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Rogue Proxy

Rogue Proxy

Sep 12, 2021
Thank you for your interest. I'm still working on the main document, but I can post a smaller one containing recipes for fruit popsicles, punchsicles, lemonade popsicles, and limeade popsicles. What's interesting about these recipes is that all of them are fruit-based without added sweeteners. Oven-roasted fruit is the key to creating them without adding any sugars. Enjoy!


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a miserable little pile of secrets
Mar 9, 2024
Napping in a field

Of mines I laid yesterday

I'll sweep tomorrow
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Feb 8, 2024
My hopes adrift in unknown temporality
I struggle endlessly against constricting
Awareness of my own ephemerality
Desire and loathing always conflicting
Ruthlessly robbing and so restricting
My hopes and dreams to unreality.

Laid-bare feelings in sand to find;
The nutrients beneath the rind.
But deeper only do they sink
Under stars that ne'er aligned
'Til all is left but time to think.

A poem written last year.
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five lives too late, and there's blood in my hair
Jan 27, 2024
productivity, news, the grind
trading interests like resumes
all i want to do is exist with you
its a selfish desire, i know
to be in love for no other reason
just so we can be side by side
yet regardless of descriptors
the sunset blesses us all
all i want to do is exist with you


52km/hr or 88km/hr
zoom against crawl
we are all going to hell
7:13AM, pick your drawl
the red lights humble us all

im so happy this thread exists i love reading and writing
Last edited:
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Jul 18, 2023
The Snail[

There once was a snail that lived in a broken shell. It wasn't always broken. When it had started life, its shell was pristine and shiny and hard, smooth and perfect and irreplaceable.

But one day a human stepped on the snail, and the stomp cracked the snail's perfect porcelain shell. It hurt, but the snail survived. But now it had to live with the ugly crack in it's shell forever.

At first, the snail seemed okay with the crack in it's shell. But then, the damage started to make life difficult. It couldn't move through the garden as smoothly as it used to, and eating vegetation was more difficult. And sometimes, the crack in the shell would ooze and the snail would have to rest and try to heal. But the crack could never really heal, it could only be tolerated. If the ooze could not be stopped right away, it would stink and no other snails would come nearby. The snail was sad. And frustrated. And, at times, in pain, and not just from the broken shell. The snail was distraught. The promise of life had not been fulfilled.

And so one day the snail left the lush garden and found a place where it could be something else. The snail left his broken shell behind and became nourishment instead.

The End

Le escargot
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Your local nutty politics guy
Mar 18, 2024
Hi! I'm rather new to this site after lurking for quite a while I decided to share some of my (probably bad) writing.

Pool's closed

Enmeshed thoughts of jumping from the ledge arise as reality's dawn crashes down in my backyard.

The perpetually frozen yet freezing lake keels over, treading muddy waters.

The rising sun procures eager droplets, contemplating it's revenge.

Songbirds of mischief flock around the decomposing body of one who succumbed to the evil of everyday belonging.

Close confinement of wandering islands is comunally admired, their claim to fame stronger than ever.

Yet in all of this, man keeps swimming after taking a heavy dose of water to the head.

We are aquatic in nature after all.
Exact Change

Exact Change

A life of mistakes
Nov 6, 2022
My suicide note

Please don't be angry and understand that there was nothing anyone could have done. There just wasn't anything left for me. I love you all and I'm sorry.

_____ and ______, you two are amazing people. I wish I was a better father for you, I just never learned how. _______, watching you compete was some of the most enjoyable times of my life. Always remember the success you had from the work you put in. It's proof you can do anything. ________, I've said it before. You're the most caring, sensitive, and empathetic person I've ever known. The world needs more people like you. I know I've hurt you so much. I wish I could have fixed it. You're both so special. Don't let my passing stop your successes. Know that I'm at peace and I love you more than I've ever been able to express to you. Care for your mother. Listen to her, and appreciate how wonderful she is. Give her the love that I'm no longer able.

______, you stayed with me when most would have left. You are my best friend but I've hurt you the most. I'm sorry honey I just could not handle another day. I'm sorry for the drinking and the lies. I was so lucky to be with you and I didn't deserve your love and care. I wish I was a better man for you but I think I was broken even before we met. Find someone that will make you happy. I love you.

