Youtube Channel

Posted in About Me, General Posts, Posts with tags , , on May 4, 2014 by Myra's Circle

Hello friends

You still with me?

Sorry for not updating in so long, I’m pretty busy…

Anyways, could you maybe check out my youtube channel?  I would really appreciate it.  I do covers of songs and today I posted an original song.

Link to my channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcTo0sL_oFUFeSNDLrQz8EQ/feed

Thank you!

M

Death’s Wish

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , on April 8, 2014 by Myra's Circle

Death is the most infinite thing to ever exist.  I should know.  I am Death.  And this is the story of the woman I loved.

I first met her in Spring, when the warmth was hopeful and flowers unfurled their sleepy limbs and opened their eyes into the sun.  I was there long before the kill.  I watched her chase him, gun in hand, waiting for a clear shot.  I waited with her.  At the time, it was nothing, I hadn’t seen before.  It was just my job.  Nothing more.  There was a resounding bang, and then a dull thud.  She stood over the man’s lifeless body, and didn’t cry.  She didn’t panic.  She just stood there, emotionless, as she stared at his wide, unblinking eyes.  Her first kill.  I almost forgot to do my job, with her standing there, full of unadulterated courage and beauty.  I could tell she was sad too, though.  I could smell the toxic scent of unhappiness in the air.  I leaned over the body, and touched the man’s still-warm forehead.  His face began to glow, and his wispy soul drifted from his body.  I inhaled it and smiled, at both the good and the bad the soul contained.  His soul was sweet and sour at the same time, which wasn’t an unpleasant taste.  Yes, I know I shouldn’t spoil your ending, but that’s what happens when you die.  No Heaven, or Hell, there’s just me.  Me and my impossible hunger.  But anyway, onto more pleasant things.
I watched her that night.  It wasn’t my place – it was against every law – but I didn’t care.  I was much too curious for my own good.  It’s one of my existential flaws.  I was curious about her, about her life, and though I knew there would be more murders to be done by her hand, I didn’t want to wait.  Waiting was all I ever did.  Waiting got boring.
I watched her walk home and lock the door, and make tea.  I watched her slowly break down when she thought nobody was watching.  I watched with interest.  She wasn’t the first murderer I’d encountered.  She wasn’t even the first one with feelings.  I was simply and inevitably drawn to her, pulled by an invisible rope that could never be touched or described.  I watched her for a few more minutes before I left.  I had a job to do, and I was getting hungry.

It was a long time before I saw her again.  A year and a half, I believe it was, in mortal years.  the winter had set in, the air crunching like the crisp leaves of Autumn, and the flowers closed their eyes and waited for the sweet regales of spring.  I felt her presence before I saw her – it felt composed, calm.  Completely unlike that of whom she was pursuing.  It was a woman this time, her fear acrid and pungent in the cold air.  I saw the knife before she did, in the hands of an expertly trained killer.  The unfortunate victim didn’t even have time to squeak as the knife was thrust into her, then twisted in a perfectly executed manoeuvre.  The killer remained a little longer this time, her hand reaching into the victims pocket.  She pulled out a hard, dull object.  She turned and left, not caring who found the body, because she’d been clever.  She’d taken precautions.  There was no one left in that place to find it.  I inhaled and did my job, trying not to enjoy the rich taste of the deceased soul.  My eyes were fixed on the hole the woman had left, the gap that could only be bridged by her unerring presence.  I knew her hands would shake as she lifted the teacup to her trembling lips, how heavy it would feel in her bloodstained hands.  I knew she had made another hole in herself, perhaps greater than that in any other.  I looked down at the body in front of me and felt no pity.  I was incapable of such an emotion.  But Il felt something else – another stirring in the heart of a soulless being, a gap inside my supposed heart.  It was a nameless emotion, without purpose or logic.  It was simply there.  I shook my head, trying to clear it, and moved on to my next job.

The next time I saw her was the last.  She was running, not after something, but from it.  Me.  it was time.  Order had to be restored, justice to be carried out.  She needed to face the consequences.  Almost as suddenly as she had started running, she stopped.  She turned.  She faced me.  And just like the first time, she had no tears in her eyes.  She was unafraid.  For the first time, she spoke to me, softly, carefully, her measured tone lifting to my listening ears.  “Go ahead,” she said, her voice unwavering, “take me.”  I was still for a moment, uncertainty weighing on my mind.  She had acceptance in her eyes, steadily blossoming into strength like blood onto the shirt of the wounded man.  I slowly walked toward her, my footsteps silent, only as Death’s can be.  I was directly in front of her certain, unflinching body.  She stared fearlessly into my black soulless eyes.  I tilted my face towards hers, and brought my lips to her lips.  I felt her soul disconnect from her body, and flow into mine, as her body went limp in my arms.  I lowered her body to the ground.  Her eyes were empty labyrinths, full of secrets that no one would ever know.  Her soul tasted different, empty somehow, like there was nothing left in it.  It was then that I knew she had died long before my embrace had ever claimed her.  And suddenly, I recognised the stirring deep within my being’s centre.  It was sadness.
For nothing and no one escapes the destruction of Death.  i am the only constant, the only certainty, and I am not allowed the abundance of mortal life.  For Death is not supposed to wish for Life.

Sorry

Posted in Poems, Sad Poems with tags , , , , , , , , on December 19, 2013 by Myra's Circle

I’m sorry I didn’t think to be,
All that you ever wanted from me,
I’m sorry for ruining you,
More than I could have a clue.

I’m sorry for making you cry,
And sorry if you wanna know why,
I’ve lost too much, been stretched too far,
It can’t be erased by a single scar.

I’m sorry for causing so much pain,
I’m sorry I went so utterly insane,
I’m sorry, okay, that’s all I can say,
But it won’t keep the demons away.

You told me to fight, you told me to kill,
Those demons inside with all my will,
So I took the gun, and took the pill,
And sent those demons over the hill.

I’m dying, slowly, when will it end?
On the rope and the fan, or the railway bend?
I’m sorry I had to be here,
I wasn’t meant to be, that’s clear.

So here’s my ending, my demise,
Gone before the sun will rise,
You’ll wake up, and then you’ll cry,
And then you may greatly wonder why.

The end is soon, the end is near,
I’m sorry that it’s already here,
So hear me out, hear my voice,
I’m sorry I didn’t have a choice.

Dear Reader

Posted in Hopeful Stories, Posts with tags , , on December 13, 2013 by Myra's Circle

You are made of the stars that created universes.  You embody light, and beauty, and radiate it for all to see.  You have infinities inside of you, that will shine brighter than the sun, if allowed the chance.  You are not useless, just as a light bulb or a pen is not useless.  You are the wonder in a child’s eyes, the stars that dreamers seek.  You are not weak, and you are not alone.  You are the hope of the world, you will brighten even the gloomiest days.  You bring beauty and light into the life of at least one person in the world.  The world is not a cold, dead place, and you are not dead yet.  You want to be perfect, but you already are.  Your imperfections are stitched together in the most perfect way, creating someone as beautiful as the sunset.  You are somebody’s sun and the moon, somebody’s stars and sky.  You matter.  You deserve so much more than you get.

Don’t ever forget the stars that you are made of,
MM.

Here Comes the Sun

Posted in Happy Poems, Hopeful Poems, Poems with tags , , , , , on December 13, 2013 by Myra's Circle

Here comes the sun,
Razing down the sky,
Touching the Earth,
It’s hand now gentle.

Here comes the sun,
Peeking past mountains,
Through the tendrils of time,
And in branches of trees.

Here comes the sun,
Battling the moon,
For every glory,
That the Earth owns.

Here comes the sun,
the light on our faces,
The longest joy, and yet,
Our darkest heart.

Here comes the sun,
Blasting the heavens,
With golden strings of light,
As it blesses the dreamers.

Infinitely Blank Chapter 2

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Hopeful Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , on November 29, 2013 by Myra's Circle

I love the night time.  It is those few hours that are always sandwiched between the long hours of daylight.  It is darkness, the feel of the moonlight on your head, protecting you, guarding you.  Night is dreams, smiles, memories.  Night is warmth.  Night is when thoughts come alive, dreams become reality and imagination takes over.  It is when magic lives in the warm covers of our dreams.  The best ideas are always born under the protective cover of darkness, and will forever belong to the night.  It is the only time anyone can ever see those stars that are always there, watching over us.  Night is the time when the rest of the world sleeps for an endless eternity, when I finally feel separate from the waking nightmares that surround my everyday life.  There is no better time, I think, than night.  I draw until the first rays of sun shine on the earth, a light purple colour, the most beautiful time of day.  There is nothing more beautiful than the time that predawn brings a sort of peace to the land.  I am so tired.  I don’t even remember when I last had a good night’s sleep.  But how can I sleep when the alluring call of night beckons?  As I draw, my eyes get so tired, my pencil slips down my paper, ruining the drawing I am working on and I fall asleep, right here at my desk.  I often fall asleep here.  It is the place I spend my time most often.  I feel a sort of presence behind me, and I know someone invisible is there.  It is strange how often I get that feeling.  I turn to face the window, the one that I always leave open, for no other reason than it is an urge.  There is someone there.  I can see him, but he is ever-so-slightly blurred.  I catch a quick glance at his face, and it seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t seem to place where I possibly could have seen him before.  He is wearing a cloak, which I think is a little odd.  Who wears a cloak?  Who is this boy, and why is he standing on my window-sill staring at me?  I have the vaguest of ideas as my tired eyes try to make sense of the situation.  He looks almost scared.  He is as stiff as a new plastic doll, barely breathing and desperately trying not to make any noise.  I am barely able to glimpse his face, as it is clouded by a scary sort of darkness.  Then, just like that he disappears, and I turn back to my desk, and, moments after, before I can even fully comprehend what I’ve just seen, I fall asleep.

What feels like just moments later, I am being roughly shaken awake by my mother.  No, it can’t have been only moments later.  The time says it is seven-thirty.  I groan inwardly as I hear her irritated voice.  “Raina?  Raina!  Please don’t tell me you fell asleep at your desk again!”  “No,” I say back to her, my voice full of sarcasm, “I just magically transported to my desk while I was sleeping.”  My mother rolls her eyes, emitting a frustrated sigh.  I think she’s getting a little sick of me.  “Raina, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.  If you keep falling asleep here and staying up late, you’re going to kill yourself!”  My earlier sarcasm is gone, and I am left groggy and disorientated.  I lay my head down on my desk as I think of the events of the night.  “I… a boy… a dream… or was it?  I don’t really know,” I murmur into the hard wood.  I don’t tell her that I know it wasn’t a dream.  That would only freak her out, and the last thing I need is a freaked-out mother to deal with.  It would be a normal reaction, too.  How would your mother react if she knew that her daughter had a strange boy stalking her?  She still seems alarmed though, and when I close my eyes ready to have a nap, she shakes me awake again.  “What do you mean?  What boy?  RAINA!”  My eyes snap right open.  “Okay, okay, I’m up,” I moan, trying to avoid her question.  She stares at me for a long time, almost as if she is challenging me, and I stare right back at her, daring her to say the thing that is on both of our minds.  She can see how hard I’m trying to not answer her question, and I can see how much she doesn’t want to let it go, but in the end, she’s the one who loses the staring contest.  She sighs, then says, “I’m going to go get ready for work.  Now get up.  You have school.”  “Wait mum, please?”  I plead.  She sighs again, and then looks back at me expectantly.  “Last night, when I was drawing, I saw a boy about my age at the window.  He was peering in, watching me.  As soon as I saw him, he disappeared.”  My mother looks at me as if I am crazy.  “Maybe you were just hallucinating from lack of sleep,” she suggests, “it isn’t completely unheard of, you know.”  “No, it wasn’t a dream, I’m sure of it.  I saw him.  He was there.  He was just like my dark prince,” I insist, but my mother just looks like she is about to take me to the mental institute.  “I swear he was real.  He looked kinda like… this,” I say, producing a picture of my dark prince.  The dark prince is tall and handsome, in a sinister kind of way.  His hair is curly and black, looming over his eyes, which were as black as his soul.  Everything about him is dark, even his shadow is darker than most.  My mother gasps.  I think she sometimes underestimates my skill.  She swallows, trying to think of something to say.  I am expecting her to say something like, “Wow, you’re such an amazing artist!” but instead she looks awkward as if not sure what to say.  “Well, it’s time for you to get ready for school,” she says lamely, and promptly leaves the room.  I sigh in frustration.  Don’t get me wrong; I love my mum, but sometimes she just doesn’t know how to support me.  Sometimes I think she is afraid for my mental health.  She thinks it is unusual to spend so much time on my own, and when she sees some of my drawings, I can tell she is worried about me.  But I don’t think it’s unusual to spend my time alone.  I prefer to be alone.  Then I don’t get hurt as much, and the pain isn’t as bad.  I can cry when I am alone too.  I never let others see me cry.  I don’t want them to.  It is easier to cry alone, to not burden others with the weight of my emotions, and yet harder at the same time. Sometimes, I feel like I am about to break, and there have been many instances in which I actually have, and inflicted minor physical pain on myself.  For some reason, I find physical pain easier than emotional pain.  It is easier to heal, and doesn’t hurt so much.  I’m not sure if that’s normal.  I don’t even think that I’m normal.  I try to cease all thoughts about what’s to come, and I prepare myself for yet another ordinary day in my ordinary life, as just another ordinary person.  Sometimes I wish that I can live in my fantasy world, leave my awful life here and live in another one that would probably be a lot more exciting than the real world.  But wonderful dreams almost never come true.  I had to learn that lesson the hard way.  Whenever I dream, I always end up disappointed, no matter what.  So I don’t dream anymore.  I tell myself not to dream, and if I do, I often force those dreams out of my mind.  It can be really hard living life when you’re not allowed to dream.  Dreams are for the people who are fortunate enough to be able to make them come true.  Certainly not for those who can’t even talk to someone for fear of being punished for it, and certainly not for me.  There is no hope in dreaming, for me.  I decided long ago that I would never dream so recklessly again.  I will hide from my dreams, just like they hide from me.  I sigh as I hang the dark prince on the wall, in the only empty space I can find (which is more difficult than you might think).  As I stare at the walls I wonder what will happen when I run out of space, and who the boy at my window really was.  My mother may not believe me and maybe it makes me crazy, but I know it is true.  I know he was there.  I’m sure of it.  I’m not hallucinating.  Something is happening to me.  To everything.  Something that is bigger than me.  Something more important than anything else.  I just know it.  But who am I to dream of it?  I realise that I am stalling, and I groan when I remember school.  And the worst part is – it’s Monday.  It is always more horrible on Mondays.  Maybe it’s because people are more tired and it’s easier for them to snap.  It is going to be a long day; but then again, it always is.  It never gets better, but I suppose I have to at least try.  If I want an education, that is.  I can’t just close my eyes and hope that all the bad things will somehow disappear, because how likely is that?   I’ll just have to brave it.  I only have two more years anyway.  How hard could they possibly be?

I regret mentally asking that when I get to school.  I know that these two years can be almost impossible, from my own experience.  On arriving at school, I automatically grab the latest book I have been reading and sit by myself, shoving my head into the book, and slump down low, pulling my hat down over my face like I always do.  It is strange that if you do this, people won’t bother you or notice you, most of the time.  Sometimes, it doesn’t work and people still do bother me, stealing my book and never returning it.  I’ve got into a lot of trouble at the library because of it.  The librarians are constantly scolding me for being so immature and irresponsible, but I think they have a bit of a soft spot for me.  They would have to be the only people I have ever met other than my mother who care for me, at least a little bit.  Maybe it’s because I always have my nose in a book, and spend every lunch time quietly studying at the library.  I have no friends here, but that is fine with me.  I’ve never exactly been a socialite anyway, and friendships are usually the way people get hurt.  Being alone isn’t so bad anyway.  It is the only time when I can really think, except sometimes, I don’t want to think.  Sometimes the depth and hatred of my thoughts scare me.  And when I say sometimes, I mean always.  I’m always trying to escape from my thoughts.  When I first came to this school, halfway through year nine, I had tried to make friends, but it ended up horribly wrong.  They all just thought I was weird, and stared at me like I was talking in some different, alien language.  Maybe I am weird, but whatever is wrong with me, I sure don’t care what they think of me.  At least that’s what I tell myself.  I never fully believe it though.  People started hating me, because, who wants to be friends with the one person who has none?  I have always been the underdog.  Always.  And that will never change.  I’m always the one put at the bottom of every list, and it doesn’t matter what the subject of that list is.  All people care about here are good looks and popularity, and if they befriend me, then they drop down in the ranks in both of those categories at this school.  But they are not perfect, and they say they know that, but they don’t.  They are all hypocrites who want to think that they are good people, want to believe it, and in the same sense they turn around and tell me that I’m not perfect, and that I never will be.   How can they be perfect when they treat others like they are not? I all the time, I try to pretend that they do not hurt me, that they do not even touch me, but they really do.  More than I could ever allow them to know.  If they knew how much I suffered, how much I killed myself every single day, would they still bother me?  Probably.  They are much too shallow to care about my feelings.  The thing that I really do care about is the way they would bully me.  They treat me horribly, and it’s not just students, the teachers as well, so it isn’t as if I can go to them for help.  They would just tell me to stop lying and being selfish because no one likes liars.  I have never been more alone then at school.  The bullying never gets better.  I just have to grin and bear it.  There are some days when I just want to stay at home, but I can’t, because then my mother would know of the pain I suffer.  She probably would just ignore the issue and tell me to move on anyway.  Sometimes they would steal my lunch, my money, throw my stuff in the bin, and in the worst cases they would beat me up.  They swear a lot at me, and tell me that I might as well leave and go home because it’s obvious that no one likes me.  I at least know that part of it is true.  No one does like me.  I avoid people as much as is humanly possible, and sometimes even skip class to escape from the endless torment.  I avoid people like they are going to give me a deadly disease, because sometimes, that’s what it feels like they are.  Their poison is potentially deadly to me, the kind that doesn’t have an antidote as of yet.  I am an outcast – a misfit.  I don’t belong here.  At least that’s what I’m told.  They tell me these things to try and get to me, but the thing that really gets to me, is that I’m beginning to believe that what they are saying is true.  That’s why, when a girl approaches me this morning as I’m pretending to be reading my book, I flinch.  The girl looks hurt, which instantly makes me feel bad.  I look closer at her and realise that she doesn’t even look like one of them.  She looked vulnerable and innocent, like an outcast would.  Like I used to, before I learned how to act like everything was okay and nothing was bothering me.  I would often use those acting skills to trick my mother, because I don’t want her to bear my pain.  