Ramblings and Snippets

Carry Black

There were times Jarod mulled over Satie's work that his mind peeled away. He often thought himself like the gymnopedist himself as he sat there by his window, chest broken and sick to his soul. Absorbed in cheap wine and old love letters with his blood burst eyes as he sorely wrote out his trepidations, scribbling till his fingers bruised.

He would scream out to death in his head, his empty sockets motionless and unfastened on his writing, flipping his contact list back and forth into dim impulse.

He had enough melancholy to spare for the most desperate of shitty songwriters, all while he downed enough black ink into his diseased brain to fall short of a reconsideration.

Even writing, his one redeemable factor, only led into contention for those who cared. The ones who skinned away his mask and still stood by him.

Where others fell in love of ideas that flattered him he only took in those that hated him, caught into a realm of "authenticity" that could lull the most objective hipster into ecstasy. But he only justified the complex of his inferiority, at least as how he saw it. With no provided escape from his indiscretions, caught in stagnation, he made his own. Effortlessly.

And yet all that torment never broke his lips once, as though bound by the integrity and pride of an author. I was foolish to believe on the outside he was immune to it. Someone with grounded conviction in his ability. I was so earnest in what he had been able to do and imagined that no one else could compare to it.

Every season blows by like a cold and bitter chorus as I walk past that nowe vacant window, just a constant silence as buried as summer's passing and heavier than an empty grave. Just the thought of who he was now feels strange and foreign as it chips and flakes away.

But even when I felt branded by his choice, when the hate was beyond justification I didn't feel any further from following him.

The mornings that followed held Sometimes I convince myself for a moment that he's gone away on holiday in the country to find his bearings, knowing soon after we can both work together on his new idea.

Now I'm left waiting for the year to turn over and leave as much distance behind, and if I need not look back then perhaps I am myself again. 

Right...that sorta just...happened...Enjoy.

Anyways, to be frank this was based off of my old friend and fellow writer Jarod Stively.  I recommend you check out his blog for a dramatic read. Link is down below.

if you want to share your own interpretation of what this is, please do so in the comments or in a PM. 

https://misterwelldone.wordpress.com/