People told her that the door of opportunity was always open; you just had to go through it. But when she realised she couldn’t get out the door, she wrapped a piece of cloth around her fist and smashed the glass of a nearby window. Sure it hurt, but you know what else people say? No pain, no gain.
Can’t go through the door? Make your own.
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Underneath the Performance
I’ve always thought you were a brilliant actress. You took drama since Year 9. You’ve got this wonderful charisma about you, and you can make almost anyone laugh no matter what the circumstance. You’re a lot like me in some ways: we both write, we both seek greater truths, we both love to have fun and make others smile, and we both leave a nice and quiet sort of first impression (when in fact we make a good show of hiding how insane we really are inside).
But for all of the years I’ve known you I’ve slowly been able to take away the outer layer you put up for everyone else to see. I’m decoding you like matching jigsaw puzzles in reverse, or sifting sand barefoot at the beach until all I have is leftover stone and gravelly parts and seashells and gems. I’m sure I’m not the only one. There must be others who notice your careless indifference if a friend takes one of your things without your permission, irking you just slightly. To notice the sadness in your eyes because the news of death still echoes in your mind, even though it’s been weeks now. To notice the stress of exams and fearing disappointing those you love.
Life isn’t a performance in which you are the sole actor, left by yourself to shout soliloquies into the void. I notice these things, dear, I do. And you don’t have to go it alone. -
I’ve been sucked into the void again. Or perhaps the void has enveloped me. I’m not exactly sure which.
I reach my hand out into the fog, trying to search for something, anything. But my outstretched hand meets no tangible object, only the empty space in front of me. I take my hand back and realise it’s cold. I don’t feel the cold, not exactly. I register the sensation: cold. Nothing else. No other emotion.
I look out into the world and notice that everything seems distant. It’s not physically far away, rather, the absence of being able to connect to sensations and emotions as I automatically would. In the past, when this happened to me I would normally go through the motions of pretend so no one would notice the difference until this phase would go away. But it’s different this time - it’s gotten to my writing. I stare at an empty page and have a few ideas bubbling up inside of me but when I reach for a word it seems to flit away. My fingers merely brush the surface of the letters so when I open my hand there are only half-formed words or the essence of what I want to write.
When I go through this phase I also notice this distinct sound more often. It’s like turning on a television, most likely one of those old ones, and hearing an extremely high pitched and loud sound. No one else seems to notice it. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps they do notice but their talking and restlessness and constant need to occupy their mind causes them not to hear the unbearable high pitched sound.
I don’t know. I’m just babbling away here. I just hope this fog lifts soon because I both miss and not miss writing like it was before.
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Denying the inevitable
It causes me to pause whenever I hear that scientists have discovered a way to live longer - more often than not through unnatural means. (When I say unnatural I mean like drugs, surgery, etc.) I watch on the news the people who are excited for the day in the future that this idea may become the present. There are both pros and cons to the idea of living longer, perhaps even the concept of being immortal, is a possibility.
But does living longer necessarily mean a better life? No.
It’s what you do with that life which matters.
And that’s what I fear that will be lost in humanity’s search for more time - they’ll be too involved, consumed in the race against time (even though the winner is predetermined, the winner of course being Death), to even think about happiness. Would you not rather a fulfilling and content but short life, than an unhappy long and dragged out one?
What about outliving all those you love and keep close to your heart as you stand still frozen in the middle of time? What do you do then?
There will be a time when everything dies. Maybe the case will be where the once expanding universe stops moving outwards and gradually starts drawing closer and closer to the centre again until humans look up one day and all they can see are falling stars - the light blinding their eyes and the heat burning their bodies. Where do we exist after that? Is it the same place we exist after death?
Death is inevitable. We were born to die (however, the meaning of life and the matter of being born for a greater purpose can probably be discussed in another post). If you deny the inevitable, you’re just fooling yourself. -
Deserving… things
You don’t deserve that.
Whenever I hear that statement I wonder… if that person didn’t deserve the heartbreak or loss, then who does? Now, your automatic answer might be No one deserves that treatment, and I do see some validity in that - pain and the suffering that lingers hurts a lot. It can be a dark cloud that hangs in front of your vision and you have no idea of when the fog will lift away. Or it can be a exploding white hot sensation.
