There’s this challenge community I've joined here on livejournal, wherein you must write 400 words a day on a given topic. I think I’m probably too lazy to commit to it, but here’s giving it a try. Don’t expect anything beyond this point to make sense, mind:
Why you’re telling everyone I belong to you I don’t know. It’s pissing me off beyond measure, and will probably drive me to recklessly bitchy behaviour. Which I will then feel abominably guilty over, and then I’ll end up all apologetic. Erin-the-apologetic. I’d make a pretty crappy viking, eh? I flinch when the phone tolls, feeling bound to answer. I hate the little ascii envelope that tells me I’ve got another message from you, another message to which the only replies that spring to mind are as inane as the message itself. I’m not myself towards you, and I don’t want to be. You seek to bind me in the niceties of your society, so I can’t run free. More effective than iron chains, you appeal to a sense of unfairness, a sense of sympathy. If only, if only. If only I had the determination, the courage of my own convictions, to decline coherently and cohesively, leaving no room for doubt. If only I were not forever apologising, for my own nature and for yours. And, it’s not the apology of any real feelings- I excuse you because I feel guilty for not wanting you. I see myself trapped where I do not want to be, and I hate myself for my weakness.
that was crap. I need to write something a little less real, with a lot less ‘I’ statements.
Die in a daydream. Doesn’t it feel like a waking sleep, from which we are intended to awake, but haven’t been able to grasp the end lesson, the whyfore we are here?
Memories slip from grasping fingers, ever elusive and just out of reach. Where did the last few years go, and how to stop time? Stay here, where at least the fear is known and constant. Better the devil you know. Aging, dying, seem as far away as vce did in year 8. But here we are. Where did the last four years go?
Broken frieze of a tousled form, on white tiles and crimson life. Forever frozen at 18, the eternally young. The fountain of youth, contrary to popular opinion, exists. The way to never age is to never live. Having reached the pinnacle of experience, before bones creak and skin sags, to let go. Quit while you’re ahead. Leave early to avoid the rush, sort of thing. One hundred and sixty words, but they’re not flowing freely. Trickling perhaps, and inappropriately. Dying just a little every second, until one day there is nothing left. Will the wasted time in writing excercises, in agonising over being kind, be mourned when the lifetimer trickles the last few sands into ‘dead’?
Two hundred and eleven words, and this seems more pointless than before. Practice makes perfect, but what is this practising for? They tell me writing isn’t real work, just as they tell me journalism is inconstant, and arts is useless. Like I’ll never have a real job, just keep servicing consumers with my stupid supermarket hat and apron, thirteen years of nauseatingly useless knowledge. One hundred and twenty-five words to go. Probably counting them is cheating, but what to say? I could answer questions, write to your topics, but who’d be interested once the layers are stripped away and they’re confronted with nothing more than a frightened little girl. Afraid to be bound, but just as terrified of freedom. With freedom comes the responsibility to be free.
Responsibility, obligation, ought have no place in freedom, but they are entwined.
Final words. What can be said that’s never been said before? What can be revealed that is not already alluded to, if you know where to look? Words are somewhat useless sometimes, if you’re not brave enough to use the right ones. Eight words left. Five. That wasn’t so hard.