. Skin. Psyche. Soul. A flare in the night, casting nuclear shadows on their now. Refined blood of my forebears screaming release at finally being heard.
onehundredwords: History waits for the Howls, and records them breathlessly. Rapt in admiration for the warmth that spreads from the immolation. (Moloch, Moloch, Moloch). Frozen Generation rushing from fire to fire, inured to the waste as they try to catch the spark. Mysteries consumed in growth life love. Our voices silenced to make rent. Explosion waiting as we distill our own descendants.
Skulking. Drifting. Alone in our darkness. In our chill.
Postponing what we feel boiling inside us, fearful of mess, frightened of the us it might mean we are.
Passing our heat down to others who might be less afraid.
onethousandwords:
two words: renewed endlessly
three words: Filtered words, Thoughts
five words: Recycled, Reused, Refined, Reimagined, Reincarnate.
ten words: The feeling of a hundred voices pounding on your walls.
twenty five words: Aching to blend them all in a way that will befit the gravity of conducting an orchestra of the dead. The Glorious Harmony of Souls.
fifty words: Longing to feel the thrumming in my veins. The vibrations of every ancestor who contributed to the rivers and lakes in my body. Those hundreds of men and women who sculpted the landscape of me from their own hopes and dreams, fears and lusts. A being distilled, rather than diluted.
seventyfivewords: I skulk here in my mediocrity, a young dragon waiting for the ink in my veins to explode into flame. Violent and hot. Dangerous and unavoidable. Searing friend and enemy. Leaving virulent wounds that resolve into scars, reminding both forever that I existed. That the combustion of me had effect. Skin. Psyche. Soul. A flare in the night, casting nuclear shadows on their now. Refined blood of my forebears screaming release at finally being heard.
onehundredwords: History waits for the Howls, and records them breathlessly. Rapt in admiration for the warmth that spreads from the immolation. (Moloch, Moloch, Moloch). Frozen Generation rushing from fire to fire, inured to the waste as they try to catch the spark. Mysteries consumed in growth life love. Our voices silenced to make rent. Explosion waiting as we distill our own descendants.
Skulking. Drifting. Alone in our darkness. In our chill.
Postponing what we feel boiling inside us, fearful of mess, frightened of the us it might mean we are.
Passing our heat down to others who might be less afraid.
onethousandwords: