The letter
Her hair is beautifully long and flowing.
She has the brightest, bluest eyes.
She is always laughing and smiling,
And she is always telling lies.
Her parents ask how her day has gone,
And she giggles while she tells her tale.
They have no reason to doubt her words,
How could they know her soul is feeling stale.
The girl doesn’t even know herself,
She feels her personality has ran away.
She doesn’t know that she needs to fight herself,
Or how to keep the bad thoughts at bay.
Her days have gotten so numb,
That she doesn’t want to live another.
She holds the blade, the door creaks open,
And stares into the eyes of her baby brother.
He could of found her lifeless,
This she knows to be true.
So she wrote this clever letter,
For each and every one of you.
Don’t harm yourself,
No matter how bad things may seem.
Your life is worth so much more.
Perhaps one day you will see.
She smiles pretty happily,
The truth in her eyes.
The blade now just a memory,
About the day she almost died.
Throwback Thursday.
I was sitting down on my bed, randomly scrolling through prose, when suddenly this idea struck me. During my time here in prose, I felt that my writing developed and it improved and finally thought I was going somewhere.
I wanted to see how my writing progressed and how it changed over the months. So I thought: What if I took my first post on prose and then, re-wrote it? I still can't believe it has only been five months I was sure that it has at least been a year.
When I first came here to prose, to be honest, I didn't know what was I doing. I wanted somewhere where I could share my writing: the good and the bad. I stumbled on the week challenges of prose, found it interesting, so I went for it and did it. Re-reading my entry again, It was not bad, surprisingly. The idea behind what I wanted to write was conveyed. It's just some spelling mistakes and how I wrote and structured some parts, that I felt could be improved. To challenge myself, I tried not to dratically change the whole text.
Origanal text: The proposal.
Delicate, pale fingers pushed gently at piano keys. Black and white. Notes blended togather creating a beautiful melody. Gentle. Slow. light. Warm.
Drifting off, the notes traveled across the vast room - full of people. The Music reached their ears.
The tempo increased, fingers pushing harshly agianst the keys. Notes blended togather tellling a story. His story - Their story. Sad. Happy.
The melody travelled futher across the room. A women sat in the room, silent tears of happiness running down her face. She understood. The notes floated around her carring a thousand feeling. One message.
-Marry me.
Improvement:
With elegance, pale fingers feathered the black and white keys. Gentle, slow, light-- warm. Notes harmonised, flowing outwards; drifting across the vast room brimmed with people. Blessing ears with rich music.
As the tempo increased, the fingers danced along the keys, twirling and twisting. Notes clashed. Powerful waves spread further and further; delving into the hearts of the audience. It told a story, pulsing with a thousand feeling.
One message:
Marry me
In the audience, a woman smiled, tears of happiness running down her face.
Yes, she responds.
----------------
So what do you think?
The Platform
We walked and I swallowed hard against the revolt in my throat. I would not make a spectacle. Not on this day. Deep breaths. Slowly. We walked but seemed to cover no ground. The stark platform in the distance was inevitable. The crowds that lined the street jeered us and blessed us. Time writhed around us, at times so far from reach that it seemed to have stopped only to turn and drive us toward our fate. This kind of walk cast the nature of life into stark relief. Focus has strange timing.
We arrived at the platform. Our footfalls drew creaking protest from the quickly cobbled steps. They were uneven. My breathing was ragged as I looked over the crowd that gathered. I recognized some of them. I wondered what thoughts were in their minds even as I took my place. The fibrous rope made me shiver. I looked away from the knots. How had it come to this?
The air stilled. Everything grew silent. I nodded once toward the sky.
Then I pulled the lever.
Last Meal
“I won’t make it much longer,” he lamented in a cracking voice through his parched lips. He had been hiking alone on a mountain trail when he fell about one hundred feet, breaking his fall temporarily by a jutting sapling, ending up on a snowy mountain ledge.
Since it had been three weeks now and no one knew his hiking route, he realized he might never be found. He had already consumed his little store of food and only was able to get liquid from the melting snow.
Water was not a problem but he needed solid food and realized he must get some protein before he starved. Looking downward at his lower leg, he talked to himself, “There is a lot of good meat on my leg.”
Desperate to survive until he could be found, he made a decision. Pulling out his knife from its sheath, he began to do what he must! Smacking his lips, he thoroughly enjoyed his last meal before closing his eyes in a feeling of endless peace. Sadly, his body was never recovered.
Peeling Off the Layers
My face is engulfed in a giant baby wipe. Well, that’s exactly how this Urban Outfitters sheet mask feels. I shouldn’t have expected much from the two dollar bin by the register, but the idea of clear skin made me buy it, regardless.
The instructions printed on the back said to wait five to ten minutes. It’s been three, and I’m already anxious to peel off this layer and reveal a visage as clear as day.
As I blink some of this mysterious, 0.03-cent-an-ounce elixir out of my eyes, my mind fixates on the near future. I’d have clear skin; all the boys would love me. I’d have clear skin; any job I ever wanted would be mine. I’d have clear skin; never would I have to ask for favors. I’d have clear skin; I’d be a valuable contributor to society.
Four minutes and twenty six seconds. Eh, close enough. I prematurely put a stop to the impending flourish of “Intro” by The xx.
My bathroom mirror is a mere turn around away. I turn to face this reflection of truth. My heart rate intensifies as I prepare to peel away this layer.
Three, two, one...
Lo and behold, my skin is glowing. Sparkling, actually. Never have I felt more beautiful, like myself. The mask is off. This is who I was destined to be, and I can see her right in front of me.
Until my eyes start to burn. My body responds by coating my retinas with tears. My line of sight drowns in this salty brine, and I wish for the time to come when I can take a second look at this sudden beauty.
An eternity passes, and I can see again. But when I face the mirror once more, I miss when my eyes could not open.
I don’t have clear skin.
Behind this mask is who I actually am: a clueless casualty of capitalism, with sheet mask chemicals in her eyes. Gone is the glimmering goddess, for she was never there.
The face-shaped baby wipe goes intro the trash, along with botox kit boxes, crumpled-up corsets, hideous hair extensions. Try as I might, buy as I may, this body in which I am trapped will never have big lips, a skinny waste, or a long, silky mane, let alone clear skin.
Surely, I’ll have to peel off many more layers before I can become the mask.