Tag: writing

The Words

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These people were trying to change the narrative, they felt that using language as their main weapon against language. Language had been used to keep the majority of us hostage for a long time. They were fighting language to save humanity, to bring down the old power structures. To give us freedom.

The words in truth, we never know what they are. We try and pin them down on the page but they dance and change shape, never being peaceful.  I try and keep my mind blank as I read through the words, any place where prejudice can creep in it. Tainting what I am reading, with what I already think I know or have been conditioned to think. The words control us, every aspect of our day is controlled by them, we feel we have free will but it is nothing more than illusory.

The room is starting to darken, slowly at first but now providing me with problems reading. I reach over and witch on the light. One fluorescent bulb slowly sputters to life, before bathing the room in its sickly white glow. I can feel my eyes already rejecting this light, not quite believing in its fake daytime glow. Later my head will remind me of this light. The words make sense at one level, all around me the structures are built on words. How can I deconstruct the world without using words, even primal noises will eventually become a form of language. Language will always grow and evolve from sounds.

Mind Wolves

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Sleep is a constant battle. I constantly feel tired, but sleep brings problems. It brings the proper scary thoughts, I do not know if it is because I am winding down or if just because I hate myself so much that I try and sabotage one of the things that can help me get better. Will I ever truly get better? I used to call these thoughts wolves.

They come now. More frequently. Almost every night. Flashes, glimpses of life. This life? Another life? How can I tell? It seems like memories of the past, memories of a future, memories of a memory? Why do they torture me so?

Alone now in the woods. It looks like twilight; the air is grey and damp. The green moss is racing away up the trees. The wolves. I can hear them now. I can see them flashing through the undergrowth. Flashes of grey through the damp, dark green of the woods. They are soundless, yet I can hear them, howling, shrieking, baying for blood, my blood, no one else’s, my blood. The grey almost glows as it hits the flashes of light sneaking through the trees. My heart is racing, racing away from me. The shapes, they move, they change, the wolves are here. They are changing. I can feel no terror, yet my heart still races.

Where are the wolves? It’s changing. Where are the wolves? Looking around they are no longer there. Where are they now? I need to move; my body is calling out for flight. The dampness is pervading me. The light is darkening. The wolves have left, their presence I can still feel though. Like a pressure cooker waiting to explode. I’m in my bed, where are the wolves? The outdoors dampness is still surrounding me.

The sweat is nestling on my brow. Is it like this for everyone? Why does no one talk about the wolves? If we talk about them do they become real? Is there a code of silence? Should we give them life? Will, that free my head? Sweating, now the sheets are getting damper, leaden with my fears.

Looking around the room is dark. I see the comforting shapes of my life lying around the room. They seem less real in this light, more like a mirage of a life led. The wolves come creeping back. I feel them nuzzling my back. Their hot breath tracing shapes on the nape of my neck, it’s causing my hair to rise. Should I look round? They can’t be there. I feel them though. That doesn’t mean they are real though. Does it? What will happen if I turn around? I should turn around. But what if they are there? I can hear a low growl, making my whole body tense. The air near my neck is getting warmer. They are real. Where can I hide? Where can I go? How do I escape? THEY ARE NOT REAL. I can feel them. You’re lying to yourself, go to sleep and in the morning, you will see. This is not how I imagined going. This is not how I should be going. I should not be going. I don’t deserve to go. You won’t be going, they are not real. I feel their presence, watching me, waiting for a sign of weakness, a chance to break through. It’s all in your head. How can you be sure? Trust me. What if you’re wrong? Well, look around? I can’t. I JUST CAN’T! DO IT! No. Look around. Why, what will it achieve? JUST DO IT! No, they are there I know it. How do you know they are there? I am outside. You’re in your bed. No! I feel the air, I can smell the air. I am outside. YOU’RE IN YOUR BED! Look around. Stop IT! LOOK AROUND! LOOK AROUND NOW!

I look

Futility

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He knew he would never find the answer. He knew she would never tell him. He knew he would still futilely try and get her to give him the answer. It would never happen but what if she finally relented? Finally allowed him a glimpse of herself, a reason for why everything had happened. He knew she would never give away any part of herself.

The truth was for her a closely guarded secret, one she would never reveal if she revealed it the whole charade would collapse. She would be standing there in a room full of the shards of broken glass. Looking at her life and the wreckage she had caused. Her crown of thorns would be falling.

He wanted this to happen, hope was he had been left with, the hope that she would let slip the truth. The longer she waited, the greater his triumph would be.