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.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
4 comments
Manech
said...
March 4, 2010 at 3:07 AM
"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. :)
I love these lines. Gosh.
And I love how you write, how it sounds different from others. :)
red the mod
said...
March 4, 2010 at 11:48 PM
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.
VICTOR
said...
March 7, 2010 at 11:26 PM
How your harsh consonants snuggle into each other, how your vowels flow into one another. I am now officially a fan.
Eяin Heяoin
said...
March 9, 2010 at 12:30 AM
Thank youse: Manech, Red, and Victor.
Your comments make me giddy. :)
Your comments make me giddy. :)
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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.
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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Born in the mid-80s, Erin Herøin is a marveller of non-sequitur writing, cinematic films, & analogue photography.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
"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."
ReplyDeleteI 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.
ReplyDeleteHow your harsh consonants snuggle into each other, how your vowels flow into one another. I am now officially a fan.
ReplyDeleteThank youse: Manech, Red, and Victor.
ReplyDeleteYour comments make me giddy. :)