Drabbling About Love, Part 1
Notes: I dunno. I think I'd like to fall in love with an artist, or a writer, or a musician. Considering how bratty and terrible I am, it'd have to be someone creative, to think of the many, many new and improved ways to shut me up. This isn't drawn from a life experience. This is just a line I read, stretched out to silly lengths.
Now off to write that thing for Kit. xD
I fell in love with an artist.
Nothing serious existed in her world - no time, no order. She'd spend all night hammering out word after word, clicking key after key, weaving her every thought into a story which she'd keep for two days, and delete. 'Always room for new ones, always room for improvement,' she'd say, on one of her deleting binges. 'Always upgrade'.
She'd sleep sporadically, half an hour between drafts, and wake up to paint when the sun was going down - nothing orderly. Splashes of colour, slices of light and shadow. Her mouth pouted permanently. It seemed like she was born with blue-tipped fingers, and the ends of her hair dyed technicolour, and with lines scrawled onto her forearms for her to remember. She was a walking masterpiece in progress. Great things were coming.
I admired her skill and her talent, I admired her greatly.
She'd sit in perfect silence and create worlds in her head, worlds that never existed, but breathed life. Or she'd come and sit by me, as I try to write myself, and she'd say, 'no, no, indulge, not force'.
And she indulged whatever she wanted to.
That was what made her beautiful.
Now off to write that thing for Kit. xD
I fell in love with an artist.
Nothing serious existed in her world - no time, no order. She'd spend all night hammering out word after word, clicking key after key, weaving her every thought into a story which she'd keep for two days, and delete. 'Always room for new ones, always room for improvement,' she'd say, on one of her deleting binges. 'Always upgrade'.
She'd sleep sporadically, half an hour between drafts, and wake up to paint when the sun was going down - nothing orderly. Splashes of colour, slices of light and shadow. Her mouth pouted permanently. It seemed like she was born with blue-tipped fingers, and the ends of her hair dyed technicolour, and with lines scrawled onto her forearms for her to remember. She was a walking masterpiece in progress. Great things were coming.
I admired her skill and her talent, I admired her greatly.
She'd sit in perfect silence and create worlds in her head, worlds that never existed, but breathed life. Or she'd come and sit by me, as I try to write myself, and she'd say, 'no, no, indulge, not force'.
And she indulged whatever she wanted to.
That was what made her beautiful.