Abstractwriting Stories

Just a collection of bits and pieces of things that I've written over the years. None of these are connected, they're all just fragments that I'm putting together in one place; some little stories inspired by rain or art, some essays that I wrote when I was in school, just fragments. If abstract, overly descriptive writing that goes nowhere is your thing, then you're in the right place. Most of these almost veer into poetry territory, but to be honest, everything is so abstract and weird anyway that it doesn't really matter.

A scrambled word soup that my phone's auto-recommended texts that is messy but kind of interesting. I did not write these.

What remains of a voice once it has burned for someone else? What have love's teeth etched amidst my soul? A collection of fragments stitched from longing, ruin, scent, music and sound. Each piece a ghost reaching for the warmth that scorched it. Echoes navigating the tender wreckage of desire, memory, and identity through layered, sensory writing. I am quite unsure of what I'm doing here, this work will be an amalgam of random spurs of inspiration. The lamentation of a few flaps of skin stitched together by circumstances and attempting to appear human.. Language can be and will be : english, french, italian, german, portuguese - it'll depend on the inspiration that'll come expire on a blank page.

Not a story. Not a beginning or an ending. Just fragments. Of conversations, of thoughts, of things that were felt but never fully said. You're not meant to understand everything. Only to recognize something. Something that was already there, before you knew how to name it.

She's an architecture student chasing precision. He's the man who teaches her how desire is built-slow, intentional, undone. "You like control," he murmured. "But tonight, I'm designing you." Set in Paris, wrapped in silk and silence, Pink Concrete is a two-part story of tension, touch, and the architecture of intimacy. by: dleadpool

Between minuscule moments, between incomprehensible seconds, the universe expands to welcome a star. I've walked through this long path once and I can never walk back, but once in a while, I turn to see, every quality I thought I lacked, a part of me we set free now, together.

Thoughts

From Angels to Humans, from the story of an artist to the one of a warrior, from the sensations of a victim to another, this book can be called a middle point. A virtual stage on which feelings of a diverse palette are either revealed or secluded, conveyed or camouflaged, played with or not. A stage on which a show is played by one in strong settings and many in fading shades of greys. Based on a project meant as an homage brought to victims of abuse of any kind, this collection gathers some pieces of writing that include particles of journal-style writing, a bit of poetry and rhythmic and rhyming pieces through which I am trying to make the puzzles of the entire picture not yet fully created send their vibes and generate sensations for the readers to interpret and understand through their own spirits. http://www.aiakira.com/439873347

A Symphony of Shadows is a collection of short, evocative poems that explore the delicate interplay between love, self-acceptance, and the unspoken struggles we carry within. Each poem is a whisper from the soul-some tender, others aching-woven with themes of longing, vulnerability, and the beauty found in brokenness. The verses unravel stories of love that embraces imperfection, of monsters that are not meant to be slain but understood, and of moments where belonging is not given but deeply felt. From quiet reflections beneath a dying sun to the raw intimacy of an unexpected touch, this collection is for those who have ever wrestled with their own shadows and found solace in another's warmth. With rich imagery and deeply personal emotion, A Symphony of Shadows invites readers to step into a world where love does not fix-but sees, holds, and stays.

We slithered beneath a cathedral of beech-fleshed Nephilim, their synaptic boughs brooding above our thrifted Chevy like spires of Babel- Ether held. Quiescence shackled. Static wraiths of neural tonic and THC jolted through our nerves- jaw locked at the damp root. Breath bound. Once we were spewed from the verdant lattice into the glaring grey open, wheat tides unfurled across the plains- furnace-lit glades breathed. Moirai cut. April's breath, glassy as my marble-floored gaze on gloaming's edge. Your earlobes-gemstone suns set in Sheen's trinkets- swayed as we drifted through liquid swells- The engine stirred in the fume-thick sanctum of tacit confessions and broken plans. We, Janus-mouthed hyenas, chattered everything, everywhere, all at once- trying to claw a life beyond instinct, since our son needed a language not built from blades. Our son, a slumbering barque at anchor, hull pressed to polyester, tilted in his car-seat, dreams drifting afar. Eros' milk calcified into bone. You crept, ivy, through the map of my heat in the dark-geometry without boundary, as though I was shaped for the eve we seep. I was trellis to wisteria twine- the bind that held- palms pressed to wall, eyes spasmed- azure crescents melted into treacle- salt rising from throat. All mothers, piranesi-bricked into themselves, releasing their locks. The changeling's kingdom you cage was never beyond saving- after the keys, after the release, there is a trace in us they cannot name. Day Zero.

Abstract

a tale of silent kinship, fragile divinity, and redemption born of sorrow.

some random thing i wrote cos i was feeling stressed and needed to rant