(no subject)
Hello there, I'm new.
Enjoy. :) Criticisms welcome.
Everywhere I looked, there was sand. For miles and miles around me, there was sand.
I sat in the middle of it, on the sand, furiously drawing stick figures with my fingers; the friction burning my fingertips so much they hurt.
I thought about Anna, about how much I wanted her, needed her, thinking so hard that it brought tears to my eyes; tears that squeezed out from the corner of my eyes like two hard drops, staining my cheeks and halting right there in the middle of them.
The stick figures on the sand grew more incomprehensible as I drew on. With each stroke, male turned into female, decapitated and then alive, threatening to jump out of the sandy tableau and consume, main, destroy.
Like how the thought of Anna was eating me whole.
I stood up and surveyed my surroundings, involuntarily looking down and examining my work of art. I grimaced - the stick figures looked like a whole mess of - of what? - from above, making no sense and then simultaneously forming into the image of Anna, lovely Anna.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again, and then Anna was gone.
Like how she never really existed in the first place.
All right, the game is over, I thought, as the desperate need for water penetrated my thoughts, my parched lips feeling like dried cement with each passing second.
I kicked the stick figure images on the sand, rubbing my soles against the sand, over and over, over and over, until the last remnants of whatever was to be seen in that sandy tableau became a whole mess of nothing.
And then, there again, was the image of Anna, lovely Anna.
Everywhere I looked, there was sand. For miles and miles around me, there was sand.
Enjoy. :) Criticisms welcome.
Everywhere I looked, there was sand. For miles and miles around me, there was sand.
I sat in the middle of it, on the sand, furiously drawing stick figures with my fingers; the friction burning my fingertips so much they hurt.
I thought about Anna, about how much I wanted her, needed her, thinking so hard that it brought tears to my eyes; tears that squeezed out from the corner of my eyes like two hard drops, staining my cheeks and halting right there in the middle of them.
The stick figures on the sand grew more incomprehensible as I drew on. With each stroke, male turned into female, decapitated and then alive, threatening to jump out of the sandy tableau and consume, main, destroy.
Like how the thought of Anna was eating me whole.
I stood up and surveyed my surroundings, involuntarily looking down and examining my work of art. I grimaced - the stick figures looked like a whole mess of - of what? - from above, making no sense and then simultaneously forming into the image of Anna, lovely Anna.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again, and then Anna was gone.
Like how she never really existed in the first place.
All right, the game is over, I thought, as the desperate need for water penetrated my thoughts, my parched lips feeling like dried cement with each passing second.
I kicked the stick figure images on the sand, rubbing my soles against the sand, over and over, over and over, until the last remnants of whatever was to be seen in that sandy tableau became a whole mess of nothing.
And then, there again, was the image of Anna, lovely Anna.
Everywhere I looked, there was sand. For miles and miles around me, there was sand.