The pencil scratches against the paper.
Straight line. Curved line. Jagged line.
The faint marks were forced and unpleasant, imitating scratches left by a clawed beast. A trademark; a style specific to this hand holding this pencil. Memories, carved into movements over time and through practice.
Contradicitng the panicked way the hand layed the lines, a numbing sensation smothered my senses. The human-built urgency of life faded away, almost sweetly. Nothing mattered now.
No need to think. No need to breathe. No need to live.
Even time- the mother that nurtured my addiction- lost it's meaning once compared to my over-loved friend. But how little everything mattered didn't matter, either.
I dragged the pencil along the paper.
Air satisfied my lungs; the ache to breathe.
YOU ARE READING
Whatever.txt
RandomNot a narrative or anything. Just here for me to write shorts and poems in when I feel like it, sort of like vent thing but probably (hopefully?) not as angsty. Feel free to ignore lol
