Fiction- On Canson Paper
Sep. 8th, 2007 04:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stillthekeyTitle: On Canson Paper
Fandom/Universe: Original
Rating: Teen
You hope that your baby cousin doesn’t grow up to hate you, because you really just want there to be someone who can understand who you’ve become and why.
Yesterday you tried to remember what your grandfather’s face looked like and couldn’t do it. Couldn’t remember how tall he was or that unsteadiness in his walk or the really big smile that everyone says is just like your sisters would be if only she would smile once in a while. But you don’t expect her to grin just to be like him and you hope that your mother doesn’t expect it either. Though your mother expects a lot.
You aren’t really strong anymore or brave anymore or smart anymore. You’re not really happy anymore, come to think of it. And you think that maybe it’s because you never give yourself time to breathe. You bottle it in and forget it and when the tears well up you just bite your lip and say your mantra i’mnotinsanei’mnotinsanei’mnotinsane until the sadness goes away.
(but it doesn’t go away, merely bottles and collects and you wish you could throw it back to the ocean where it belongs)
You write stories about growth and understanding, because SURPRISE - you’re growing up and you’re understanding. Whoop-de-freaking-doo.
You can’t read stories anymore. Because you hate the idea of writing without art and art without writing. There needs to be pictures in your books and sandals on your feet or else your whole world begins to collapse, because you’re not very stable (and you get earthsick oh so very often). There used to be a time when being with your family was the best thing in the world, but now you look at them and their stupid happy faces and their ridiculous expectations and the way they tell you exactly who to be and you can’t even smile properly. Not even when you’re standing next to the Sea and the Sky and Mickey fucking Mouse.
And you don’t love him like you did yesterday. Don’t love your blond haired boy, or your neighbor-love or the third one that you like to forget ever existed. Don’t love them because ones unreachable, ones forever gone and the third may or may have not been the best friend you ever had. You can’t love them, because in order to love you need to hate and the only thing you hate right now is how insignificant you’ve become. Or have always been.
i’mnotinsane
Most of the time you miss the person you used to be. Because you think she was pretty cool. And happy. Oh God, you were so stupidly happy. Now you’re just one of those regretful, stupid, tired people who smile all the time - but only as a side effect of a good mantra and lots and lots of booze (you wish).
Sometimes you wish you had a point or a purpose. You wish you wrote because you had something to say and not because you’re just lonely and in need of attention. Sometimes you wonder about the difference between life and death and know that it’s only the difference between you and your grandfather.
The difference between a murderer and a victim.
i’m NOT insane
You don’t get drunk, because you’re afraid of what your friends will say when you tell them all nonchalant and baby-doll tragic that you probably killed him, your grandpa, your momma’s daddy. And even if you didn’t do it, it doesn’t matter, because the fact was that you wanted him dead anyway. You also wanted your grandmother and mother and father and brothers and sisters and whole world to die too, but you must have missed those people when you were casting your stupid spell. And you wonder why your friends are gonna hate you. Because you killed your grandfather or because you failed to destroy the rest of them?
You realize that writing stories on the computer is stupid. Just like writing in the second person point-of-view is stupid. Because you sterilize the truth with the limitations of the black ink and you deny your own place in the hellish story you write. Goddamn you. You wish you were braver so that you could say “I” and mean it. But all you’ve got is a useless “you” and a tragic “she” and before each breath you whisper “breathe” and panic in your sleep, because no ones there to tell you what to do.
Your favorite colors are pink and blue and you make up stories about characters who fit to their colors and who probably really love each other and you smudge paint onto canson paper and try not to scream when you get purple, because then you have three and three doesn’t go into one without someone bleeding.
And maybe that’s the real reason your grandfather is dead. Because your cousin who might hate you took a part of the one and you who is selfish and as young as you are old took part of the one and your grandfather who believed in all the wrong thing’s tried to take a part too, but three doesn’t go into one without someone dying and you are as young as you are old and your cousin is only just learning how to breathe properly and your grandfather probably never had a mantra to tell him what he is and isn’t.
And so part of the whole became all of a none.
And now you’ve got no grandfathers left.
(you hate the color purple, because of the way you can mix blue and pink and still forget to breathe)
i. am. not. insane.
Your chest feels tight sometimes, but you know that it’s only because you’re the next to die.
(you hope that your baby cousin doesn’t grow up to hate you, because you don’t deserve that much love)
a/n: If you steal this then you're an idiot, because it's already been published.
In other news, this story isn't nearly as good as 'All the King's Horses'. Though I like the paragraph about colors. Oh and canson paper is just really nice drawing paper.
