the storyteller

you are not
the storyteller you
imagine yourself to be.

your stories are verbose,
unfailingly tedious,
you drone; bluster and

(use one thousand words
when a hundred 

will do)

and exaggerate so wildly
that every story becomes a
wait while i get popcorn
and a sprite.

(could take a while)

drag out chapters
into books that no-one
wants to read – they do

spin a line into a
but there’s nothing
about your words.
(tarnished, dulled, you
need to do some

and realize one day:
all the stories
you tell
signify n o t h i n g.

creation of an isolation (300)

lay down your weary head and sleep. tonight is the night that the sleeping draft works its way through your veins, bringing you out of your waking troubles. (tomorrow is the day it will lift, leaving you too foggy to contemplate issues anew)

flutter through the days in a haze of consciousness, drifting through meetings on low-level unconsciousness. eyes unfocused, mind slipping; there’s some spell on you – you just don’t know how to lift it yet. think less, they tell you, but they never say how you are supposed to do this. go, step away from your computer and all the stimuli you’re connected to 24/7 –

they never taught you how to be silent though.

(it is their failing as teachers, but you wear it daily as uniform)

gather every thought, lay them before you in ink and pixels, in paint and whispery-pencil. pile them high, as though they were bricks. create a persona; then personae. tucked away behind the every-higher wall of thought, the rest of the world can’t get through to you – not unless they have an appointment, and a spot on a single-digit roster. stack them before you, hiding away bits and pieces of yourself so the world can only see what they want.

cement them together with more pixels still, impenetrable and inscrutable. catch each one as it falls into your lap; consider it golden opportunity. some bricks stand out more than others, and you let some fade to emphasise this.

the wall becomes higher still, isolating more and more. people flock to admiration, forgetting the person behind it. keep climbing to keep updated with it, keep from falling from it – leaning against it is fine, expected even.

(one day, demolition becomes both the only option and the most unacceptable option)

reflective (300)

it’s cold, almost bone-rattling cold and the rain hammers the windows, streaking down against a backdrop of flat gray skies. a tiny space heater does nothing to take away the chill of the overly-large office; the patchwork blanket i keep tucked under the desk does nothing to brighten the cream-and-white room.

it is sunday morning, and i am alone on the dawn shift. already, i’ve had two coffees and now i can’t tell if i am shaking from cold or from caffeine stimulation. the phone lines have remained mostly quiet and unchallenging, the odd caller wanting some piece of information, before remembering the hour and ending the call in haste.this is not unusual.

days like these i have learned to slow the paperwork that has amassed specifically for sundays, when the office is gravelike and the day’s view is blankness punctuated by pinpricks of light. it’s a slow day, one where half the shift is taken up with papers and the rest of the time is left clear for thinking. this is the time when i can reflect, have epiphanies and mini-crises, can brainstorm ideas and collect thoughts.

some days, i think my thoughts have never been thought until the time i think them. (sometimes i think them terribly unoriginal)

other days i angle myself to the window in between tasks, let my thoughts drift – this way, i lose all concept of time. space, too; when i come back to my present mind, i always find spatial awareness a little trickier than earlier. days like this are inversion-days, the ones where items seem to have moved without my realizing, where i look different to how i remember myself.

(and the calendar flips to monday. the time for pensiveness is past; time to return to my body and my mind)

Letters to Euturpe: 9

It’s been a long week. I’m six days post-major life-changing event, sixteen hours post-realization (minor) and have added about three new ideas to my Eternal List of Ideas.

Really, at this stage you’d think I would start an computerized list, not a paper one. Fanfic. Poetry. Novels. Flash fic. Flash ficoetry. (Last night, I was chatting with someone, and opined that a flash fic I wrote seemed like a cross between a piece of prose and a piece of poetry. Proestry. Oh crap, now I’m making up words)

Oh and I’m making up a town. No big deal.

Anyway. It’s sneaking on into winter now; we get the chill winds to prove it. Thunderstorms would be nice. So every morning, I get up at 6am. It’s cold, and bright lights hurt my eyes. It’s sad. I picked this week’s prompt especially in honour of this, especially as the weather is supposed to go to mush.

This week your lyric is from Goodbye Stranger by Supertramp:

It was an early morning yesterday/ I was up before the dawn.

lies i tell (400)

sorry. sorry, darlings, that i’m not the woman you want me to be. i’m so sorry that i’m inflexible, that i don’t believe in changing myself purely for you. and for all the mes that you want me to be, the carbon-blotted copies you believe could exist in a hundred other universes –

the girls you think i could be, dainty and sweet and fun. sorry that i’m wretched and cynical, bittersweet and sometimes-ethereal.

no. none of these women are here. they are only living the lives you want them to, in the corners of your imagination. i’d say i wish i could be what you want, but that is one art i’ve never mastered. (the first art i mastered was being what wanted me to be)

sorry, sweetheart, that i haven’t yet bent to the blueprint you laid out for me. i tried for the sake of something new, expecting magic. tried for the sake of myself, for doing the enjoyment of doing something new – sorry that i hated it, and folded back into my old habits, easy as a pair of broken-in ballet flats.

sorry that i came to hate you, and in doing so burned my bridges well before construction was done. i think we could have got along; could have worked together well – it’s just that you have too many ideas of how i’m supposed to be. sorry that you somewhere along the line you learned to expect diamonds from me and only got coal, and that you failed to give me any good impetus for change.

(you got less than half of your expectation; you’ve set up failure)

sorry for the time i couldn’t keep my word, that my own advancement took priority and gratification had to be delayed. sorry for putting myself first, instead of focusing on petty wants. and for putting you to one side; no, it wasn’t uncalled for. (remember you told me to do just that, once)

sorry you were willing to settle for mediocrity, and that i wanted something a bit more polished out of life. -and that i was never interested in pretense, in faking my own interest in average. sorry for knowing myself best, and never kowtowing to your supposedly-superior knowledge, never apologizing for my own presence in the world.

sorry i never needed you.