[[DRAFT]] S P A C E

A sharp sting travelled through my entire body. Everything is pitch black. Time isn't here.

Faint images spurred. Soft colours and shapes I couldn't ever have dreamt of. Someone I knew, at least from what I could tell. Everything seemed to be in place, eyes, nose, mouth, hair. But something wasn't right, it didn't fit. It didn't act human. It didn't ...hesitate. I extend my hand, rather something within me, as if I couldn't escape from it. For a second I thought I saw a smile but when I tried focusing my eyes it wasn't there anymore,

Soft light. I'm dust.

 

 PS: REALLY short and rough but I'm not feeling very well today. Either way I wanted to post something today. I've written quite a bit these past few days, I'll transcript whenever I have some free time

[DRAFT] Mardi au cirque

 Le matelas pue. Elle n'a pas eu le temps de le changer. Pas de choix. Les jumeaux doivent rouler dans nos déchets corporels, la sueur collective d’il y a deux semaines.

Ils volent...puis tombent.Sur le matelas. Une main droite frôle à peine le matelas, une horreur crépite sous leur peau. Des yeux s'écarquillent, montent des secousses. Alors que tout leur poids va s'enfoncer dans la redoutée tombe, des bras s'agitent, les bousculant ailleurs. Ils sont suspendus en l'air seul par leurs expressions d'horreur, à chaque seconde devenant plus terrible que la précédente. Un sacrifice nécessaire, tout et rien afin d'éviter ce puit immonde. Le rideau est tiré.

Se lève la clameur dans le public. C'est toujours comme ça, ils viennent pour voir des miracles avec des étoiles dans les yeux, tout est parfaitement en place, aucun doute dans la salle. Depuis les gradins ils disparaissent dans le noir, une illusion, des anges pendant quelques secondes. ces hommes sont les altesses des cieux. Bien sûr qu'on crée des miracles, mais après des années de prodiges , les étoiles aux yeux deviennent un paysage habituel. Ce n'est plus qu'un travail au bureau avec quelques pauses du café pour faire quelque pirouette.

Le rideau s'ouvre, le brouhaha de la salle devient un murmur.

C’est à nous

First

 

My first blank page how exciting!

When I write it isn't inspired by the 38 different muses that live in my head and decide to talk over each other constantly. It is rather unnatural anyways to write, first you need something to say, second an intention, then the perfect style to move your reader to tears. 

That keeps you away from writing, it has kept me away anyway. That's why this entry is in a casual language. Otherwise I'd spend 3 hours thinking of the billion ways I could be writing something and then I'd realise that I hadn't gotten out of bed in the entire evening.When that happens, a concrete wall stops any life to get away from my head, which I wouldn't mind if it didn't build up and became exhausting to bear That feeling is so heavy that it makes me freeze in place for a few days. The very act of walking becomes a gargantuan task. 

When I think about writing anything, I realise that everything has already been written. No matter how hard I try there's nothing, I can be better than someone before me. Now, that is a life-sucking thought and so I've decided to do my own thing. I wouldn't consider myself competitive by nature or anything of the sort, however I have these immense ambitions that could've inspired a hero to begin his journey. It seems to be a self-imposed limit. Then, from now on I will try to just have fun with whatever I'm writing, it doesn't need to be the next bestseller.

That is all for today's rambling hopefully tomorrow I have a story for you. 

R.