There were times when I thought of telling her, but she just looked so happy, and I do not want ruin her good mood.  Then, the girl speaks, and I am startled out of the abyss of my thoughts, and finally remember that she is there.  “Uhhh… hi.  I’m… Marissa .  I just… I just moved here from America and I don’t have an idea what to do.”  She sounded so distant, so far away from the real world that it almost didn’t seem possible that she was a part of it.  “Could you, uh, help me out?”  I nod, closing my book.  Looks like I’m not going to get time to read that one for a little while.  “Just so you know, you’ve already dug your own grave by talking to me.  I hope they aren’t too hard on you.”  She frowns at me like I am the strangest person she has ever met.  I probably am.  I am pretty strange.  I don’t think she quite grasps the simple fact that no one likes me.  “I don’t mind,” she says quietly, in a way that makes me suspect that she does, indeed mind.  I wonder how they treated her at her old school in America.  Her voice breaks to a whisper, almost inaudible as she says, “Most of the girls here are horrible suck ups anyway.  But not you.”  She adds hastily.  I nod again.  I can’t help but agree with Marissa.  After all, if everyone here hates me, why can’t I hate them too?  “Isn’t it strange, how people are horrible to the person who is going to be most successful later in life?”  Marissa says, smiling.  Her words strike me, like small bolts to the heart.  Look out, says a small voice in the back of my mind, this might be the makings of a good friendship.  And I of all people know that friends, no matter how good, hurt you.  I have learned that the hard way.  But then, isn’t that the only way people learn?  Doesn’t everyone learn from their stupid, careless mistakes?  It is hard to be sure of myself, when I make the mistake of trusting everyone who pushes their way into my life.  How can I be sure that this new person won’t just use me, then toss me aside like I am nothing more to her than yesterday’s stinking garbage?  “I’m Raina.  In case you haven’t already figured it out, everyone here hates me.”  Marissa seems sad now.  “It figures,” she murmurs, almost so quiet as to be talking to herself, “All those rumours are pretty vicious.”  I am curious, but also a little afraid of just how vicious these rumours are.  I gulp, forcing my nervousness as strong as bile down.  “What sort of rumours?”  I manage in a shaky voice, tainted by nervousness.  Marissa leans forward, and in my ear she whispers a series of unprintable names, each one as awful as the last.  Tears threaten the backs of my eyelids, more from anger than hurt, but I will not let them have the pleasure of seeing me cry.  If I do, then I am giving my power to them, showing them that I am vulnerable and they can hurt me, and that will only make them hurt me more.  If I cry now, I may never be able to stop.  I may never be able to smile again.  Or, at least that’s what it feels like.  It is so unfair and sad, that out of the hundreds of students at this school, only one of them actually likes me, actually cares about me.  Surely, with my drawing skill I am meant for something much more than this life of brutal teasing and abuse.  It’s like there is nothing more to their lives than being beautiful and popular.  No one here is really happy.  They only think they are because they are gifted.  They have everything, and so pick out the weak ones like me who have nothing, and pretend that they are happy, but I think, that in their secret heart of hearts, they know that in reality, they have nothing but a bunch of fake friends.  “Can you show me around, maybe?”  asks Marisa quietly.  The sound of the ever-so-punctual school bell interrupts our conversation, and prevents me from answering.  I have science class next, my worst class.  It is the worst because I am the teacher’s pet, so I get even more torment from my classmates than usual.  The one teacher that likes me makes me hate her, because by liking me, it has brought more hell upon me.  I don’t know whether to skip or not, and Marissa is not in my Science class.  In fact, I don’t think she is in any of my classes.  I decide on skipping.  I go to the library and work on one of my assignments instead.  I sit with Marissa at lunch.  I haven’t sat with anyone at lunch times for years.  It feels so good to actually talk and laugh with someone, just to have a friend.    The rest of the day flashes by, too fast to recount.  I guess you can divide time too, when you have friends to share it with.  And that’s the story of how – for the first time in three years, to be precise – I finally got a friend. After all these years, after doubting God, doubting myself, He finally gave me what I asked for.  He gave me a friend and that is more than I can ever thank Him for.

