deepundergroundpoetry.com
A romance with writing the "Ideal Story"
This evening I will write a piece on wishes. The shallow wishes that mean nothing to anyone and the wishes that genuinely, if they came true could change someone, so sincerely, that they would never benefit the soul wisher. I managed that this evening. Under the corner light of my living room with 'Friends' on the TV I thought about a wish that was not for me. I wonder if you have ever made such a wish.
The other evening my mother and I were sat talking about arguments and compromise when she asked me what my ultimate wish would be and I said to not be lonely. Strangely, this evening I changed my wish, that no matter what he chooses that he’s happy. Said person would understand if they read this. Not that he ever would. This piece is really just a venting space for a slightly crushed heart. I’m usually so opinionated that I’m sorry for this train of thought rather than opinion. I needed to air it, like his washed jacket drying on a Spring breeze. It hurts me that I genuinely can’t speak how I truly feel until he leaves. I never quite say it enough, to balance out my subtle pushes away. Nothing’s meant to be a story right? Am I wrong to want for Sleeping Beauty. - She snores through all the trouble and wakes up for the good bits. Or Bell, who went from a lovely life with her single father and then fell in love with a beast and calmed him down before saving him with her tears, I believe. That is love. I suppose it’s I believe since I was more a Worsel Gummage, Bagpuss child than a Disney princess. My days I spent running about the garden, at the beach, cooking with my Grandmother, I had that with him, someone thought-full, slight, calm like the heat and grounded like the tree, easy to be completely lost in my youth. We’d climb dead trees and play hide and seek and even ‘rowing a boat’ (that’s actually a tree that fell into the water, I sat on) on the beach and walk the fields by my house just talking. I felt like I was relearning, going through life and getting my youth again.
Unfortunately like when I was nine and my mum had her back operation I was forced to grow. It were as if he threw his poisoned penny in my happy, lucky waters and pulled me from the liquid to a dry, harsh building where everything fell to rubble and I never know how we got there. He teases me with my weakest point, my most innocent of memories and then he runs making me relive all the other emotions in my Bank as if cutting wires in my brain like a masochistic, ‘The Omen’-styled brother living inside my head. It’s all a fantasy sequence that gets coiled in my head. Every relationship I find a story it’s similar to and I follow it, every relationship is meant to have a happy ending. If I were still unaware and delusional of my own learning technique then I’d be comparing this to ‘Fallen’.
In reality he’s just another male and I just thought he looked similar to an ideal I had in my head. When you fall into a tale you imagine the character and he was similar to something I’d cooked up in my head that week after rereading ‘The Succubus Series’ Richelle Mead. I now wonder if my attention and intentions were ever sincere, and his were out of some sympathy. Makes me laugh some how now, it took me so long to get to this. His name will be blocked from my mind and my thoughts will be locked in rereading the tales that I like. I need to learn separation between paper and people. That is what I am truly sorry for. I never want the tale to end any less than perfect. [/font]
The other evening my mother and I were sat talking about arguments and compromise when she asked me what my ultimate wish would be and I said to not be lonely. Strangely, this evening I changed my wish, that no matter what he chooses that he’s happy. Said person would understand if they read this. Not that he ever would. This piece is really just a venting space for a slightly crushed heart. I’m usually so opinionated that I’m sorry for this train of thought rather than opinion. I needed to air it, like his washed jacket drying on a Spring breeze. It hurts me that I genuinely can’t speak how I truly feel until he leaves. I never quite say it enough, to balance out my subtle pushes away. Nothing’s meant to be a story right? Am I wrong to want for Sleeping Beauty. - She snores through all the trouble and wakes up for the good bits. Or Bell, who went from a lovely life with her single father and then fell in love with a beast and calmed him down before saving him with her tears, I believe. That is love. I suppose it’s I believe since I was more a Worsel Gummage, Bagpuss child than a Disney princess. My days I spent running about the garden, at the beach, cooking with my Grandmother, I had that with him, someone thought-full, slight, calm like the heat and grounded like the tree, easy to be completely lost in my youth. We’d climb dead trees and play hide and seek and even ‘rowing a boat’ (that’s actually a tree that fell into the water, I sat on) on the beach and walk the fields by my house just talking. I felt like I was relearning, going through life and getting my youth again.
Unfortunately like when I was nine and my mum had her back operation I was forced to grow. It were as if he threw his poisoned penny in my happy, lucky waters and pulled me from the liquid to a dry, harsh building where everything fell to rubble and I never know how we got there. He teases me with my weakest point, my most innocent of memories and then he runs making me relive all the other emotions in my Bank as if cutting wires in my brain like a masochistic, ‘The Omen’-styled brother living inside my head. It’s all a fantasy sequence that gets coiled in my head. Every relationship I find a story it’s similar to and I follow it, every relationship is meant to have a happy ending. If I were still unaware and delusional of my own learning technique then I’d be comparing this to ‘Fallen’.
In reality he’s just another male and I just thought he looked similar to an ideal I had in my head. When you fall into a tale you imagine the character and he was similar to something I’d cooked up in my head that week after rereading ‘The Succubus Series’ Richelle Mead. I now wonder if my attention and intentions were ever sincere, and his were out of some sympathy. Makes me laugh some how now, it took me so long to get to this. His name will be blocked from my mind and my thoughts will be locked in rereading the tales that I like. I need to learn separation between paper and people. That is what I am truly sorry for. I never want the tale to end any less than perfect. [/font]
Published 13th Mar 2011
| Edited 14th Mar 2011
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