Great Winged Angels
I really like this one, so I fixed it up a little. The original is also my own work, from 27 October, 2010.
Comments/criticism encouraged, but I wrote this for myself, and no one else.
I don't want to exist.
I sit, enclosed in my warm womb of dark, tight space, light ever encroaching from a large rectangle to my right. It shines golden-orange. I learn to hate it. I'm not silent, but still, sudden squeaks of noise leaping across my lips on instances of shock and humour, but not otherwise. The only regular sound comes from the quick clacking of keys, and the slow trickle emerging out my headphones.
It's cold in here. It hasn't any right to be, but it is, and I huddle up in mismatched, ill-cleaned blankets - my own fault, that - praying for an indoor Santa Ana. I find I need to get something from out there, but I don't want to leave. I can be hungry later.
---
They're so strange, these people. They speed by in directions and lights and colors, flaming red and vibrant purples, so enormous and ever-changing I can't even begin to fathom it. They fascinate me, so intriguing in their strangely tactile joy. And yet they anger, so swift, like all their turns, and with expectations of omniscience after every one - benevolence to hate. Like a caterpillar, raging that his friend the worm does not recognize him as a butterfly, each ever unable to understand the other's state of being.
My exclamations of bewilderment do not acquiesce with their fair tongue, which being the correct one is only what I should be using in the first place. They know this, and agree.
I would little wonder if I should find that caterpillars and worms are not often friends.
Comments/criticism encouraged, but I wrote this for myself, and no one else.
I don't want to exist.
I sit, enclosed in my warm womb of dark, tight space, light ever encroaching from a large rectangle to my right. It shines golden-orange. I learn to hate it. I'm not silent, but still, sudden squeaks of noise leaping across my lips on instances of shock and humour, but not otherwise. The only regular sound comes from the quick clacking of keys, and the slow trickle emerging out my headphones.
It's cold in here. It hasn't any right to be, but it is, and I huddle up in mismatched, ill-cleaned blankets - my own fault, that - praying for an indoor Santa Ana. I find I need to get something from out there, but I don't want to leave. I can be hungry later.
---
They're so strange, these people. They speed by in directions and lights and colors, flaming red and vibrant purples, so enormous and ever-changing I can't even begin to fathom it. They fascinate me, so intriguing in their strangely tactile joy. And yet they anger, so swift, like all their turns, and with expectations of omniscience after every one - benevolence to hate. Like a caterpillar, raging that his friend the worm does not recognize him as a butterfly, each ever unable to understand the other's state of being.
My exclamations of bewilderment do not acquiesce with their fair tongue, which being the correct one is only what I should be using in the first place. They know this, and agree.
I would little wonder if I should find that caterpillars and worms are not often friends.