However, if you step back and put it all into perspective, everything in life isn’t always as bad as it seems. Compare your life to the cosmos and its enormity; how vast and powerful it is filled with exploding stars and swirling black holes. Or the miniscule amount of years you will live to the amount of time the creation on Earth took to form and evolve. See how your problems shrink; reduced to seem so insignificant and trivial?
And then there’s the question to ponder of where we would be if we didn’t experience loss or pain. Overcoming problems allows us to grow to be better people. Just like happiness, sadness and other emotions are part of life - they give a different things to us we can learn from. They become a part of us through memories and shaping our personality, allowing us to know how to respond rather than to react to certain situations.
Perhaps we may or may not deserve the bad things that happen to us. Nonetheless, they happen, more to some people than others, but it’s also a matter of how you choose to carry your burdens - Do you grow or crumble because of them?
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Summertime Madness
I have my red dress on tonight so you won’t be able to see my blood on my clothes later on. Summer time madness hangs heavy in the air, pressing onto my skin unlike the brush of your angelic touch. I’m dancing with the Devil in the divine night, showered in the pale moonlight while you’re watching on. Everyone else around me dances on, not expecting a thing.
The song dies down and I walk over to you. Kiss me hard before you say good night because you’ll see me no more. Just know that if I go tonight that I’ll take Death’s hand happily. Nothing scares me anymore.
There are things beyond love and desire and tonight the fire in my belly pushes me to find out what they are. So I bid you adieu as I waltz off into the night, hopping into my car to ride on the roads until I reach my destination. I arrive and take off my high heels as a smile grows on my face. I peer over the edge, the thrill of anticipation running through my veins. I’m feeling electric tonight, listening to the Devil’s whispers, but why does everything feel like heavenly ecstasy?
I let myself go over the edge and gravity takes a hold of me. The wind whips my hair and I laugh despite the danger. Something knocks into me from my side and picks me up, stealing me from my descent. I look up into your face full of confusion, fear and relief that I’m back in your arms. I smile at my angel, your wings carrying us back to safety and away from my death. I guess I have no need for my red dress tonight then…
Prompt: Summertime Sadness (Cedric Gervais Remix) by Lana Del Ray -
Cleaning up the Mess
Oh hey! Look I wrote another fan fiction, this time in the Sherlock universe. Although, it’s not actually fan fiction… more like putting my character (Valkyrie) and a friend’s character (Illyria) inside the story to help Sherlock after the Season 2 Episode 3 ‘Reichenbach Fall’. Enjoy:
No one had thought to check the rooftop which Sherlock had ‘fallen’ off.
Well, they did, technically… but they only gave it a once over glazed-eyed sweep. And they certainly did not check until afterwards - after Valkyrie and Illyria cleaned up the mess. It was certainly a new experience for Illyria, Valkyrie could tell you that. Illyria ran to the other side of the rooftop and emptied out her breakfast onto the London streets below. Thankfully there were no people underneath or nearby. Even Valkyrie felt a bit woozy, having to turn away and lean against the door frame. She felt her head go slightly dizzy but stomped the nausea down. She had seen more dead bodies than Illyria, sometimes it was her actions that had been the cause of their death, and Illyria was still somewhat new to this. You learnt to build up your resistance when it came to these things; cast an emotionless detachment from the person whom you once knew, now just a body lying motionless and lifeless on the ground. But that didn’t stop it from being like a punch to the gut every time you were in the situation.
When Illyria came back and stood next to Valkyrie, a shade paler than when they had arrived, Valkyrie had regained her composure. Nodding to each other, they both turned back to face what had to be cleaned up.
“Oh jeez. The smell. You should be glad you don’t have acute awareness Val. God damn it,” Illyria muttered, scrunching her nose. “Do we have to do this?”
Valkyrie sighed, just as motivated as Illyria was. “He told us to. We have to do it.”
“But why us?” Yet Illyria knew why they were called upon by Sherlock. They were the best options available.
“Look, why don’t you search the area? Collect the gun and Sherlock’s phone. I’ll take care of the body.”
