writing

The Turning Wheel

Posted on by addictivemuse

I want his brain so bad. John Mayer might have let a lot of shit erupt from his mouth, but he’s also the creator of so many beautiful things. Words, songs, thoughts – his mind is incredibly attractive.

I haven’t binged on his stuff in a very long time. Now, as I’m going through this period of grieving I find myself back here and I’m incredibly nostalgic, but also content.

I miss her, and yeah I walked through the door today and expected to see her waiting there for me. Sure, upon that realisation I was filled with an intense sorrow and longing, but part of me is glad in knowing that she’s no longer in pain. I don’t know whether there’s a life after this, or a place that we go to meet again. Nor do I know whether living things have souls or not. All I know is that she’s no longer here with me any more. I have a hope that there will be a time where I will be able to see her again. There’s a lot that I know now that’s she’s gone and it sucks, and if I had my chance I’d go back and make sure she received the care that she needed. Whether that was a premature end to her suffering, I don’t know. Things like this happen for a reason I believe. At least I was there when it was her time to go. Surely if it was not now it would have been in 5 years. The thought of losing her at a time in which I could not be there troubles me more than the current fact. I was there for her, I held her, and the bond that we had was still there even at the very end. She may have just been a cat but to me she was much more. Goodnight, my old friend; you will be dearly missed.

“You can find me, if you ever want again
I’ll be around the bend, I’ll be around the bend
I’ll be around, I’ll be around
And if you never stop when you wave goodbye
You just might find if you give it time
You will wave hello again
You just might wave hello again”

I am proud of myself in this though. I am proud in my determination and my resilience. I’m proud of myself for admitting this and admitting my grief, no matter how silly I feel. I am amazed by the maturity that has come in just four years. I remember reflecting very early in 2014, on my grandmothers death. Her death was a catalyst for all that happened, the good and the bad. All that is happening and what will happen. Her death has shaped the way my life has turned out, and will turn out. It’s in the small instances in which one pair of lungs stops breathing, that another breathes it’s very first breath. I find comfort in that. It took me years of ignoring my faults. I spent years in recluse, thinking about what I wanted to be. I created fantasies of grandeur and lived to dream. I avoided my selfishness and the amount of disrespect and disregard that my grandmother was dealt with by my own hand. I was never there for her. I ran away.

I feel like I have come full circle, but this time I have the maturity, the love and the strength to truly say goodbye. I am not 250% better than I was this time 4 years ago, but I have grown and whilst I still may hold the same faults and failures, they like scars have very much filled in, however completely, and faded as I have grown and adjusted to my life.

I thank life, whatever that means, for giving me the chance to have crossed paths with so many souls and to have been loved by them and in turn, been given the chance to love them. There mightn’t be more to life than this, but I wouldn’t take any thing or any of it back.

So now, I wave goodbye to one, and await eagerly to greet another. I will not get her back and I do not want a replacement. Whom or what I may now be greeting I do not know, but if it’s anything like what I’ve now left behind, it will be well worth my while. I will hold no regrets or stop my movement. Truly, that’s just the way that this wheel keeps working now.

Nostalgia

Posted on by addictivemuse

Weathered arm outstretched.
He reaches out. His wrinkled hand holds, a desperate grasp, on the joyful age of youth. 

The vanity and the irony of his actions, he has no clue.

He wears his rose coloured glasses always; turning merry moments into quixotic memories of euphoria.

Slowly it slips away. The bitter old man seeks again for a link to yesterday. So Bittersweet.  

A lowly drug addict, he searches, looking for his high, his ecstasy; inevitably to fall, each time deeper into the pit of despair.

He spirals into an incurable depression, a nagging melancholy, the fault of his never moving on. 

He is stubborn, he is ignorant.

He is clueless, he is lost.  

He is nostalgia.

A Tangent On Love

Posted on by addictivemuse

Love isn’t like it is in the movies; as much as we wish it was. Disney lied when he said the spell could be broken only by true love’s kiss. Love, real love. Meaningful love. Love with grit and love with power, requires hard work; It requires acceptance also that nothing will be perfect. They won’t be perfect and that you won’t be perfect, and that there’s no need for perfection. Love is not something to look at through rose coloured glasses. If you want it to be right you have to accept from the start that it won’t be pretty. Once you have that clarity you can find the love that you so desire.

My Heroine – Poem

Posted on by addictivemuse

Kiss me softly love, with your metal lips. Run your teeth along my arm and bite me. Your tongue is sharp and it stings me. But, oh! How I love the sweet, sweet taste of you as you enter my veins. You make this old, broken soul rise again. My cold, dead heart feels alive again. With every pump, another wave of you surges within me. You know; I would be dead without you dear. My heroine, my heroine. My love, my love. My one and my only. Oh my heroin.

Depression, Fiction, story, writing, Writing Prompt

Only Sixteen

Quote | Posted on by addictivemuse

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Only Sixteen.”

I was only 16. By that time of my life I’d already learnt one of the biggest lessons of my lifetime: trust no one but yourself. 

I was alone. I’d walk the streets of the heavily graffitied city and maybe even leave a mark of my own. I was alone and I was angry. Really angry.

