Aesthetic short stories

Addict with a pen

^Song above so your not confused through out this whole thing

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"Write your demons away."

I dip my quill into the ink, once again returning back to writing on this dusty paper. So focused on the ink seeping into the paper, drying quickly.  With each bold and curly letter, forming perfect words and sentences. I take my time to cater each word i write, so nothing smears together.

My old desk lamp being the only light source for these tired eyes. My cramped hand not resting till im done. Dont know when I'll be done, or what I've even written so far. Just letting my mind tell me what to do. Letting every thought control my hand and fill this dusty paper with words.

Writing anything that fades into my head, keeping me from falling apart and dying.

Every time my hand isn't writing, my mind is buzzing with voices. Harsh and sharp, their whispers cutting into me, bleeding out my sanity each time. I trust my hand to keep me busy, to contain my last drop of sanity..

Non sense pools of ink flooding the paper, my hand pressing hard and stiff to keep on writing. Im trying so hard to flow the words out, but the voices are clogging my head with violent whispers and my concentration is slowly going down the drain.

Spiraling into madness, hot tears prickling my eyes. I dip the quill into the ink again, and try to write again but nothing comes to thought. A blank slate in my brain, nothing but sharp voices..

Your a pathetic waste of space.

No one really cares about you, they all don't care for you. Your just a nuisance.

A stain that never goes away.

Making up problems just for attention.

Useless.

Nothing.

I find myself with my hands over my ears, muttering to the voices to be quiet. Knees to my chest, slightly rocking back and forth. My eyes shut tight, i feel my breath hitching.

Tears messily stream down my cheeks, im walking through the desert.

A drop of water in the palm of my hand, i hear waves of the water crashing from afar.

But the waves of the water mean nothing to me. I have what little is in my hand, and it's all that i have and it's all that i need.

Its the last drop of sanity within me.

But as much as i try, the sand will slow me down and the water will drain.

But im just being dramatic, right? In fact im only at it again as an addict with a pen, who's addicted to the wind as it blows me back and forth, mindless, spineless, and pretend.

Let it carry me away from All this mental pain, to a place of calm and warmth. The pen i crave, it's black ink forming paragraphs with jumbles of words, i need it like a drug. Because like drugs, it's makes me high. Forget life issues for a small moment, the feeling of calmness without a worry.

But when my mind is sober, what do i do? All my problems didn't go away, im still the mentally unstable person i was before. Just because i was feeling ok for a moment, doesn't mean my issues are non existent.

I fall down into the hot sand, my last drop of sanity slipping away. The sand soaks it up and it's gone.

I cry.

Violent voices hit my brain, my head is about to bleed.

I curl up into the hot sand, it burns my skin so much.

"I forgot that the demons can write back. But with red blood as their ink, so it can stain the paper messily. Because they know i will write back, with the same red ink from my paper skin."

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Yo.

This took me months to finally finish this was it ok -

;-;

-hiL