I’m not good enough.  That thought constantly hounds me, never leaving my side.  I look in the mirror and stare for a long time at the face that stares back at me.  My reflection looks unhappy.  It always does, and always has.  Even when I’m smiling, it just stares sadly back with that vacant look in its eyes.  When I was little, I used to think it was because the girl there was trapped in the glass.  I still sometimes think that now, that the girl is sad because she is trapped.  Not by the glass, or the people inside it, but by her emotions, the ones that are dominated by hurt and pain.  Sometimes, there is even a little anger.  Anger at my mother, for ever deciding she wanted a child, at my father for not being here now.  If my mother never had me, I wouldn’t have to suffer.  There wouldn’t be me.  The world would be better off.  My father wouldn’t have left, and they’d be happy.  I’m not beautiful.  Heck, I’m not even pretty.  I guess you can only really like yourself when others like you too.  My black hair is cut short, but not too short, so it falls just above my shoulders, my fringe sticking out in weird directions, like usual.  My once green eyes are a dull storm cloud grey from all that crying.  They used to be so pretty, but now, they will be forever grey.  I remember my mother’s friends used to comment about the beauty of my eyes, but not anymore.  They can’t tell me how green my eyes are because they are no longer green.  I ruined the only thing that has ever been beautiful about me.  I have wrecked myself, and I hate myself because of it.  I can’t brag about much in myself.  I’m not pretty, or popular, or smart.  I’m not even particularly funny.  I’m just me.  I don’t have much confidence in myself, but then, how can I?  Confidence is gained by being surrounded by lots of good people who care about and love you.  I don’t have any of that.  I have one friend who I’ve only just made, a mother, a father who left before I could even remember his name, and an entire school that hates me.  Doesn’t inspire much confidence, does it?  My dull grey eyes drift down to the scars on my arm, left there by me.  No one else knows about them; I wear long sleeved shirts to cover up just how much I silently suffer.  I will never let them know about my secret pain.  It would only make them tease me more, and would only make mum hurt.  I couldn’t bear to see my mother sad.  I try to spend as much time as possible in my bedroom.  It is the only place where I can be the monster that I call me.  My room is the only place where I can be myself, the only place I can show my true colours and cry until there are no more tears, only sadness.  Over the last three years, it has become both my prison and my paradise.  My only escape is drawing.  Sometimes I think that drawing is the only thing that keeps me sane.  It is my remedy – my release – my escape.  Drawing is the only thing that can get me close to smiling, the only reason I’ve hung in there all these years of lonesome solitude.  Time and time again, people would ask me if I was okay, and all I said was, “I’m fine.”  But I’m not fine.  I am everything but fine.  I am dead inside, but I had to hide that.  I’m not okay, even after all those millions of times of trying to convince myself that I am.  There is something very dark inside of me, something sinister going around in my mind, and I think maybe that’s why some people avoid me.  I think maybe they can sense it there, and avoid me on purpose, so they don’t catch whatever mental disease I have.  I know I have a disease of some sort.  It isn’t normal to think like this.  Girls my age are supposed to think of flowers and boys and pretty things, not the unimaginable horrors I think up.  The images of blood and death are irremovable.  As hard as I try to push them out of my mind, I know I am only pushing them back, for them to re-emerge later.  It is a disease.  I cry because I know there is something wrong with me, and I am afraid of myself.  If only mental disease was contagious.  Then maybe they could suffer just as much as I do. They can feel my conflicting emotions for once, they can know how it feels to laugh even though I feel like curling up in a tiny corner and crying.  I have to laugh, have to smile.  I have to try and pretend I’m alright, if not for anyone else’s benefit than for my own.  Laughing is supposed to be the best remedy, the medicine that heals everything right down to the soul – that’s what they say, right?  Well, I’ve found that it is also the best disguise.  For years, I’ve hidden all my pain beneath a mask of smiles, burying my emotions until I’m sure that I am completely and entirely alone.  Then they all spill out in a cascade of silver tears, glistening in the moonlight as  I secretly cry over all that I have lost.  My pretension has become so real, so believable, that I almost believe it myself.  Almost.  As much as I bury them, my emotions are waiting deep inside of me, waiting for the right moment to attack and I know that this is an internal war, one that I am probably going to lose.  The worst part of this is that no one ever discovers how dead I really feel inside.  The only things I cannot escape when I draw are my feelings.  I feel useless, angry, upset, sad, hateful, scared.  But I cannot rid myself of them, and secretly, I don’t want to.  They are the things that power my drawings, the things that make me good at what I do.  So, in a way, they are the real reason I have stayed alive.  They are the reason I wake up each and every morning, and go through the same tired ritual of going to school without even attending classes, because I am too scared to.  I’m such a coward.  I’m such a coward, and the really sad thing is, I don’t want to stop being one.  That’s what makes me so cowardly – it’s what makes us all so cowardly.  No one wants to be the brave one.  I stare once more at the mirror and cry as I realise for the hundredth time that those tired, empty eyes are mine and the wretched girl staring back is me, and know without words that I will never be good enough for her.