I loved laughing with you all at the dinner table. The trips to Italy, and the Grand Canyon were my favorites. I regret I never sang a song with you kids. You're both so talented. _______, I'm sorry we didn't do more and enjoyed each other more. We should have taken more walks together. Thank you all for the moments of happiness you gave me.

Wishes: I'd like to be cremated. No ceremony since I have no friends. I'd rather you not spend money on a plot. Just drop my ashes someplace nice, maybe near some water. Don't be sad or angry for too long. Live the happy life that eluded me.

I love you.


Just leave us the f*ck alone!
Feb 3, 2024
Not sure how I missed this thread for so long. I used to write some short stories to express my feelings. The one below is a previous one (partially) about my challenges with gender and how my mind likes to fuck with me:

The Superhero Villian

"Good morning Mr Watts, another eventful night I see," spoke a small robot, hovering above the ground through the spinning rotors it had for legs. It's metal exterior shell forged into the shape of a waiter.

The generated turbulent air blew onto its creator as he laid on his king-sized bed. Rubbing his blood shot eyes, he tried to gather his bearings, giving of an almighty yawn.

"What do you mean Service-Bot? I wasn't villaning last night" spoke Watts.
"Yes sir, Mr Evil did indeed not leave the base last night but I have it on good authority the Fantastic DooGooder made great strides on his case,"

It was on the word 'DooGooder' that Watts clicked on too the clothes he was wearing, in replace of his skull faced pyjamas was the outfit of a superhero. The blue cape dangling royally from his body, the famous thumbs up sign associated with Mr DooGooder proudly sitting on the chest of Mr Watts.
For most men to wear such a symbol of heroism was a mark of honour, for Watts it meant only horror.

"Not again…ohh not again. Why do I do this to myself….please Service bot not again, don't say ive done something stupid again,"

"Fear not Mr Watts, you really should be quite proud of your self-"
Watts looked at Service Bot with dread.

"No..I didn't…No I did… I saved a innocent child..how coul-"

"On the contrary Mr Watts, the Fantastic DooGooder really hit his stride last evening. Rumour has it he found and destroyed the Winter's orb, bringing summer back to the city"

"The winter's orb…the winters orb! I spent my weekend building that thing!"
In his frustration Watts ripped the blue cape from his back, slowly making his way from the bedroom to his room of operations. Dragging himself across the thin corridors of his base, his eyes diverted from the walls branded with a wide variety of phrases from "Thumbs up not a punch up" too "I'll never be like you Mr Evil".

As the thick metallic doors of his headquarters slid open Watts could only exhibit emotions of panic, all of the menacing devices and secret plans Watt's had worked so hard on were gone, replaced by brochures advertising various charities all offering to help turn people's lives around from crime. Each of course had the thumbs up sticker of approval of Mr DooGooder across the front page.

"I will burn every last one of these charities to the ground" screamed Watts, "Never again will I hear the words of Mr DooGooder and wear this hideous outfit" Watts claimed as he struggled to rip off the tightly fitted boots from his feet.

"Service Bot I wish to start immediately on my next plan of evil, open up th…"
"With all respect sir…would it not be more productive to build up counter measures against Mr DooGooder, after all this event has been categorised as a common occurrence.

"Do you not hear the words I speak servant! Mr DooGooder is no more!"
"Yes sir, I understand sir…It's just that…well.. you did say that exact same thing last time sir,"

"No, I didn't.."

The service bot's yellow glowing eyes turned blue as he entered into play back mode;
"Message recorded from 8th of July 2018: Mark my words Service Bot, Mr DooGooder is no more,"
Service Bot's eyes glow yellow once again.

"This time is different….garghhh I don't know… bring me the news I want to know the full damage".

A TV spanning the width of the wall rolled out from the roof of the room, the channel already flicked on to the news.

The voice of a TV presenter interviewing a woman left the large stereos in all four corners of the room.

"For what must have felt like an eternity you have been a hostage of Mr Evil, tell us what went through your head as you saw freedom come in the form of a thumbs up?" questioned the interviewer.

