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Saturday Sun by Nick Drake
all my feels. :c
Spilling Ink in Ecstatic Apathy
I'm Marie. I have many names in fact-but since we all know that which we call a rose by any other name, would smell as sweet-I doubt you care.
Introverted dreamer,thinker,observer, space+time traveller. Pen and paper are her inseparble companions on the hunt for inspiration. Writes short stories, pointless prose and god-knows what else.
Let's connect.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
What’s happened to this place? I haven’t visited my tumblr in over 8 months and somehow, over this short period of time, the prose tag turned into some sort of sexual-pulp-fiction collection with every second post describing someone’s unlucky sexual experience.
Turned a little fashionable, huh?
How deeply you’ve hurt me.
And as the wounds started to close up, once again you felt the need to spill the acid on my bones.
It’s not what you’ve done to me, it’s what you’ve done to yourself. It’s what you are doing to yourself. Painstaikingly draging your soul through the thorns to a life-less desert which lies ahead. Why are you doing this?
You think of me. And I wander if you cringe everytime you see my number displayed on your shiny Blackberry. And I hope you feel guilty, you feel regret. And I hope I’m not the only one at night hearing voices of the past like some distant electric drill, entangled deeply into the labyrinth of my own thoughts, waking up breathing heavily to find my pillow soaked with tears. And I hope you realize that I was probably one of the best things to come your way, to love you, to listen to you, and I was probably one of the few that could forgive you for all the times you shut me out and all the times you’ve shattered my hopes.
Chasing after two rabbits is never a good idea. But I’m not a rabbit, I’m more of a gazelle. You caught me once, but your lasso has let you down. Looks like rabbit hunting is your only option.
I want you to be completely miserable without me. I want to be poison under your skin, thorn in your eye, cyanide in your cup, knife in your back until you wither in agony on the bathroom floor. I did not need your appology. I do not want you back. Yet I want you to experience the beauty of suffering. The horror. The pain you’ve put me through and took away a month of my precious life.I want you to feel it. I think it’s unfair how easy it all seems to you, how jolly and simple. I want you to feel something. For all the sweet words, for leading me on, for making me open to you the depths of my soul, like worm in an apple eating your way through to the very core and then spitting me out. For making me feel like a princes and leaving me as a beggar.
I am a vindictive bitch. But at least then perhaps I won’t be the only one bleeding ink and tears all night long instead of sleeping.
It was a quiet morning. The pale blue cupola of the sky-dome above was still enveloped by the sombre shadow of the night which was slowly being driven away by the golden eye of the Sun rising above the horizon. Summer gathered in the weather and the breathing of the world was steady, warm and slow. Thin plashing of the never-ending sea of grass was welcoming, like the lulling of the waves reaching your ears, making you discover another world.
A different world.
A world so distant from the steel and glass of the busy city, humming of the trains and cars, not to mention the hassling, kicking, and biting people eagerly making their ways through the labyrinth of their careers,intigues and money.Silent paradise.
You could not hear them come. Three silent figures moved through the field in a little chain, stepping carefully one after the other, afraid to disturb the precious peace. Three teens already not boys, but still not men running away from the cruel world, thin, dark-haired and pale starved of the sunshine over the long winter confinement. The chain sauntered swiftly towards the woods on the edge of the ravine, afraid to destroy the lavish peace with an uncouth movement of the foot or arm, keeping silent like the unbounded depths of Cosmos….
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
- Ray Bradbury (via viveremori)
(via cracked-sidewalks)
I remember that day…
…when I’ve finally realised who I am. When I realised who I wanted to be and what I wanted to live like. Most importantly I came to the conclusion that I’m asexual. Branding yourself is never a good idea especially at the tender age of 16. But that day is still fresh in my mind, it was a sunny summer day, and I lay quietly in the shadow by the river, hidden by the dense fence of bushes away from the burning eyes of the civilization.
That day I became sharply aware of my existence
At that very moment, I remember taking my first gulp of freedom. Feeling no longer tied to the languid life-outline, that has been rammed into my head since I was little, I felt an atomic bomb explode inside me. Energy, adrenalin, more energy were flowing through my veins. The feeling was so strong that I felt almost omnipotent, invincible. The pre-taste of success and adventure filled in my mouth, as I lay staring into the azure blue sky. I was going to have an exciting life. And I knew it. And I swore by that very tree I was lying under that I will try as many things as I can in life, be that drugs or a bungee-jump.
Then September came, and the cold autumn rain washed my dreams down the drain, together with the yellowing leaves, locking them safe under the ice-crust. All was gone
Flickering tongues of the dying flame crackled quietly behind the fender, sending sparks to the stone floor. It was the only source of light in the room excluding a couple of dim electric light bulbs hanging solitary under the ceiling. The walls around the fire-place were covered in black mazut-like soot not cleaned for years while the pungent smell of stale coffee, singed booze and sweat hung in the air depraving it of oxygen. An old bar counter with all its’ bottles and glasses was tucked away in the corner of the room hoarded litters of alcohol carefully collected by the old bartender-John. John was an old haggard man who has already entered his seventies,back hunched from the troubles and poverty he’s witnessed, while his limbs gangled, careful and slow in their angular movement, unfailingly prone to knocking over whatever laid in their broad vicinity-partly because one of them was prosthetic. His job was not complex. It consisted of wiping the glasses with a shredded grey cloth and whistling to the crackling tune produced by an old vinyl behind him.
Over it’s long history the pub has acquired a sombre gloomy atmosphere, but so have the faces of its’ regular visitors. Two of them always sat at the counter a fair distance away from each other. One was an old woman in her fifties famous for being able to drink two pints of beer in one gulp. Her corpulent broad-shouldered figure required two stalls to support her and her shock of grey-orange hair would make a lion jealous. A couple of her front teeth were missing this however did not prevent her from flirting with the old bar-man who did not mind reciprocating her feelings. After the fourth glass of booze she would usually belch, hit her fist on the counter and start humming along to the tinkling of the vinyl with John listening dreamily.
Not so far aside of the couple sat a slender-looking lady slouched over her glass, withdrawn from the surrounding her world absorbed in her own thoughts. It was impossible to say how old she was since her face has always been concealed under a black veil, only her elegant shape of the body indistinct to a woman of higher class suggested that she was young. Still it was hard t believe that a noble lady like her could drink like a mine-worker. Astonishingly she imbibed alcohol like water, loudly demanding for more and every time John would hesitantly pour her another glass, unable to refuse a generous tip from her trembling varicose hands that was once soft and beautiful. Usually after the seventh glass, the lady’s shoulders would start to shake violently as she wept her eyes over the counter, terse curses occasionally leaving her mouth. It was impossible to tell what was the reason for her distress. The old woman and John would exchange pitiful glances knowing beforehand the direction alcohol was taking her. Once having gathered enough courage the old woman moved her stall from usual spot and sat beside the young lady asking about the reason for her anguish and politely reminding that a girl of her age should not drink so much. The girl’s response from under the veil was brusque and simple, preceded by torrent of unheard profanity.
“You drink for pleasure and I drink to die” she mumbled in a husky voice and demanded for more booze throwing a handful of coins in front of her.