I wish I weren't here right now.
I want my family back.
Fandom/Universe: Original
Rating: Teen
You hope that your baby cousin doesn’t grow up to hate you, because you really just want there to be someone who can understand who you’ve become and why.
Yesterday you tried to remember what your grandfather’s face looked like and couldn’t do it. Couldn’t remember how tall he was or that unsteadiness in his walk or the really big smile that everyone says is just like your sisters would be if only she would smile once in a while. But you don’t expect her to grin just to be like him and you hope that your mother doesn’t expect it either. Though your mother expects a lot.
You aren’t really strong anymore or brave anymore or smart anymore. You’re not really happy anymore, come to think of it. And you think that maybe it’s because you never give yourself time to breathe. You bottle it in and forget it and when the tears well up you just bite your lip and say your mantra i’mnotinsanei’mnotinsanei’mnotinsane until the sadness goes away.
(but it doesn’t go away, merely bottles and collects and you wish you could throw it back to the ocean where it belongs)
You write stories about growth and understanding, because SURPRISE - you’re growing up and you’re understanding. Whoop-de-freaking-doo.
You can’t read stories anymore. Because you hate the idea of writing without art and art without writing. There needs to be pictures in your books and sandals on your feet or else your whole world begins to collapse, because you’re not very stable (and you get earthsick oh so very often). There used to be a time when being with your family was the best thing in the world, but now you look at them and their stupid happy faces and their ridiculous expectations and the way they tell you exactly who to be and you can’t even smile properly. Not even when you’re standing next to the Sea and the Sky and Mickey fucking Mouse.
And you don’t love him like you did yesterday. Don’t love your blond haired boy, or your neighbor-love or the third one that you like to forget ever existed. Don’t love them because ones unreachable, ones forever gone and the third may or may have not been the best friend you ever had. You can’t love them, because in order to love you need to hate and the only thing you hate right now is how insignificant you’ve become. Or have always been.
i’mnotinsane
Most of the time you miss the person you used to be. Because you think she was pretty cool. And happy. Oh God, you were so stupidly happy. Now you’re just one of those regretful, stupid, tired people who smile all the time - but only as a side effect of a good mantra and lots and lots of booze (you wish).
Sometimes you wish you had a point or a purpose. You wish you wrote because you had something to say and not because you’re just lonely and in need of attention. Sometimes you wonder about the difference between life and death and know that it’s only the difference between you and your grandfather.
The difference between a murderer and a victim.
i’m NOT insane
You don’t get drunk, because you’re afraid of what your friends will say when you tell them all nonchalant and baby-doll tragic that you probably killed him, your grandpa, your momma’s daddy. And even if you didn’t do it, it doesn’t matter, because the fact was that you wanted him dead anyway. You also wanted your grandmother and mother and father and brothers and sisters and whole world to die too, but you must have missed those people when you were casting your stupid spell. And you wonder why your friends are gonna hate you. Because you killed your grandfather or because you failed to destroy the rest of them?
You realize that writing stories on the computer is stupid. Just like writing in the second person point-of-view is stupid. Because you sterilize the truth with the limitations of the black ink and you deny your own place in the hellish story you write. Goddamn you. You wish you were braver so that you could say “I” and mean it. But all you’ve got is a useless “you” and a tragic “she” and before each breath you whisper “breathe” and panic in your sleep, because no ones there to tell you what to do.
Your favorite colors are pink and blue and you make up stories about characters who fit to their colors and who probably really love each other and you smudge paint onto canson paper and try not to scream when you get purple, because then you have three and three doesn’t go into one without someone bleeding.
And maybe that’s the real reason your grandfather is dead. Because your cousin who might hate you took a part of the one and you who is selfish and as young as you are old took part of the one and your grandfather who believed in all the wrong thing’s tried to take a part too, but three doesn’t go into one without someone dying and you are as young as you are old and your cousin is only just learning how to breathe properly and your grandfather probably never had a mantra to tell him what he is and isn’t.
And so part of the whole became all of a none.
And now you’ve got no grandfathers left.
(you hate the color purple, because of the way you can mix blue and pink and still forget to breathe)
i. am. not. insane.
Your chest feels tight sometimes, but you know that it’s only because you’re the next to die.
(you hope that your baby cousin doesn’t grow up to hate you, because you don’t deserve that much love)
a/n: If you steal this then you're an idiot, because it's already been published.
In other news, this story isn't nearly as good as 'All the King's Horses'. Though I like the paragraph about colors. Oh and canson paper is just really nice drawing paper.
I wish I weren't here right now.
I want my family back.