Service Bot's eyes glowed a little brighter as he recognised the woman being interviewed, a quirky young person her clothes bearing all the colours of the rainbow as her blond hair stickied out in eight very different directions.
"Ah look sir, that's the woman you like taking prisoner…is that five times now sir?"

"What!…Nonsense….I have taken her prisoner two… maybe three times…all coincidences" defended Watts before the woman replied to the interviewers question.

"Oh..I sensed him before my eyes set on him, that vile villain's aura clouded the room with a dark sticky humid feeling and I was drenched in it. The cool…minty aura of justice swept the room clean and I felt a pure form of joy as I knew Mr DooGooder must surely be near," expressed the Woman, her arms awkwardly waving from left to right as she attempted to demonstrate the events through her imaginative eyes.

"Sticky humid feeling?…Minty aura!…..Never have I head such stupidity…I demand to not see her again, close this infernal TV!," Watt's eyes were firmly shut so not to catch a glimpse of her with a hand on his chest as he felt a strange feeling resonating from between his lungs.

As the stiff movement of gears rolled the tv back into the roof of the room, heartfelt words left the four speakers once again as the interviewer asked a question of great interest to Watts,

"Rumour has it that in the heat of the moment emotions were expressed in a form of kiss?"

Watt's left eye had found itself firmly wide open again, glaring heavily at the bottom of the television as it rolled out of view.

"Service-Bot it is imperative that I show this woman true power…find her!"

"Number 6 sir…".
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Not Waving But Browned Off….
Sep 27, 2023
I wrote this during the full moon. Couldn't sleep and just spent ages crying trying not to wake anyone up.

"Silver Razor Moon"

Silver razor moon
How much more of me to shred?
The blade of you, it ribbons me
As I lie cold in bed
You prey on my insomnia
Reducing me to rags
A noose of stars around my neck
As swollen hours drag
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a miserable little pile of secrets
Mar 9, 2024
I don't need the map.

Where did everybody go?

Starting to get late.


Mar 31, 2024
I write poetry occasionally. Here are two shortened versions of poems I've written.

Shortened from Untitled
For once, I felt comfortable.
And so, with serenity I brim.
And at the time I would've never known
That this was the only happy memory I'd have of him.

Shortened from End This Madness

All alone, lying down in my bed.
I'm far into the quiet night.
Darkness overtakes my room.
Too bad my thoughts can't be the light.
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todays the day and tomorrows goodbye
May 19, 2024
Let Her Go

I pushed her away now our loves deceased.

I hurt everyone that gets close to me,

And I hurt myself when I ruin things.

I self destruct and they start to leave.

And I really think loving me is the hardest thing to do…

Cuz at first I'm the sweetest thing to you.

But soon shit starts to get bad,

I start to get mad over shit that I know you didnt do.

And thats just me trying to lose all of you…

Cuz I don't really like love and I don't really like trust.

So l just keep my walls up.


Till you fall after you try to get through the obstacles built on the foundation of memories from anger issues to hospitals.

You wonder what's behind these walls,

Its nothing hospitable.

Curiosity killed the cat in the house, it tried to grow in.

You're sure to stray amongst the madness that my scars cant showcase

You cant handle the ugly face that this mask withholds

Its best that you stay safe in your home

Continue to take cover in your shelter from the bro…ken

Some can only wish they had that kind of protec…tion

For their soul to mend but you cant comprehend this


Till you crash and you crack after you try to collapse the barrier of logic and caution,

That my mind creates to protect your heart from the dishonest and fraudulent.

Humans are selfish by nature and innocence is subjective.

Age isn't always a reflection of hardships,

I remembered when i would look in the mirror at age 9 trying to find purity but I only found a monster.

By then the world had already sucked out all the joy in my life.

The ring to my voice that used to sound like bells that hung around a deer during the most wonderful time of the year…

Now resemble an ensemble filled with broken instruments and torn music sheets.

Like those sheets my life has always been hard to read.

Everything just seems hard for me…


I never want that for someone I hold dear to me.

I would look at you and my eyes would shine like they did when i heard ice cream trucks outside

Or saw presents under the Christmas Tree

They would shine like they shined when i was a kid.