To my arrogance I had blamed my loneliness on my parents; with whom I had become increasingly hostile with as of late. Argument after argument. I got tired of it all so I left. Thinking I could do it all on my own. 

Ha! Pure arrogance right there. I couldn’t survive a week on the streets without turning to questionable means of survival.

You name it I can guarantee you I have done it. It was a desperate couple of months. You’d have done the same.

About a month after, on the eve of my 16th birthday I met a boy. A man it seemed. But how can one call him a man given the cowardice that was his very soul? I thought he was kind. I thought he meant all he said. Ignorance. It was all ignorance. 

I gave him comfort, food and shelter all that he needed in exchange for one thing: he’d soothe my loneliness. 

I won’t lie, he did. However momentarily. Then it all came crashing down upon me when I stumbled to the morning and reached my hand over to feel his brown hair. Nothing. There was nothing there. The bastard left. I searched around the home I had made for myself to find that a large amount of the belongings I had scoured from around town had been taken. He not only stole my trust and in turn my faith in all, but the things that I had worked so hard for.

I was sixteen. Only sixteen.

The Tale of a Serotonin Junkie – A Short Story

Posted on by addictivemuse

Ever since I was a child I’d always loved the feeling of the warm sun hitting my skin. As a teenager I’d sink my feet right into the sand as I’d wait for my skin to tan. Years later I’d always return to that same beach. A sort of pilgrimage if you will. It was a nice reminder of the beautiful earth that lay sprawled amongst the chaos of humanity’s own creation. It seems we are constantly running away from ourselves. We go to work, lead boring lives just to escape it one day. Life was made to be lived and all we seem to do is slave over it. Die before we’ve even gotten the chance to live. I guess you could say I’m still just the same free spirit that I was in my youth. Some people never change. Some realise and mature, accept their role in the world and work 9 to 5, 5 days a week. Some die young; crash and burn before they get the chance to turn 30. Others never loose that spark but remain part of the community. Then there’s me: I’ve always just been a serotonin junkie. 

Writer’s Block

Posted on by addictivemuse

Get out! Get out!
Infernal mist that shrouds my mind in confusion.
Leave me now! You pesky puck of sorts.
Writer’s block holds my pencil and pen.
It hides my paper and restrains my hands from typing.
I want to write see; but I don’t know what to write.
Even now I can feel my interest fading.
Damn you writer’s block. Damn you.

The Unwritten Rules Of Social Media #1

Posted on by addictivemuse

I just so happened to be scrolling through my Instagram last night and liked a few posts by the ‘obligatory follows’ A.K.A that one weird friend you have to follow because they followed you or that cousin you have to talk to every holiday. In doing so I realised something: there’s a sort of etiquette with social media that you have to follow or you’ll look like an ass.

Rule #1: You Must Like Even The Worst Of Photos

You must like the photo they just posted of a cheesy quote (or worse! A cheesy quote which titles a selfie *shudders*) that had more work done on it than Jocelyn Wildenstein and was attacked by a barrage of crappy Instagram filters playing tag team. Regardless of whether you truly like the photo or not you must like it. I was once scrolling through Instagram and up popped a weirdly angled black and white filtered selfie captioned by the lyrics of ‘Say Something’ by A Great Big World featuring Christina Aguilera followed by a blushing emoji. Now I have no idea what the actual fuck they meant by posting that. I figure it was some ambiguous hint to friends or possible ex-boyfriend, but honestly your guess is as good as mine. Now what did I do? I liked that photo. Why did I like that photo? Because I had to. Thank you, internet. I can barely handle a social situation in real life. Now I have to abide by rules that make me feel like a moron on the Internet too? Thanks. I appreciate it.

The Last Letter – A Poem

Posted on by addictivemuse

 Once I loved
A soul I hated
For my heart he painted
The colour of gold

The crows they grew
Walking along the creases
Bordering those ageing, emerald eyes

His thin lips they smiled
Showing the years of laughter
Forming those obvious little lines
However, smothered by his salty stubble

His calloused hands
Clutching mine all those years ago
In painful silence we witnessed
The landslide as it fell

His coffee stained hair
Cut short and fluffy to touch
Forever only dusted with hints of silver
Which he had always wanted

Pity, how his eyes would quickly darken
And his hair turn to grease
His hands turn to bones
Only held up by the veins

I watched as the man I loved slowly turn to dust
Aching to be cradled in the comforting arms of God
And; It was all my fault

I remember the day he acted
Upon those tempting thoughts of hatred
Staining that old library door

His green eyes shone no more
His thin lips showed no expression
His face was cold and numb
He hung from the ceiling
As he welcomed Death’s greedy grip

I crumpled to that cursed floor
Waves of sorrow flooded through the inconsolable bellows
Those salty tears forever stained on my lips

I looked up, to the broken man before me
The man with the laughter lines hidden behind his bushy beard
I leaned in for one last kiss
A loud sob in every breath
I had never wanted this

I look over past his shoulder
To his well-loved mahogany desk
A glance of white, a note I see
In his writing, addressed to me:

“Once I loved
A soul I hated
For my heart she painted
The colour of gold”