D i s c o n n e c t e d {Rave}

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D i s c o n n e c t e d {Rave} Apr 2, 2014 22:31:51 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 2, 2014 22:31:51 GMT -5

Brady Mullingar

I can hear them talking from behind the door again; I can hear the insults falling from their lips. They don’t think I’m smart enough to figure out that they are talking about me, but I’ve always known. After all these years they’ve never bothered to check behind the door for a curious ear. And they call me the stupid one. But there I am again, waiting at the edge of that room with my ear to the door. They always talk about the same things, like “what are we going to do about him?” and things of the sort. I never stay around to listen to what their proposed answers are. I never have the guts to throw open the door and stand up for myself, no, I just walk away. I creep away from the door taking care not to bump against it, and as soon as I’m in the clear, I dash for the front door.

The words still swarm in my head, and no matter where I run they follow. They’ve followed me from the front step to the edge of the district and back again. No matter how long I run or how tired I make myself, they’re always there. Today’s no different. I can cover my ears and shake my head and cry out but no one hears. No one else understands what it’s like to drown in your own thoughts, to strangle in the noose of words that’s wrapped around my neck. There’s got to be a way to free myself from it, but it always seems as if the knife I use is too dull. It never quite cuts through the thick ropes that bind me, and of course, no one’s offered help of any sort.

There is never such a thing as silence. There’s always something ticking or rustling or speaking. It’s never quiet in my own head, and most days, I just want it to stop. I want to stop hearing the things said about me behind closed doors and in seemingly empty hallways over and over again. I just can’t quite make it stop. Even at night, when all thoughts are supposed to stop and you’re supposed to be able to be at peace, I find myself tossing and turning, struggling to get away from the one thing that stays with me wherever I go. People ask me why I always look tired, and no one’s ever seemed to catch the fact I’ve said “I couldn’t sleep” every time. You think someone would care, or even bother to ask if something in particular was wrong, but they didn’t. Besides, even if they did, what was I supposed to say? I couldn’t sleep because I was watching the hands on the clock (tick, tick, tick). I was listening to the voice in my head tell me how stupid I was (shut up, shut up, shut up). I was thinking about the closed doors I listened behind and the way the whispers on the other side sounded (we just won’t worry about it now, he’ll figure it out on his own). But I’ve never figured out what I was doing wrong, and I still don’t know. Of course, I’ve never asked, because then they would know I’ve been listening in, and that would lead to sets of questions I didn’t want to answer.

So I never answered them, instead I left the house and went somewhere for the day, and used my time to make up a story about how I was with a friend or why I was gone. They never questioned it, and I guess they really believed I actually had a couple of friends that didn’t mind spending time with me. They did ask me once why my friends never came around, and I made up something along the lines of how busy they were at the time, and my parents just wrote it off. I guess they didn’t want to push my luck. They would ask me the same questions when I got back this evening, and I would give them the same answers I did every single day.

I tried to go somewhere different most of the time, so if my parents happened to be around they wouldn’t be met with answers of “Oh, Brady’s been hanging around here by himself a lot.” So today, I went to an area I had never gone before, as it had always been off-putting. The crumbling stone and worn brick buildings had never been one that radiated hospitality, but today it seemed alright. I didn’t like going in buildings that I didn’t recognize (I’m not the adventurous type), so I stuck to the alleyways that went between them. I mulled about here and there for a few minutes before the lack of noise began to get to me. I took a quick look here and there to make sure no one was watching, and I made my way back to the road I had come in on. There had to be somewhere better to go; somewhere where the words could no longer pull me down, down, down into the depths of the water that threatened to drown me.

table by rave

Last Edit: Apr 28, 2014 22:06:22 GMT -5 by Deleted

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D i s c o n n e c t e d {Rave} Apr 4, 2014 17:50:32 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 4, 2014 17:50:32 GMT -5

c arnal

"Just, go out." So she did, because to be an anarchist you need a voice. Her's was long gone, sunken to the pit of her stomach to where she was the only one to hear. I don't want to. But it failed to come out, caught in her throat like a hiccup, even if she felt like the one. A hiccup, a slip. Truly, she longed to stay inside and watch the fan blades or something medial, because she knew what it felt to be ignored, that the nature of beauty can be overlooked like a dropped pencil. Besides, the fan blades were just as interest as half as polluted as the rest of the district, each member chasing each other like kids, yet still in pattern.

Just go out. Each syllable reverberated against the confine of her internal imprisonment, the letters bouncing around like a ball in an empty hall, aching across her membrane. Esrooke's tone of the words evaporated, but they stayed there just the same, except they began to amass into clouds to fog her reasoning. Every step outside of the screen door echoed perpetually inside of her conscience, as if ambient mischief to lead her away. Eventually, she chased the noise away in an attempt to find her way somewhere, anywhere. The chances of finding one of the few places she is somewhat notorious for winding up at were as likely as finding a specific thread in the jumbled heap of hair she patted down.