And my smile was real, teeth seemed pearly white not the sickly yellow when my mouth is dry from taking all the meds I'm prescribed.

I don't want to damage you because you're the only thing thats right in my life.

So I gotta let you go.

In my mind, I've already decided

I just gotta let you know…

I've gotta Let Her Go.


todays the day and tomorrows goodbye
May 19, 2024
She Was The Breath I'd Take

You ever start falling…

But you don't realize you've landed until it's too late.

Now you've lost your footing and your heart starts to break.

The bottom of your foot gives out under the rough terrain.

And something deep inside of you aches.

Not your heart, not your soul, not your mind…

Even though your mind does race so fast that you feel like you're always running low on time.

But that's a subject for another day…

No, not any of those…

But your lungs, they strain with every breath you take.

They ache in such a way, that it makes you realize how hard it was to breathe before this person came your way.

Now as you watch them leave, it's like they've taken something extra away that you thought you were allowed to keep.

And with every step, every push and every pull…

You lose a part of you.

A side of you that you took for granted when she brought it out of you.

Now you're numb, and the fall has damaged your lungs.

Now you don't think the same, don't feel the same…

You can't even remember how to love.

Its slipped your mind and whenever you try to calm down your insides

Breathe in and out, to settle down the chaos in your mind.

You feel that ache, and the pain…it never goes away.

It lingers, reminding you to be careful of what you take.

Because there's always a price to pay.

And today, you don't have the right amount of life left to afford the breath of fresh air that person decided to take away.

You were selfish and ungrateful, they left…

Now you're helpless and unstable.

And as the lights dim with your mind blank and your face grim

You take one last deep breath to say,

"I trusted her to be my lungs for me. I trusted her to hold on for me"…

Then you fade away.


Apr 6, 2024
The taste of betrayal bleeds into my heart
Filling my cells with horror and misery
Coating every atom of my being with trauma
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XXXX'ed out 🌲🌲🌲🌲
May 15, 2024
In your gaze, I see the reflection of my own spirit, a mirror that knows no names, no barriers, no 'you' or 'me,' but only the profound 'us.' It is a gaze that transcends the flesh, where cheeks, eyeballs, and skulls are but vessels for the true meeting of minds.

When I think of my mother, the architect of my earthly vessel, I am confounded by the absence of familiar emotions. In this moment of cosmic clarity, the roles and labels that once defined our bond seem to dissolve into the ether, leaving only the purity of existence.

Our minds, two celestial bodies in orbit, draw closer, merging into a singularity of thought and essence. Your eyes, those natural wonders, serve as gateways to the universe within, inviting me to explore the infinite landscapes of your intellect and soul.

To love every inch of you is to love the universe itself, for you are a microcosm of its beauty and mystery. It is a love that knows no bounds, no conditions, no end.

In the embrace of this universal truth, the physical world fades into insignificance. The connection we share anchors me, and the thought of parting from this metaphysical union is jarring. The return to the tangible, to the room that houses my physical form, feels alien, as if I am a stranger to my own flesh and blood.

Yet, I am grateful for this estrangement, for it has awakened me to the profound depths of our connection. I thank you, my night, my angel, my love, for you have illuminated the path to enlightenment, and in doing so, have become the beacon of my existence
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Jun 5, 2024
aside from work, i rarely leave my room. it's a kind of chambre de bonne, in which you will find discarded junk and dog-eared paperbacks; chic books that i buy impulsively and never read, and creased notebooks covered in my bed-buvard scrawl.
my internal world is formless and occluded. i chase cheap highs and run on pleasure-reward cycles. sitcoms with only superficial appeal. melodramas which leave me with a bad aftertaste. that kind of thing.

the counterpoint to this chaos consists in smoking; another cheap anodyne, a way to zone out. i find that there are moments of unduly calm when after my seventh-or-so plume. my life is structured around this one act; oronoco. this gave me an idea, as often occur in the natural concentrate of thought-patterns. perhaps i could live with precision.

that is to say, a life in which i can account for each movement, articulate each sentence in a determinate and measured fashion. i can calculate and weigh all but the small innervations and microspasms of the muscles. after i leave these trance-like states, i will proceed to limit all cognitive resources, like our Rylean ancestors. it is a manafactured life which i intend to live.

