Update post, I suppose. I found a couple nice songs because of Homestuck, but you don't have to have read/watched it to understand them. They're just nice anyways.
I think I'll post them first.
The first is actually a song from 1908, I'm pretty sure. It was then redone by David Ko, and used in Homestuck which is how I found it and...yeah. I love it. I can't stop singing it, even if I'm terrible at it.
The second one isn't an official song, it's a fansong by...Phemie? Now there's a name I'd like to know more about. Kinda like 'Phoebe'? Anyways:
Responses to comments:
Thankyou for being awesome :D I swear to keep writing then, just cos you were so nice :P Unfortunately, no amazing stories this post. I've kinda been stuck recently and it's not a nice feeling.
I think there should be...what, eleven posts left now? This is #89, so yeah, 11 more to go. Wonder how long it'll take me to post just 11 simple posts though :L
OCTABOONA WHAT'S UP
I did end up buying TFiOS, although I'm not sure if I told people. And yeah, it's just kinda...sitting there on my shelf...looking shy... Not today, TFiOS. Not today.
Thanks for commenting, once again, and I hope you move out of house smoothly enough :)
SKYRIL HOW'RE YA
Could you like, not post thirty-odd comments overnight XD I can't even begin to praise you for your awesomeness, let alone come close to your commenting addiction.
It was appreciated so much though. Each comment was a little nugget of nostalgic gold.
I'm glad you liked the story :) I had a lot of fun writing it. Not sure when/if I'll get back to it though. A lot on my mind atm.
KALLISTASISTA WHAT'S THE HAPS make sure i never say that again
Thanks for the birthday wishes :D Yours is coming up pretty soon, isn't it? ;P You're growing up too fast, I swear.
I will finish your bday story sooner or later, I swear!
Thanks for the wishes and compliments. The characters used in the story weren't mine, actually, but I thought they were rather brilliantly created, right down to their powers and names :)
DEATH ROSE, YO!
Thanks for the birthday wishes :) It's ok that it got lost, I don't hold it against ya :P
I guess to make up for the lack of stories or poetry in this post, I'm going to post 'something' that doesn't quite fit under story or poem. I guess more story than poem.
I wrote it a few weeks ago after a frustrating day. Or during it, actually. It doesn't really matter. I wring my hands and stare at my hands and wonder if anyone else just looks at their own hands- not the fingers or knuckles, but just the back of the hand, leading up to the knuckles. Look at that thumb. Why are thumbs like that, do you reckon? Just clasp your hands as if you're arm wrestling yourself. Wouldn't you just love to sit down and draw it, instead of typing this post at 11pm? Why yes, Inner-Voice, I would.
Yeah, don't worry about anything I just said, the relevance probably won't make much sense anyways.
I'm sorry if the capitalization of 'You' gets annoying.
You stare at it. The sheen of fogged up glass catches Your eye and challenges You to look away. But at what else? It’s only You, Your reflection, and the glass shower door.
The water’s there, in the back of Your mind and on the back of Your head. It courses down and tries to prepare You for today, but it couldn’t begin to try. Nothing that special about today; it’s just school. But maybe that’s it. Just school is bad enough on its own, You think, so for now there’s nothing extra to be anxious about.
Anxious. You hate it, because that’s what You feel. The coiling worms of anger and helplessness and worry devour Your will as easily as the water courses down Your back. Despite hoping otherwise You know that the anxiety will not be cured by any amount of showering or reflection-staring.
You are trapped, plain and simple. The bathroom door, the shower door, the water, nakedness. You could not leave if You wanted to. You could not disappear or become a better person. You could not, even if You wanted to. And You so very badly want to.
Your hands come together again without You realizing. They clasp each other and within seconds of their embrace they wring, rigid fingers becoming the very worms of anxiety that You are trying Your best not to think about. They twist and wring and rotate until You have to force Yourself to stop by pushing them against each other, battling opponents of equal force. The standstill ends it. Large hands. Not calloused, but large and pockmarked with the tiny pale ghosts of a hundred childhood scabs, papercuts and stupid mistakes.
Stupid mistakes. Not many, considering. Considering what? Well, people You know. Considering that Your life could be worse. But You know, as with many things, that You don’t talk about those people anymore. No-one takes You seriously about them. Rude and unsympathetic, but that’s not anyone’s fault. After all, they’re all just People.
“I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain. It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.”
The same song loops through Your head. Alright, that’s enough feeling sorry for Yourself. You’ll be back, the water hisses when You sharply turn the hot and cold taps off. Your reflection glumly returns Your stare as the glass demists without haste. You blink. You guess the reflection did too, but You’ll never really know.
One by one, You let Yourself out of the imprisonments. The shower door, the nakedness, the bathroom door. The anxiety’s Your Friend by now, coaxing You back into the real world where You belong. Where You can be hurt and where anxiety thrives.
So then You’re at school.
And You realize that You were right to be anxious.
After all that worrying while You told Your reflection that You’ll be ok, it turns out that You actually weren’t.
Nothing went right from the word ‘Go’. And if You could ever meet the sideliner who even announced Go in Your life You’d like to go punch him a bit.
The anxiety was no longer Your friend by that point, it was You. Your voice cracked when You told the teacher You were sick, and You fumbled with each of Your books as You made Your way out of class.
And then You were here, in the sickbay. Even then, there was no respite. No-one to pick You up or take You out of this hellhole.
So You sat and tried to get rid of that anxiety. It was still there an hour later, but it wasn’t as strong. Just the constant questions circling the bloody waters in Your mind- What will I do? How will I do it? What if no-one listens? Why now, why me, why anyone?
Food break. You don’t think about the food, You just eat it. Mechanical. Piece by piece. You don’t enjoy it. Crumbs spill onto the bed, but it’s not Your bed, so why should You care? It’s No-one’s bed, and No-one looks after it anyway. Plastic covered mattress smothered with cherry red sheet, yelling at You to sleep and get better. Better luck next time, No-one’s bed. You can’t yell me to sleep.
And then You get picked up.
You go home.
You do everything that You could possibly do except face the problem that’s sitting there. You try to write about You but the words about You just turn to sludge, and so You can no longer write.
You eat. Watch T.V. Try reading. Try doing homework. Try doing something practical. Try. And Fail.
‘Ok,’ You say, giving up. ‘If that’s what it’ll take, I guess I’ll go do it.’ Only You know what You’re talking about. You and the coiling anxiety.
So You type up a letter with the person’s name on it. Piss off, it says, plus a lot more.
You rewrite it, a little less ‘loud’ than before.
You cut it up into segments, compose it into a message, and hit send.
And then it’s not You anymore, it’s Them, Their, They.
They start typing back, and apologize instantly.
How could Their mind know it?
They Completely Understand,
And You sigh
It’s not all over, but at least now You’ve crushed one of those worms of anxiety under Your heel, which sends all the rest scurrying into Your depths.
Back to the bathroom.
And stare into the eyes of Your reflection, just a little less glum than before.
'K. I'm off for now. Sorry to those who've sent me emails recently- I'll get around to it. You just gotta trust me.