Why was it that Esrooke was allowed to make her leave the house, when she had been the one there all day. Perfect attendance at school, being asked questions, yet never being able to answer, but for some reason, he was allowed to be tiresome after coming home. Anybody could build a clock everyday, so why was his stress so differed so much from her's in his eyes. While admist in thoughts, the directions to back travel to return home became jumbled, like the memories she held close to of her lost brother. At least the pair had one more thing in common once again.

Subdued of a frantic desire to find familiarity, Aceline felt even more buried in what she felt in the pit of her stomach, lost. The words were mouthed at her lips, but refused to come out, as if they were even more in a panic than her. In stead of being guided by luck and arriving at her origin, each rhythmic step led her farther into an anarchist's dream, the beats of her steps lying in line with the synchronized fan blades awaiting for her. The palm of her hand felt pure in comparison to the coarse bricks of fractured houses it glided over, this is wrong. As if somebody flipped a switch, on que she realized how lost she became, this house nor the next were already registered in her mind. Most of the panic managed to leave her body in substitute of words unspoken, if she could become lost, then she can obviously become un-lost just as easily.

Last Edit: Apr 4, 2014 17:51:35 GMT -5 by Deleted

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D i s c o n n e c t e d {Rave} Apr 8, 2014 21:06:31 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 8, 2014 21:06:31 GMT -5

Brady Mullingar

This road is nothing more than what I believe to be infinite. Of course, I’m sure there is a marked end and beginning somewhere, but I don’t know of it. So until I reach the end of this path, I will believe it to go on forever. Who knows where it would take me if I just kept walking, and walking, and walking. I could walk to the ocean and back; I could climb a mountain and collect the stars from the sky and keep them in my pocket. I could hold the world in my hands. I wouldn’t have to share it; it would be all mine and mine alone. I didn’t need anyone else, despite their remarks and concerns.

But I can’t walk forever. I can’t fix my eyes on the path ahead and never look aside. I will always stray from the path at hand, wandering left and right, falling away from what I promised to myself. The road will end; it isn’t infinite. I can’t touch the stars or hold them in my hand, for their light must stay in the sky, illuminating everything with a soft glow. That’s why I prefer the night to the day, for in the day, everything is too bright; the sun is piercing—blinding even. But at night, when the sun has retired, the moon and stars are welcoming, casting their light across the world in a way that is subtle.

I wish that the night was a friend I sat down with more often. I would love nothing more than to step out into the moonlight and feel like things were right, like things were meant to be the way they were. Because here—now, they don’t. Everything feels forced, out of place. I feel like I’m trying to jam puzzle pieces together that don’t fit, the edges just don’t match up. The picture I’m trying to put back together is blurry, like the world of a drunkard. I don’t want to become that; I don’t want to fall apart.

So wouldn’t it be nice if this road never ended? Wouldn’t it be great if all I had to do was walk, one step after the other? It would be simple. But no one’s life truly is simple. Everyone is walking towards the end of their own path, dealing with the twists and turns that come with it. Only, no one really knows when the next sharp curve is coming. We never realize we’re on top of a hill until we’re going down. We don’t realize how fast we’re moving until we are trying to desperately slam on the brakes. There’s just no planning ahead. Of course, you can try. You can swear that you know what you’re going to do and when you’re going to do it, but it’s never completely accurate.

This path is supposed to be mine and mine alone, but the site of another girl doesn’t alarm me. She probably won’t care about me anyway, no one does. But I am important—I know I am. Right? Don’t I matter to somebody, anybody? My parents don’t care, no, I’m nothing but a nuscence to them. I’m just “a child that grow up” a “we’ll take care of it later” kind of problem. I don’t have any friends who care, for the people around here are often pretentious, sticking their noses into the clouds of intelligence that float high above their heads. Everyone I’ve attempted to be close to, in terms of friendship, has left as soon as they realized I am not like them. (“What do you mean you don’t understand? How do you not get it? Are you really that stupid?”)

But this girl, she seems different, and before you slap me for being cliché, let me explain. She isn’t different in the way books describe it. She’s unique in the way that her head seems level. Her eyes seem to be angled level with the ground, rather than looking upward. She is grounded, and so I am. And maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be, two people taking on the world with only the ground beneath their feet to save them. No mountains to climb; no stars to hold in their hands. No constellations to paint across a blank canvas. Only a path that does indeed end somewhere, but that somewhere does not matter, because for now we are infinite.

table by rave

Last Edit: Apr 28, 2014 22:06:51 GMT -5 by Deleted

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D i s c o n n e c t e d {Rave} Apr 23, 2014 2:07:47 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 23, 2014 2:07:47 GMT -5

c arnal

With every off step further down the winding streets and curves, the parasite emotion was luxuriating further into her gut as if on cue. Like a part of her longed to find a sign of knowing where she ended in a minute's notice, but another piece wished to stay put, to continue the trials of lonesome saunter, as if by hereditary. Why was she to be coped inside of her home, when Spades was granted to survey dream landcapes barely imaginable, and her father could be alongside him? The thought was abandoned, like she felt of herself, since Esrooke told her that their father was undoubtedly passed, buried before she even met him well, but he also said the same of Spades, that he could never survive a year nevertheless since the point he left her and Esrooke.