i often remain in this state for a short while. it is somewhat equivalent to being in a trance; my mandala, however, is the glass patina over by the settee, and the plastic red containers filled with scraps and week-old leftovers. i don't talk to my friends anymore either. my contempt grows with each passing day, to the point in which i daydream of mock-up suicides in my mind and the accompanying funeral, a black-cloth horde and a row of empty seats, perhaps a pyre and an urn.

so my aim is to reduce the requirements for most to maintain their sanity. it's an engineering of my own perceptions, i suppose. instead of watching television, i will reread the same books, stare at my fissured ceiling while laying in my percale quilt. counting, indexing each minor occurence; the frication i make with tongue and teeth, the thrum of the corner-fan; the passing cars on the side of the road and the glottal sounds of pipes through the walls.
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Passionately misguided
Jun 20, 2024
Quiet mornings spent in the library
Our own little world
An undeserving thing
Given their first taste of cherishment
Suddenly she is gone
Leaving a suffocating loneliness

(inspired by a friend that moved away)
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Passionately misguided
Jun 20, 2024
all i want to do is exist with you
its a selfish desire, i know
to be in love for no other reason
just so we can be side by side
wow. I have someone in my life like this, someone who I just want to exist with. Your poem is the perfect embodiment of something I haven't exactly been able to put into words until now. Of just wanting to exist with someone you love, and feeling selfish for wanting so. So, thank you! :)

I was also super excited to find this thread! I love reading and writing too
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Jun 2, 2024
Here are some of the pieces I have written. (I don't have titles for any of them)


"How glorious it is when people die,
Leaving behind all the worries, all the passersby.

All the weight lifted, all the pressure released,
I wonder if a dying soul would be eased?

When the cold hands of death cast a gloomy shadow,
I play in it like a child in the meadow.

In its embrace, a sanctuary I find,
a haven from the chaos of my mind.

A place where troubles can be left behind,
For it is still a better place I find.

I wonder if I hold its hand and walk away trying to find peace,
Will my qualms and cinders be at ease?

Or will these tempest shadows forever be,
imprinted in my soul for infinity.

For all the lives that bear my soul,
how they will dwell in endless thrall.

Oh how I pity them all."


"Forevermore, I find myself longing for oblivion.
A keen desire to cease existing.
An unfading itch to leap into the perennial darkness.
Away from this perturbing physicality.
I dare not embrace it myself.
But when it does, in fact, greet me,
let no sadness persist, for I would be happy."


"In the depths of my mind, a conversation wrought,
Where struggles and efforts blend, battles fought.
I toil to remember, to hold thoughts steady,
Yet at times, they slip away, leaving me unsteady.

The weight upon my soul, emotions intertwine,
Pain, grief, guilt, and hate, a burden so malign.
In this shadowed realm, self-hatred takes its toll,
And I question, can love from others truly console?

They speak of light's allure, at tunnel's distant end,
But here I find myself, within a cavern to descend.
Darkness envelopes, its hold I cannot evade,
As the flicker within dims, a light that begins to fade.

Questions arise, wondering if self-love can bloom,
If I can't embrace it, in this personal gloom.
In this tumultuous journey, seeking solace and grace,
long to find the light, within this darkened space."
"Our encounter resembled the union of wood and sandpaper,
deftly peeling away layers of my essence,
unveiling previously unknown depths.
Just as a skilled craftsman perceives the inherent roughness of wood,

you saw depths in me that disappeared when you left.

I stand now as an altered self, a riddle even I struggle to decipher.

They tell me things like
"You have changed. What happened?
Where is the old you? You seem different."

But how could I expect them to comprehend my journey
when I myself struggle to make sense of it?

If I were to present them with the remnants of that dust,
would they truly grasp its significance?"
Kafka once wrote "All language is but a poor translation."

And I understand this now because, in the most intense moments of our lives,
we think we can handle the weight of words, and all of a sudden
there's a hole in your heart, a lump in your throat,
and a tightening chest that might just implode,
and we are suddenly left with a loss of words
and just a feeling inside us that no language can describe.