Infinitely Blank

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Hopeful Stories, Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , on November 29, 2013 by Myra's Circle

A mischievous smile lights his face as he leaps down off the roof, and sneaks up to the window, without so much sound as a spider’s long legs creeping across the window sill to focus on its prey.  The window is always left open, but he never goes inside, for fear of being noticed.  He is so used to creeping up to the window, it isn’t even difficult anymore, and he is incredibly talented in the art of silence.  But then, silence and darkness go together, don’t they?  The boy is careful not to be seen as he balances himself on the window sill and peers in.  Inside, he sees a girl of fifteen, ever so softly singing to herself as she draws fantasy lands that could not possibly exist – not logically, anyway.  However, logic almost never has an explanation for everything that is true, and the boy is perfectly aware of that.  Seeing her there, drawing by lamplight, she is beautiful.  He wonders if the girl even knows that, if she is even aware of her own beauty.  Somehow, he doubts it.  She seems like the type of girl who would sit in the corner and hope no one would notice her, the type of girl who would slump down simply to get attention away from herThere were some people in the world who walked around like they wanted the world to know that they were there, but the girl in front of him walked around like she wanted as much attention as an ant.  Insecurity is like a disease, he decides, Eating up people’s thoughts, replacing with the single thought of ‘I’m not good enough’.  No one deserves to hear or think that.  It is unfair to them.  No one should have to bear the crushing weight of those four words.  She sings so softly and beautifully, it is hard to believe that the sound is not coming from an angel.  Maybe it is.  It is late, almost sunrise, but the he doesn’t care.  The daytime might belong to someone else, but the night is and always will be his.  He owns the night, like the other one owns the day.  He will always envy those who are still able to live in the light, those who can still walk and look at a bright blue sky, without having a part of them fade away and die.  He lets out a soundless sigh, as he dreams of one day not shrivelling up just by looking out into the daytime.  But it just would not be possible.  It is still worth the pain to see the sunlight, though, worth all the trouble and risk. His realm is, and forever will be the time when the moon holds her head high.  He would stay here for hours some nights, watching her draw, until, eventually, she fell asleep.  In his haphazard mind, thoughts are tossing and turning, reeling in different directions as he plots and schemes, deep into the night.  He is good at that.  Even more so when he tries.  Sometimes, these ideas plague him, hunt him until he gives in to them and listens.  She stays up later tonight, he suspects that she has more on her mind, as she becomes trapped, entranced by worlds that she created.  Those worlds are beautiful, and he doesn’t blame her for wanting to stay there forever.  He is fortunate enough to be able to.    Someday soon, he will be able to show her, watch the reaction that would follow.  Someday.  He knows there is something different about her, something that draws him to her.  She has something that all the other girls he has met do not possess, although he can’t quite grasp what that something is.  He also suspects that she doesn’t know this, and he is right.  There is something a little bit dark about her, and as he glances around her room, he sees that it is much the same as it has always been – Sketches of brave heroes and beautiful princesses hung on the walls that were anything but bare.  But most disturbing were the drawings of blood and pain, the poverty that must exist in all worlds.  The ones that showed her true feelings.  He thinks that those pictures are the ones that tell the most about her, the most revealing ones.  They tell him that she has suffered, and that she suffers still, in ways he could never truly understand.  The walls are covered in sketches, with hardly any gaps between them.  He recognises some of the faces in the sketches, vivid pictures of them, in the flesh, flashing through his mind, whilst others were only hazy memories, maybe a smile or two here, someone’s eyes there.  She is excellent at drawing.  She possesses a true Skill.  A skill that she might never know about.  He hopes that he might meet her properly one day, even though he feels like he knows her already.  All those years he spent visiting her, watching her crying, watching her drawing, seeing her pain, he already knows her better than any other, even if she does not yet know him.  