It was a lie, it had to be; Spades was one of the few memories still replaying for her, he couldn't leave her. Those two wanderers that broke into her house were proof, their very existence was Spades' promise to return. She was sure of it, his covenant to existence as far as this road in front of her lived on somewhere in the back of the universe's mind. Spades had to matter to somebody other than herself, he had to be more than a lost toy somewhere. However, their entire family tree was made up of lost toys; her parents lost in their own oblivions, Spades seemingly only found in her thoughts and Esrooke trapped in his own delusional state of dimension. Was she anything more than that as well? Her very soul felt trapped in a ghostly fly trap, living but lost, like a spectator of someone's spectrum of life.

The only reason she found herself tracing each cracked line on the surface was in favor of being a spectator, watching herself leave the only home she ever thrived in- vibrations still rang through her ears as she thought, like a second voice being escorted to her- without any form of resentment lingering like dust thrown up by the slamming of their screen door. Strands of her hair fell through her grasping hands with the sobriety of people that she could even name- Esrooke, Spades, Freya- they were all she knew. How, in sixteen years, were they all she had left, and two were considered dead. They couldn't be, she already said that to herself as well, not when she entrusted them with so much.

Another body comes into view, like a second soul trapped in the venus fly trap of beings. The words etch across her wall of thoughts in desperation of something to say, to break the facade of levitation that held onto everything but the two of them. Like statues, they remained grounded in silent likeness, even with every step bringing them closer with awkward tension. She failed to long for another body to try not to forget in a crowd of masquerades, the record of watching caskets fill like jars held her with a nervous grip. Like a bomb in a birdcage she needed to stay, she was meant to stay, with an awkward tussle of removing her mane from in front of her mask she looked on past the boy with starry eyes.

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D i s c o n n e c t e d {Rave} Apr 28, 2014 21:58:44 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 28, 2014 21:58:44 GMT -5

Brady Mullingar

My parents often told me in the kindest of voices that: “It would be good if you had a few more friends.” Of course, this was their nice way of telling me that no one particularly cared for my company, and how they were getting sick and tired of me staying home almost all of the time. I would in response roll my eyes and tell them that I did indeed have many friends, like the boy who came over that one afternoon last summer, or the girl who I sat outside with and ate lunch with last fall. But these answers never satisfied them, and they would turn back to each other and converse in whispers again, casting anxious glances back my way until I got so sick of it I would storm out. Usually, this resulted in me leaving the house, kicking pebbles along the street and mumbling to myself about how “I do have friends, they just don’t come over.”

I knew this wasn’t true, because no matter how many people I threw myself upon, every single one of them just seemed to fade away. So eventually, I just quit trying. I pushed my few, remaining acquaintances away and closed myself off, spending more time talking to myself than I did looking anyone in the eye. I spent more time staring out the window than I did actually thinking about the people that passed it. I cared more about the final destination than the journey.

But right now, I don’t care about the ending. I don’t care about the end of this infinite road or the end of my life. I just don’t. I can’t allow myself to think about anything else other than this girl that’s standing in front of me or the blank canvas that is stretching out across the night sky. I want to paint my words across it, captivating anyone who dares to stare at it too long. But like friends, words have never been my strong point. In fact, they’ve been my enemy in more ways than one, not only being a stumbling block in my way, but the bullet that pierces the thin shield of my self-confidence. Never had words been my friend, not in the way fellow kids spoke about me, their shots of “dumb” and “nothing short of stupid” still ringing in my ears, not my parents who never quite figured out how to word things in a way that wasn’t insulting, and not when I tried to speak them myself, as I always managed to twist my words to the point where they no longer displayed the original message. As my parents once told me when I was fifteen: “I try too hard.”

So when this girl, who still doesn’t have a name, doesn’t say anything—nothing about the stars or the infinite road or the retreating cold, I am more than thankful. I don’t need to over-complicate the simplicity that’s resting above us in a haze; I just need to admire it, as I’m sure she already is. As the stars dance above our heads, singing a silent song with a melody that rests so lightly upon the wind as to not even rustle the leaves, I begin to sing a quiet song of my own. It’s certainly not as beautiful as the one that nature is playing, but it’s unique to my vibrant eyes and quavering words, and it begins with the words, “I’m Brady.”

I don’t know if she’s singing a song of her own, or even if she’s going to listen to the one I have to play. Most likely, she’ll lose interest in the same way that most of my old friends did. Perhaps she’ll be intrigued for a few moments, holding to every note the same way I’m holding onto anyone I can, but eventually, she’ll push me away, and my melody will fade out, note by note, until there’s nothing but silence to be heard. There will be no music, no canvas painted with stars, and no infinite road to walk down in hopes of running into someone who’s just as lost as I am.

table by rave

Last Edit: Apr 28, 2014 22:07:45 GMT -5 by Deleted