“Okay.”
Valkyrie walked up to Moriarty and stared down at him. The blood was pooled around Moriarty’s head, his dead eyes staring above into the London grey sky, an eccentric grin still plastered on his face. The guilty gun was a few centimetres away from his splayed hand. Valkyrie kicked the gun away from Moriarty’s hand, half expecting him to jolt awake and grab her foot. She was glad that she wouldn’t have to touch the madman in order to shadow-walk him back to base. It would take a toll on her, though, Valkyrie knew. She waved her hand over his body and felt an inkling of a life force. Odd. She should have felt none considering it had been a few days since The Fall. Not enough for Valkyrie to heal him (she doubted she could bring him back from Death), but there was something there, his essence lingering in the body. Before Valkyrie was able to further ponder what was wrong with Moriarty Illyria called out behind her.
“Hey Val!”
She turned around and Illyria walked up to her, holding out Sherlock’s phone in her gloved hand. “Looks like John wasn’t the last person to call Sherlock.”
Valkyrie dug her hand in her trench coat pocket and pulled out her gloves and put them on. She took the slim phone and peered at the screen, a private number listed. “Who do you think it was?”
Illyria shrugged. “Someone from the homeless network maybe? But that’s not all.” She came up next to Valkyrie and pressed a few buttons, bringing up Sherlock’s call log. “See? Someone tried to call Sherlock after he had fallen as well. A few seconds too late it seems.”
“Irene tried to call.” Valkyrie frowned. “Seems like she was too late to save Sherlock this time. We’ll work out these things later, or better yet, get Sherlock to figure everything out - he usually does.”
Illyria grabbed Moriarty’s gun and took Sherlock’s phone, sealing both items into clear plastic bags. “So what are we going to do with the blood?”
“Take it with us.” Valkyrie replied, playing with her necromancy ring around on her finger with her thumb.
Illyria’s head whipped towards Valkyrie. “Wait. What?” Her eyes widened as she looked from Valkyrie to Moriarty.
“Well Sherlock did say to bring absolutely everything. And don’t worry, we don’t have to touch him to teleport him back to base.” Valkyrie held out her hand without her necromancy ring on it and Illyria took it. Valkyrie pulled on the shadows around her, most of the darkness coming from the death that surrounded Moriarty. The shadows swirled around the three, tendrils of black touching Moriarty and linking him to Valkyrie. Valkyrie clenched her fist and they vanished, not a trace of evidence left behind on the rooftop. -
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So this is my first attempt at writing fan fiction as
forcedprompted by Mel based on “The Fault in our Stars” by John Green (woo! Nerdfighters!). I’d like to thank Noelle for allowing me to use a line from her post to end my piece (:
Without further ado, here you go:
“Okay,” Hazel said, “I’m leaving now.”
“Okay,” I choked out, but she had already hung up. All I could hear was the beep beep beep of an empty line.
I loosened my grip on my phone and let it fall to the car floor. I didn’t want to move for fear of making my G-tube worse. I looked down, and through my tears I could see my long, pale fingers desperately trying to keep the stupid tube that my insignificant life depended on against my stomach.
All I could smell was the rancid stench of my own vomit – food that was uncomfortable at its best to swallow and keep down, only to come back up in painful retches. The acid had burned my throat on the way out and the taste of bile was stuck on my tongue. Tears streaked down my face, an animal-like cry escaping my mouth as a sob racked my body.
I was drained. All I wanted was some stupid cigarettes. Yet I didn’t even have the independence to do one little thing. The suffering was agonizing. I just wanted to die. I just wanted to fucking die.
I heard footsteps, but everything felt far away; distant. Someone opened the car door and I turned my head slightly and squinted at them. The interior car light shone onto her face, creating a halo on her brown, pageboy haircut. She was beautiful, my lovely Hazel Grace, the one I deeply, unconditionally and irrevocably loved.
I groaned and turned away, hating how she could see me like this – so vulnerable and pitiful and inadequate and helpless. And if my thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations, I think they will soon be reduced into stellar remnants, floating in the cosmos to be lost in oblivion and the white noise of my last transmission.