He has seen secrets that she would never allow anyone to know, and faithfully keeps her secrets for her, even if they may mean trouble for him or her.  They are her secrets, after all, and he should decide who to tell them to.  It just wouldn’t be fair if he told everyone of her secret horrors and sadness.   He inhales deeply, acutely aware of how much noise he is making, but uncaring either way.  If she hears him, she hears him.  The girl will probably just think it is the wind anyway.  A part of him knows that he should try to make a little less noise, for his own safety, but the other half whispers, “Be a little bolder.”  It is dangerous for him to think like that – it could get him killed, or worse, but right now, he only cares about the girl.  His thoughts are completely dominated by her, all other thoughts annihilated.  A jolt of shock goes through him, making him stand stock-still as she stares at the window, staring straight at him.  But that’s impossible, he thinks, No one can see me.  Not when I’m like this.  And it is true, no one should be able to see him.  Only the most creative can sense his presence, and even they put it down to lack of sleep and their overworked imagination.  He freezes, as stiff as the sketches of people staring back at him, until she turns back to her drawings, not without carefully checking the window once more.  He sighs again, soundlessly, and leaps up onto the roof, heaving a sigh of relief, as he is certain of his own safety.  That was close.  Too close.  He is dealing with dangerous arts here.  If he even once messes up, he would be done for, literally.  This dream of his won’t work if he is dead.  He has to be alive for his vision to come true.  He dreams of his world being perfect again, a place where everything is at peace.  He dreams of the world not dying.  He wants the world to be healthy and alive.  He has to make it come true.  He is the only person who can start this transformation.  He’d have to be more careful next time, if he is to be successful and win this battle of wits.  No, this war of wits.  And he must win, if his world is to survive.  He is only looking out for the wellbeing of his people and his world, after all.  It is that other one who is so stubborn and so stupid to think that the world is fine and needs no outside assistance.  As he shadow-travels back to Infinitas, before the sun kisses the new-born land and crumples yet another important part of him, a name tickles the back of his mind.  It is the girl’s name, he is sure of it.  He just can’t remember what it is.  Something… something starting with… R?  He moans in frustration as he tries to wrap his mind around the word, but every time he comes close, it slips away, safely out of his reach.  It was something, it is something that will be important later on, in the near future.  Her name… her name… what is it?  If only he can think of it, he might be able to rest.  Her name is an important part of her, and if he has h quite easy to make people forget someone whom they think never existed in the first place.  It is not like that pretension forget, when a person dies and those closest to them pretend to forget they ever existed, but a real type of forget, the way you might forget the way to spell a word, or how to do difficult maths problems.  It is a power he will never possess, and yet one that is more awful than any of his, because to forget someone would be an awfully big achievement and to be forgotten would be the most awful experience.  He would never be able to imagine the full enormity of the feeling.  How can one fully understand what it is to be forgotten, when the only experience he has of it is watching other people forgetting?  It  would be a feeling that no words can describe, so full of horror and pain, and yet so much more than that.  It would be fear too, and regret, and sadness, but who can really measure these emotions?  Who is the one who decides which is which and which is worse?  What person suffers the most, the hero, or the victim?  Or even the villain?  But how would you tell a villain?  It is not always so simple to see who’s the bad guy and who isn’t.  Especially to those who have clouded judgement.  For how can someone judge when they do not yet understand what it feels like to be judged?  I am not good enough.  Those are his last thoughts as he reaches the dark palace where he lives.

 

 

Hey guys!

so this is the first chapter of the story I’m working on 😀  sorry I can’t put the whole thing up, but I guess I can put it up a chapter at a time so you don’t have to wait too long 😉

It’s quite a long story, so bear with me 😀

I hope you enjoy it

Myra.