The Atlas: A collection of works.

[Harsh]

I have a Xanga which I write in to collect my works and thoughts on. I know the site is rather dead in the years of Facebook and Twitter but its just a personal diary -of sorts. I've been thinking about sharing my writings with other people since I'd like to know what others think about it and so I'll share it with members of the forum. To those who will read it anyway.
Most of the entries I post will be just my writings, free-writings and quotes from books that I pulled out because they have an impact on me. Many of the xanga entries I pull out may be old so I'll specify the date and year. Feel free to leave comments about your thoughts. Thank you. ^^
Enjoy :]



Entry Date: Thursday March 27, 2008
Title: A Place so Close to my Existence

She waits at a place not found. Someplace far away but it is held so close to me.
This place she sits in is an empty box. There is nothing but a desk and a chair for her to sit on. Her only possessions are a piece of paper and a pen laid out neatly in front of her.
Staring at the paper and pen, she thinks of what to do. There is silence in her ears but this silence is disturbing to her. Looking around, she soon finds to be in a room. There are no windows or doors. How suffocating.
Her hands are neatly on her lap, her feet delicately placed on the ground. Her hair is up in a very loose bun. Strands of stray hair coming down past her ears, brushing her cheeks slowly and softly. Her dress hangs off the chair limply as it attempts to reach the ground. It slightly comes down to her knees as she sits up straight on her chair.
Knowing she is closed and held captive by No-one in this No-place, she lifts her right hand -- picking up the pen. She starts to write. Her touch to the pen is light and soft. She starts to write in a slightly heavier manner, letting the sound of the tapping echo throughout the room. At first she did not know what to write about but not long after her hands started to move quicker, the tapping against the table becoming louder to her ears.

"Can you ever dream about a world where you are alone?
Where you can never talk to another being.
Where you can never be touched or be looked upon.
Where you can never be pleased or please someone else
Somewhere you will never speak that you forget how to.
You hear the words in your head so loud and clearly that it is useless to speak.
Someplace where you can never get dirty even with a white dress.
A place so lonely that you can not feel temperature and so you grow numb.
Where emotions are so rarely expressed that you forget what some of them are."


As she writes on, tears start to form in her eyes. The burning sensation of fresh tears start to reach the corners of her eyes as she tries to hold them back. Her jaw clamped tightly. Then, slowly, one by one the tears start to roll down her cheeks. They drop onto the piece of paper she is writing on and create a small noise. So small that she lets it go unnoticed. Her writings become rapid in a matter of seconds as anger starts to fill her heart. The emptiness flushes her body and slowly she starts to calm down in a manner of depression. The pen comes to a stop.

"Someone... Please save me."

Her hands become weak and slowly droops down onto the table. Her head becomes heavy and so she lays it down on the table, looking to the side as her tears rolled down, letting it seep through the paper. The ink from the pen starts to bleed slowly and smudges. The pen rolls out of the soft grip and rolls across the table. The vibration and sound are the only things she feels and hears and they seemed to be so loud -- loud enough to hurt her eardrums. With a final roll, the pen falls off the table and onto the floor. The echo of the pen colliding with the ground surrounded the girl within the empty and suffocating room. That is when the realization hit her.

Who will receive this letter, in a world where she is alone?

Fin.

[Fuyumine]

LOL I actually enjoyed reading that, man. Good stuff.

[Harsh]

Thank you, Fuyumine. :]





Entry Date: Wednesday June 17, 2009
Title: Unread Postcards

I've broken many things along the way.
A broken dish here. A fallen glass there. I threw and hit the window back a few years back.
And I've kicked a glass door out of fury; only to watch it shatter.
I've had a glass door fall at my feet. Picking at the glass snug in my leg wasn't too bad.
My glasses broke because I accidentally dropped them.
I've torn out page after page of my book because nothing seemed to sound right.
Broken mirror, seven years of bad luck. Punctured bags for thing to leak from.
'All liquid carry-ons must be 3oz. or less.' Or so they say.
The most durable plastic containers even rip, shred or just give up on heavy throw-aways.
Broken two-faces stayed together.
I've tried to bring back shattered glass stallions with krazy glue and it seemed to work.
I wonder if that will work for my broken heart.

If you look at enough of the details, you'll finally be able to understand.
Have you been paying attention lately?