A Spam Book

Candles and Darkness and Calm (Writing/Poems)

Author's Note: I tend to write in my spare notebook at school during tutor time or when waiting. I copied them down onto Wattpad because why not? Also, who's ready for the Valentine's Special? I know I am (well, no – I need to give it a quick glanceover and edit) but I'm going to wait for the 14th of February here in Hong Kong.

-x-x-x-

My Way Home

I pace the barren land, only a candle to guide my way.
I light my own path. The sun doesn't shine anymore.
I trace the path my feet have taken – of dreams that I dreamed
many years ago. I wonder what I could have done differently.

There are others. Like fleeting ghosts, they come and leave.
Nobody quite understands me. Perhaps I am a ghost to them too –
coming and going like a chilly autumn breeze.
Forgotten in the falling sand of our lives in an hourglass.

But sometimes I wish I could go home.
Home is where family is, is where I feel most comfortable.
But comfortable isn't walking on shards of glass when time isn't right.
It isn't knowing the peace will end all too soon in the flowing river of our lives.

Time will pass. What lies in the future is unknown,
and perhaps I do not want to know. But what I do know
is that I am powerless now. Live out several more years, then –
then what? I do not know. What do I do now? Where will I be?

I make my own light, swim against the current.
Maybe one day, I'll find home. Facing the hateful muttering
and spiteful words, I refuse to drown them out. I must change
myself and them; if only to find home.

-x-x-x-

Candle

The candle flickers. Faint light reflects the light of my eyes. Casting its glow upon the cool ground, razor-sharp, it rests. A steel blade.

Tauntingly, it lies just out of reach. A dim blade. A rusted edge. Just quietly, it breathes with me. A silent light.

Why? It seems to say. Pale lips moving under a pale light. Which one? What side? The double-edged blade calls.

Or is it a lance? An axe? A pen? What will it be? It is what you are under the cold, dim light. The cold, harsh light. There is only the truth and the truth alone.

So who are you? What do you see, beneath the cold, hard, warm, flickering – light? All but the truth.

-x-x-x-

Test Subject 0142

A sharp intake of breath. The darkness greedily swallows the sudden, heavy scent of fear, of terrified shock, of pure, undulated horror. The blackness is a cage cloaked with a thick cloth, trapping, holding all of this sheer emotion. It's overwhelming, intoxicating. The thinning of tight, drawn back lips as he snarls pathetically.

It takes him, like they do the rest. Not-quite-human eyes gazing hatefully, spitefully, as they are torn away without a sound but the empty wheezing in ragged throats. Remains are swept up. Dark ash and something else clinging to the bristles of an aged broom to be rinsed off for the hundredth time. Dust and bone-white soot still coats the floor. A calling of a broken soul long past.

When the next comes, he, she – too, snarling and snapping pathetically. Futile struggle, a memory long past. And it continues.

-x-x-x-

English Class

A quiet day. Light – dim, muted, oh so soft – filters through the classroom window. A gentle caress upon still cheeks, pale on the slate grey table. A pen glides over paper in semblance of some sort of writing. The chorus of a class filling the room through an open door like a breath of fragrant smoke. Laughter thrums like a guitar – familiar, by now – chimes out names in a register. Keen eyes skimming the room as she speaks. Although the atmosphere is amiable, there's a buzz in the air. Tense, as final words are scrawled down in jet-dark ink on white.