I haven’t been able to write much for a few days, so I decided to try the whole free-writing thing to loosen my brain or whatever it’s meant to do. The result is a psychoanalyst’s dream. So of course I decided to post it here, on tumblr, the home of feels.
His head burst open and his eyes blew up. He felt his love running down his cheeks, and it burned rivers of hate into the skin that had once contained him. No longer did this skin bind him, imprison him. As the rivers dried up and his skin cracked and splintered, he felt himself seep out into the world, the gases of his soul dancing in the moonlight that surrounded him his entire life. The forest felt his life and rushed forward, hungry, famished, wishing the same thing all lonely things wished: to be touched, just once, with a sense of meaning. But by the time they reached, by the time the birds and lizards and dogs had reached his crater, he was nothing but the memory of a moment of nostaligic deja vu. And as the animals sniffed that smell, the mix of woodsmoke and tannin they felt themselves overcome not by a sense of meaning but a sense of loss. And their insides hollowed out and they felt their hearts burst in a tired fire that begged, begged so dearly to be fed on the scraps of whatever hope was left for things capable of death. Because that was a word that rang through the forest, screamed in the language of the trees, screamed and shouted because it was a word that couldn’t bare not to be heard. It was a word that rang true, a word that laced its syllables with deception because that is all that truth is, truth is simply a quagmire of contrary facts mixing and bubbling in their own juices.
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