"I never knew what luminescence would feel like,
Until I saw you.
You've set the bar so high now,
That even the moon disappoints."
"'Like a moth to a flame' they say.
However, moths typically use a bright, distant light —
like the moon, for instance — for navigation.
They mistake flames for the moon, flying headfirst into their own doom.

You were the flame, and I was the moth.
The difference was, I was not mistaken.
I knew I would singe my wings;
I knew I would never fly again.
Yet, I flew towards you anyway.
I loved you anyway."

I have many more, but I'll only bore y'all with these many today.
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Jul 1, 2024

Forget about a pastor I'm absurd and absolutely plastered on plasma / my life is phantasmagoria / I'm a bastard monster with two heads and three broken hearts smoking trees in the dark / hoping one day that I won't fail before I even attempt to start / haunted by taunts in my dreams telling me I'm unwanted / I need to find a new way but everything needs to be square first / but I'm scared of how much I've turned into this Nosferatu with an unquenchable thirst that can't rest or repair / so much weight on my chest as I struggle to breathe and when I pleaded with God in prayer I was deceived because I can't bear this cross / so much time became lost and forever was the cost and for eternity I kept burning in the cursed sun / failing to really learn any lessons / stressing while asking the wrong questions / no blessings / double guessing every move I make because I'm no longer ignorant to the damage done and death has won at every game of chess we play / insane / in pain / brain damage and lame excuses so I tied a noose and hung ten feet from the ground / no more rambling like a lunatic no more sound going tick tick tick counting down / no more shivering and shaking / no more neuropathy / no more waiting with baited breath / for nothing is left sacred anymore / for I would rather choke on acrid smoke in hell with a smile on my face than hold on to this false hope trying to cope as I fall further from grace at a rapid pace …. What a waste…
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Jul 3, 2024
I'm not used to being able to share poems. But you all inspired me :)

A Ghost

I text,
You respond,
My heart broken by life,
Long before we ever met,
Yours too, so we bond,

We set a date,
A few days later,
I tried to look forward to it,
I bought you a token,

But as we met,
It was pretty clear,
Wherever my heart was,
It wasn't here,

I smile,
I nod,
I listen,
I talk,

We joke,
We laugh,
We find some more irony,
On our own behalf,

But never does my smile reach up,
And fill my eyes with joy like before
And what's even worse,
I see you see and I know then that you know,

And it should hurt me more,
That I burden you so,
But even that,
I let not show,

For my heart is as cold,
As my hands on an icy day,
And I see that you know,
What was almost taken away,

And I appreciate your kind words,
That used to hit me just so,
But now merely trail along,
And echo,

For it was too late,
And without a sound,
And without a goodbye,
Had my joy gone,

My appreciation for company,
My drive to help,
My pride when someone tells me I helped them,
My smile just went,

And never came back,
I think it never will,
But today of all days,
Scared me the most,

Because if what I held most sacred,
The last piece of my will to live,
Just slipped away,
Where does that leave the shell of me?
Is all that's left a ghost?
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Feb 15, 2024
Dear Julius

