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Tabula Rasa

The grunt of idle machinery, the neighbors’ alternate voices and local radio gibberish, and bloody scums cantering like telestatics – cacophony!

Paper and pen used to be her avid companions. Rhyme and parallelism, her guiding stars. She used to write in the old-fashioned manner, with her lips pursed and her forehead partly convoluted. Her palms perspiring, she writhed along her cursive handwriting, full of strikethroughs and alterations. Her thoughts, gapped.

Someone once said that her wordings were fit for making songs. Someone made her believe she could. Sometime after she was made to believe, someone became sometime ago.

The thesaurus transmogrified her into a cankerous-cantankerous nymph. She now, after some years of idle hands, speaks of what is lacking – like overlooking the city’s rhinestones lights, like watching the last full reel on a silver screen, like the same old bold-faced lines under the brand new ochre afternoon skies. Her heart, void.

And her insides, coiled.

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Author

Eяin Heяoin

4   comments

"Someone once said that her wordings were fit for making songs. Someone made her believe she could. Sometime after she was made to believe, someone became sometime ago."

I love these lines. Gosh.

And I love how you write, how it sounds different from others. :)
Because we surround ourselves with the frivolities life, by what our social standing, pecuniary means, and eccentricity, can afford. To transcend that void with the dynamic and engaging, the superb and absurd, the sensual and sensory, the complex and inspired, so that our minds would be filled with these experiences, pages-full of details and distractions. So that, by which, we never realize the gaping barrenness of our hearts.
How your harsh consonants snuggle into each other, how your vowels flow into one another. I am now officially a fan.
Thank youse: Manech, Red, and Victor.

Your comments make me giddy. :)

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Tabula Rasa

The grunt of idle machinery, the neighbors’ alternate voices and local radio gibberish, and bloody scums cantering like telestatics – cacophony!

Paper and pen used to be her avid companions. Rhyme and parallelism, her guiding stars. She used to write in the old-fashioned manner, with her lips pursed and her forehead partly convoluted. Her palms perspiring, she writhed along her cursive handwriting, full of strikethroughs and alterations. Her thoughts, gapped.

Someone once said that her wordings were fit for making songs. Someone made her believe she could. Sometime after she was made to believe, someone became sometime ago.

The thesaurus transmogrified her into a cankerous-cantankerous nymph. She now, after some years of idle hands, speaks of what is lacking – like overlooking the city’s rhinestones lights, like watching the last full reel on a silver screen, like the same old bold-faced lines under the brand new ochre afternoon skies. Her heart, void.

And her insides, coiled.

4 comments:

  1. "Someone once said that her wordings were fit for making songs. Someone made her believe she could. Sometime after she was made to believe, someone became sometime ago."

    I love these lines. Gosh.

    And I love how you write, how it sounds different from others. :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Because we surround ourselves with the frivolities life, by what our social standing, pecuniary means, and eccentricity, can afford. To transcend that void with the dynamic and engaging, the superb and absurd, the sensual and sensory, the complex and inspired, so that our minds would be filled with these experiences, pages-full of details and distractions. So that, by which, we never realize the gaping barrenness of our hearts.

    ReplyDelete
  3. How your harsh consonants snuggle into each other, how your vowels flow into one another. I am now officially a fan.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Thank youse: Manech, Red, and Victor.

    Your comments make me giddy. :)

    ReplyDelete