*Howdy guys... I've been trying to write for years now but always get to busy to finish my stories half way through. well, had to write a short short short story for English and so i decided to post it. Hoping to finally get something up. Tell me what you like? Dont like? What do you think it's about? I'd really appreaciate it. Xx*
-Bliss
Marbles
In geography they told us that people used to journey to the country for fresh air, to gather their thoughts, to treat illness. If that's why they brought me here they never admitted it.
~
A night when I can't sleep I try to think about good things, they say it will help.
Cheesecake, thunder storms, teddy bears.
Though when I wake up I never seem to be able to remember what I last thought about. That forgotten thought haunts me, burrowing in to my mind, that feeling in your stomach and head when you just can't remember, until it is replaced the next morning.
During the day when I can't be 'awake' I stare at the clock, wondering why it never moves fast enough. Each tick lulls and each tock echoes too long. This is the method by which I now measure my days. I wonder whether remembering my forgotten thoughts will give me peace. I'm sure it will.
Yet every sleepy day and sleepless night it is the same. The awful black marbles in my chest continue to rattle and try to burst through.
My heart is suffocating.
Tick tock.
Cheesecake, thunder storms, teddy bears.
I am locked in a cage that I crafted. So why can't I break free?
Always tired, then always awake!
When I told them, they didn't like it. They think I'm just anxious.
Just stressed. Just a bit worried. I'm not so sure.
~
Lies are stitched through my lips. Guilt braided down my thigh. I tell myself I'm fine.
~
In the country everything seems to move slower. The tick tock more painful. They tell me to rest because I'm tired, I tell them I won't be tired soon. I have spent days and days in the attic and my nights wherever my wandering takes me. Weeks here and nothing has changed. At first the room was eerie but now its long drawn eggplant curtains are my protection from scarier places. The shadows of the room now form shapes of my friends when they come creeping. So much expression in something so inanimate.
There are things in that room that no one knows but me.
~
I cry at nothing.
'Just anxious'
'Just tired'
In moments of clarity like this I can see it. My marbles, rattling, rattling. Crumbling. nibbling. It's wrong. Not right. Incorrect.
Maybe they would believe me. Maybe if I hurt someone, hurting me isn't enough. I don't think they would though.
No. They wouldn't believe me if I was up to my elbows in flesh and blood.
They would clean it up. Hide it. Lock me somewhere deeper. To them, I couldn't be crazy. It couldn't be, there wasn't a cause. There is no rattling they say.
There are two kinds of crazy, the kind that hurt things and the kind that lets them.
~
I think of reading the last chapters of my book, only I can't bring myself to do it it. I love the characters too much.
I'm lazy. There is not enough energy for life. Speaking is an effort. Eating is an effort. Just being is all I can manage. Everyday a little bit harder, a little bit of me gone.
The chaos of my mind forms plans, dismissing them before they are even born.
Thoughts blurring to colours of grey and pale blue. Often red. The rain shattering on the attic window. Lightening striking the earth. The thunder rattling. The sound feels good. The sound feels safe, like meaning.
~
Forgotten how to think straight. It's not like a bike, can't pick it up. I think this might be better though.
Productive, maybe? Like my mind is running and can no longer recall how to walk.
It is too easy to get lost running. I tell myself I have to try to win. But what if I never really tried? Is it really losing then?
~
That attic is an awful place. The dead, hot country air kills silently. The cracks in the walls sing with the wind. Rattle, rattle. There are things in this room that I shouldn't know.
Someday soon I will lose, I will drop like a feather that has been falling the whole time but thought it was floating. In the end it wasn't special. It was only a feather.
~
I am missing. Pieces are gone like my forgotten thoughts. All the while I'm being consumed. Filling but losing. It's primal. It's the rattle of thunder, of teeth.
Cups can't be filled without being emptied of air first.
~
Eating, running around in my head. Playing with things. Uncaring of consequence. They won.
They are parched and starving. Recklessly thrashing and hollowing. Drawn to thought for nourishment, they gobble it up selfishly. Wishing to be thunder.
Animal.
Crawling and scurrying around in there they rejoice. 'We've won' they sing like the cracks in the walls. 'she's given up, she's lost' they taunt.
One day soon they'll move on from thoughts that will no longer sustain their appetite. They'll move to eye lids, nails, intestines and ankles. Drawing the body of all it has to offer.
They don't think of their recklessness, of their destruction. They don't know or wonder what they'll do when there's nothing left to gobble. They didn't think of resourcefulness or mercy, only productivity. Results.
So they continue to munch with reckless abandon, stealing thoughts.
Rattle, rattle.
The End.