Here I am again. Waking up in some strange new place wondering how I got here. It all feels so new and fresh. Like a world I've never known before. The colors are so vibrant. The smells are so distinct. It takes a minute for my senses to adjust to my surroundings. The colors fade into dreary, murky versions of themselves. Everything just feels so lackluster. Yeah this is the real world.
I raise myself up from the cold floor and look around at the depressing scene before me. I take it all in: the single lamp emitting its golden glow, the empty bottles scattered throughout the room, the lone man sitting at his desk with his head cradled in his hands. I inch forward to get a better look at him. I move from one side to the next to get a full picture of who he is. With hair unkempt and beard unmanaged, he maintains his slouched position. Faint sobs fill my ears like a beating drum, drawing me closer to him.
I notice a pen and paper lying in front of him like an omen of what's to come. Many more pieces of crumpled up paper lie beneath and around him, encircling and imprisoning him at his desk. So many mistakes made and tossed away. So many echoes of the truth in his mind gone with traces left behind showing the depth of his grief. All that is left to witness is two lonely words on a single page: "Dear Julius."
With one last sob he lifts his head from his palms. He turns towards me and his eyes widen. His face glistens in the golden light, drenched in his tears. I lose myself in the urge to wipe them and bring my hand towards his face. He leans back.
"Get out."
"I can't. Trust me, I've tried"
"Get out."
"I can't."
He stands from his chair and maneuvers to guide me towards the door. His palms caress my shoulders as he forces my steps. He opens the door with a swift motion and urges me out of it, shutting it as I exit. The world goes black and I am back where I started in the center of this dismal room. He turns back, eyes widening yet again at the sight of me as he inhales deeply.
"Wha- How-"
"I told you. I've tried."
His lips recede into his face as he paces across the floor. His hand meets his forehead as he tries to grasp the gravity of the situation he faces.
"You can't be here. You can't see me like this."
"How do you want me to see you then?"
"Better. Just better than this."
He pushes past me and reaches for a note among the many that cover the floor. He uncrumples it and begins to read it to himself. The tears return to him like an old friend, the only comfort he knows.
"Who is Julius?"
His head turns towards me, his brows furrowed as if questioning my need to ask. He sits back at his desk and uncrumples another note. This time instead of reading to himself he decides to read it to me.
"Dear Julius," A light whimper in his voice hides beneath his words. He pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath to collect himself. "Dear Julius, my heart cries out for you every moment that I go on without you. I feel the pain of losing you in everything I do. From the time I wake up to the moment I go to sleep I wonder where you are. Are you safe? Are you happy? Are you ok? All I am now is regret. How can I be more than that knowing the outcome of my actions? You deserved so much more than what I gave you. You deserved so much more from life. But now you are gone and I am here missing you. I love you with everything I am and I hope to see you soon. I only hope that when we meet again you can forgive me for what I have done and for what I am going to do."
His whimpers have now returned to full on sobs. I feel a pain in my heart as each word pours from him like a wave of sorrow. I only wish I could reach out to him and let him feel that I am near. I walk towards the desk and kneel down at his side.
"I'm sorry he's gone."
"I should be the one saying I'm sorry. It's my fault. All of it is my fault."
His hand creeps down to the bottom drawer. He opens it and I am met with something that rings familiar to me. The sleek, silvery exterior of a revolver barely touched by man. I wonder how long it's sat there waiting to be touched, waiting to be used. He grasps it tightly in his hand and along with it grabs six bullets, placing each in its designated chamber. For a moment, he gazes at the harbinger of death that weighs down his hand.
"Hold on. Please hold on."
"I've held on long enough. It's time for me to be with you."
"Julius wouldn't want this."
He lets out a slight chuckle. A smirk glides across his fast just as quickly as he brings his hand to his temple.
"Julius doesn't want anything. He's dead. Anything he would've wanted went away with him when he died. He broke me and left me alone to put myself back together again. This is me fixing the situation."
"Please just talk to me. Please just hear me out. Let's talk."
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Jun 5, 2024
playing around w prose. idk if the rhythm is correct. would like critique if possible from better writers. excerpts from a short story i had in mind:

'. . . from which rose a plastic finial atop a silver cupola, a golden horn rushing from its small helm and glancing, ever slightly, toward the half-painted storefronts, inns, artisan shops and boutique parlors, lining the streets like the pages of musty bankrolled phonebooks.'

'. . . there were dresses slung about; the four-poster bed and cretonne covers, the white of the curtains drenching the papasan chairs; a settee, the pocket mirror and tortoiseshell haircomb on top, all displaced in unhurried sincerity, the girl's prized possessions.'
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it's still raining
May 27, 2024
THE TRAIN STATION - a short story

A thick grey fog eclipsed the white light of the sky, harbouring a mist like veil that lined the station. Wisps of fog danced along the platform, falling gently over the edge like dry ice onto the cold steel tracks. I was there again; a plane trapped between the dance of dusk and dawn, where angels and demons held truce, where time stood still. A steady wind blew in waves, carried by the welcoming sighs of a million breathless voices.

I saw an old man who stood alone by a vacant bench, his tattered long gray hair, and wispy beard mirroring the fog that covered the platform. He stared straight out at the tracks, his thin hair strewn across his face from the blowing wind.

