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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 4 2015, 03:31 PM (21 Views) | |
| Blood Symphony | Jun 4 2015, 03:31 PM Post #1 |
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Fresh Out Of The Wastes
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“Why are you always dressed for war?” They would ask me. Or “What’s with the dress, Dracula’s bride?” “What’s with all the screaming coming from your earphones?” Or “Who listens to classical music anymore?” “Can’t you keep your hair the same color for awhile?” Or your eyes Or your fingernails “Why can’t you just be normal?” If I had had a voice, I would’ve told them that I fought a war everyday, against myself, and my black cargo pants, tank tops, and military jackets were just preparation. When it wasn’t that it was that creating these dresses, like any art form, was an expression of myself. I would tell them that the screaming in my ears was to drown out the screaming of my demons, and the instrumentals to soothe them. I would have told them that I look how I feel, and that’s always changing. I was lucky if I could keep up. As for the last one…well that one I asked myself. I never had to explain any of this to her. I won’t say her name, it’s not important. To me, she’ll always just be “her” anyway. I don’t think she ever really understood any of this, but she didn’t ask. She was kind, and she was beautiful, and she was carefree, and she smelled distinctly of vanilla. She was my friend. Or I was HER friend. She would always mean more to me than that. It was a regular school day to everyone else, the kind that any story worth telling happens on, as I took that familiar 100 mile walk down the hallway. There was noise. Noise like a steady buzzing slowly increasing in volume and intensity. I found it difficult to distinguish the real from the imaginary. I was in a calm panic that prevented me from moving or standing still. All of the air in or around me was sucked into some kind of unseen violent vacuum. My eyes seemed to bulge out of my head, unblinking, as they watched vibrant vials of violent, bursts of bright blue, yells of youthful yellow, and every color screaming at me suddenly became dull and gray all at once like all the optimism, enthusiasm, and naivety being crushed out of a child when rigor mortis sets in to someone they loved. The world swirled around me in a frozen tornado of dreams and nightmares, boring consistency and blaring contradictions. As I said, it was a regular day. "They" can smell this feeling. I'm sure "they" are common knowledge. Everyone who has even a remote chance of understanding this knows who "they". They don't need names or faces, they don't deserve them. "They", as one unit, loaded their ammunition and let insults and degradation drip from their mouths, hot and viscous. |
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7:12 PM Jul 11