This story starts a long time ago
before the teary trails of what I had become
an appearnce that inside and outside can not bare
Something it can't handle
and before the steps I had taken
to get off and around those trails
...
Before a lot of things
Username: Aysan1
Name: Jack Knaiper
Gender: Male
There was no apocolpyse, what are you talking about?
what makes him distressed- Ohoho
Shakespearian sonata- parabel 42- And take 3
Sleepless nights
Ohhh, these sleepless nights
Wind chimes rang in the air, the sun setting such soft, vivid colors into the sky that all thoughts would be abandoned for this sight. The air blew cooly but this sight with its mix of autumn sunlight, yellow and green and misty orange, it made the scraggily wavering branches of the trees, so easily breakable, feel gentle. Or at least look gentle. You see the days start off as they always did, dreary with color and lacking no luster except for the living beings that went through the process of each of these days. Because, each and every day was tiring.
Daddy loved mommy, daddy was faithful and daddy could never hurt her. Daddy was always taking her on grand adventures, lifting her up, in his arms. But daddy wasn't faithful. No, daddy led one troubled track. One very troubled track and as he went through the potholes we fallowed his path, in the dark. Tripping over every little mistake he made, every dent that was put in front of us we felt worse than him, a twister reigned in front of daddy. And a storm covered us. Of course, not all days were twisters, not for daddy, some days were sandstorms, hurricanes, tsunamis, all spinning around him. Covering him with everything he did, so diligently, so lustily that he couldn't see the pictures spinning around his head. The images circling around his very life as he did all the things he did, as he became sarounded by these disasters and fell into desires not on the path we led, not on the path we were on.
The pictures of a family standing together... They were forgotten. Covered with ink of thoughts of not wanting to remember. Blank thoughts that soon turned black and we're forgotten with force. Things I didn't remember because I didn't like to, I didn't want to remember. One day, through the crevice of daddies open door I saw him dancing. It was lively, he seamed on fire, his body bopped and how alive he was made him colorful. These days were caught by my father, when he became so full of color, so dreary with it that it seamed he was drunk on it. It amazed me, how someone with such an inhabitian to be living normal and secret could be able to fit into the vivid colors of the outside world. Not the dark figure sarounded by a coverage of color, bright and living, not the darkness that we all seamed to be compared to each beautiful day.
my parents reaction to me was every good parents reaction, they were content, not seeking more or less after I became theirs.
"Passion, hope, warmth... Caring for someone else. Let me tell you kid, that won't get you anywhere." He swished his cup, mixing up the things that couldn't be with such a force that you almost thought there was something else in that cup, something, that could actually mix into the drink. Something like old hope, now dieing, it seamed. I imagined my fathers dreams to be a burning piece of paper, lit afire and thrown into a trash heap of other destitute ideas. Each one as "not good enough" as the other. And I imagined his feet to be covered in dirt, as if he has walked through that heap. Now, all that had made him alive, free and colorful had taken his color away. And I saw the pants of his legs moistened through all this darkness he walked through, and it made me want to run away. My gaze led to his pant legs, Wich were, undoubtably, clean in appearance. But I couldn't tell if that was real, what I was really seeing was true or not. And I couldn't tell if the brightness, the sparkle in his eyes were still there... Or not.
He stared at me with a seriouse gaze, eyes pent down and striking like two arrows that aimed for my face. And I swear I herd the music in the old family room close by, music that veered out in such a lonely way as I stared out at my father. And there and then I felt like nobody, yet like everybody. I felt like all of them, all of them that stared at their daddies eyes just like I did, and so I stood there, staring into my daddies eyes and listening to his brutalizing words.
"Love, it killed me," he said with a sip of his poison, a concoction that made him crazy.
And so I realized being alive made it so hard to be colorful. Living was something that loved to push you through the processes, something that made you do what everyone else did, in such a cookie cutter society that lacked color.
Shattered windows
Picture frames
Arms around me
Panic pains
Please don't find me
You're too mean
You're too cruel
Too obscene
I've been hiding far too long
But your strikes are likely
Way too strong
I've been thrown around
And I've been hurt
bruises cover all of me
Please don't come back
Don't find me
Stay away from my memories
Not over 2,000 words... eve