(via fadingchildhoodmemories)

(via jewcurls)

She sits, a product of the darkness which encompasses her, seems to generate from her very core. This darkness was thick and complete, all her own. The sound of her heartbeat flooded the black silence. Her pulse beat a quick, incessant pattern through the air, though the source of her fear was deemed internal; some terror playing, reel over reel, over and over, beneath her pallid skin. She seemed to glow in her won faint twilight of imagination, and in this light bask of metaphor and hyperbole, her pen sat poised to erupt. This tiny mechanism seemed fit to burst with the lightning of suppressed imagination and inspiration that vibrated and pulsated within her. The blood boiled in her veins as it propelled in quick bursts with the fervent palpitations of her fearful heart. The fire streaming within her flushed her brow with frustration and made her poised fingertips shudder- shudder with the quiet, forceful halt of her excited bloodstream as it reached a sudden impasse where fingers merged with mechanism. She fought and raged a thousand silent battles, her eyes clamped shut as her own armies rendered her sanity defenseless. She fought, begging the shadows of shame and doubt that clouded the corners of her mind to form needles and dowels to challenge this detriment: this barrier between flood and release, to form a key to unhinge the passage to ompletion that lay just beyond her ready hands. Her heart slows to a faint, prolonged stutter as the realization of failure settles deep into her bones, consumes her, stifles her. Again, again, again the loss steeps her joints and calms her blood with harsh, familiar resignation. It comes like waves of cotton, suffocating, hallucinating. Her blood pooled in her fingertips, strainin and yearning at a barrier unbroken, and returned to its human course. Around, around. Again, again.

She dropped her pen, still lifeless. Her shoulders fell, but neither blood nor tears wrote a single word.

my words crumble and

fall beneath your feet.

the break like bone china

under your blundering step.

categorize, marginalize, objectify-

disrupt the pattern.

quell the process.

stop the flow.

I follow behind your rampant stampede

but they never go together quite the same.

the time-dusted pages of your romance

flood your voice with prose

an eloquent cottage of happenstance

Scotland rain in short repose

would you care to tell me stories now?

would the magic be as true?

the fantasy, it drowns me.

your belief in this astounds me.

It was the faint overtones of Bradbury in his voice, she decided, that had induced her unexpected devotion. The wonder of discovery and the taste for prose that left a mischievous dawn morning in his surrepticious glances. The eloquence of his lies and the brisk poetry of his promises had her dreaming of Scotland, a house full of books, the dust of ages.

(via chonkusmonkus)

(via fadingchildhoodmemories)

michellesingh:

her hair

(via fadingchildhoodmemories)

funandfandom:

Ariel sketch by *VP-ArtWorks

(via fadingchildhoodmemories)