I approached him, his gaze still fixed blankly ahead. His deep wrinkles formed valleys that tethered each feature. He held a look of intense concern, but you'd just as well describe him as expressionless. "Am I supposed to ask you—" I tentatively began. Though not interrupted, his unwavering stance and distant gaze conveyed that no answer would come. It felt as if he had already been asked every question I might pose.

I took a seat on the curb beside him, turning my head away to the right. My vision blurred as my eyes began to film over with the familiar sting of tears. I glanced down at my arms draped over my bent knees, my head constricted so tight, as I helplessly rocked back and forth. Each moment was accompanied by a growing scream of agony that swelled through my chest. I wanted to speak to the man beside me. I had so much to say, yet I couldn't find the words. I had asked him questions before, just not like this. Never had I seen him so clearly, nor known him to be so old and motionless. I wanted to scream at him, shake him, beg him to speak. He was supposed to show me something. Someone had to show me something. But my chest felt swollen, my throat burned, and my mouth wouldn't open.

The old man broke his stillness only to turn his head to the right. Following his gaze, I saw a train emerging from the fog in the distance. My heart sank into the hollow floor of my chest as the train grew larger to my eye. "I don't want to go on," I thought. Its silver steel and charcoal black exterior lined the edges of an unforgiving industrial mass of force. The brakes screeched against the tracks, and two loud blasts of pressurized steam fired from the cylinders. A brief silence followed, underscored only by the low rumbling hum of the engine and the heavy wind still blowing from the east. Time seemed to stop with the train, as I hesitated to move from the ground.

For a second, it seemed as though this wasn't my train. Then, from the left corner of my eye, I saw the old man slowly stride past me toward the train, his long, wispy gray hair trailing behind him. Taking his lead, I listlessly followed, like a crumpled page carried by the wind.


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Jun 5, 2024
The Dancer's Foot

The girls of my school run in second-rate halls,
eager to sport the marathons and dried games of Football,
choked in the blinding green of the field.
They wear tasselled two-pieces,
coloured white with rhinestone pearls,
the inlay glittering Persian gold;
and the boots are sieved and fitted to the foot,
the knock-off shoes of Gala girls.

Pom, game day;
the clambering row of freshmen rise,
gazing to meet the line of quarterbacks
with their wasted sweatsocks and hulking torsos.
Pom-pom, awaiting its shivering end,
turning to meet the players; and,
as if performing a relevé, skirting the hot air,
the fevers of the warm Friday turning the faces to delirium,
spellbound in the knock-off bracelets
which ring throughout the field.

The girls balance the foot,
reach the kickline,
twirling like a drummer's baton;
the little girl's dream, first discovered
in the cooing mother and
the blonde starlets on television,
with the nose up-turned and pinched,
gracing the big bow, looking her best.

Under the silver lights,
one almost sees the star-spangled flag
in their eyes, oh, the whites of their irises
wet with tears, the smiles
caught in agonising surrender to the open field.

And I watch the brunette in the corner,
waiting for her weight to be caught
in the lightness of the open air,
before the ash hits the crisp of the tray,
of the teacher's cigars atop awned balconies;
before, I longed to go out;
to kiss the dancers,
to dress in those dreadful summers.,
weak to the pulse of the rhythm.

Now, I sit in the corner of my bed,
imagining the foot reaching the kickline in an ecstatic manoeuvre.
I cannot see them, for their choreography melts under the lights,
aswoon with images made tangible by the mind
which would have liked to feel the breast of a dancer,
to knead the flesh of the doughy arm naked in April;
thus I shall be content to recount
the rush of lamps bleeding into night,
the athletes,
the spectators,
the green fields and
stone-coloured benches
and, most importantly,
the trim of the pearlescent skirt,
the movement chanced and stolen from the stiletto-heel,
the swing of an acrobatic arm,
the marvelous twisting of fans eager to scream,
their voices rising, rising
from the seats to the pitch,
sounds which a withered tyrant only finds in
lollapaloozas, perhaps.

Now, I may dream of the star-spangled flag,
hung from the rafters of second-rate halls,
lost in the lustour of the girl's lovely dreams,
dreams turned inhuman, decadent
from the drunken bars of the South.
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