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She can't hear a thing. There's a din in her head that prevents it.

One solitary emotion prevails, a numbness covers her, safely. It holds a wall up that no one dares broach.

It's a cold hallway covered in plastic tile, brown, beige. Beige, plodding safety. Beige stillness. No doors open. Someone says the door is always open.

Maybe it is. Maybe she just can't see them open. She can see eyes. Eyes that judge. Eyes that tell her "buck up, it's not that bad"

It's that fucking bad. It's so bad she can feel the sucking open sore of her life in her chest, wheezing everytime she moves. It's so bad that she can't stop herself from stepping back from those she claims to love. It's so fucking bad that she spends her nights lost in fog, throwing her body at men and traffic. It's so bad that she wants to feel anything other than what she must.

Her feet echo against the tile. Duck voices don't echo. She learned something today after all.

Doors open.

They can't understand. They look warily in her direction, and back away. Like wolves, they can smell a defect. Like men, they can smell desperation. Like children, they can't prevent it.

Chin up child. The bar isn't set so high.

She hasn't the strength left to pull.

Beige - never good.

You don't feel like this all the time do you? I wouldn't like to think that you feel sad all the time. You have a laugh occasionaly dontchya?

Love bit of prose as always Thordora

Beige sucks balls.

|Lord no, this isn't me NOW. This is me trying to deal with shit at 14...

I'm trying to finally write out all the shit that occured after my mother died....I'm liking this style, so I've written a few "snips" like it....trying them out.

Yes, I do laugh. generally, at the misfortune of others

I like the chin up imagery- and the feeling of struggling that it conveys. (Along with the voice talking to a younger self.) That is really powerful.

This kind of writing is fascinating. And is very cathartic. I do my ranty pieces like the cubicle one or the one I did tonight on friends and I find them fun (most of them i wrote 4 or 5 years ago, I just update them and rejig them alittle).

Creative writing of any description is good for the Soul (in a non religious sense) and makes the brain work better.

I reckon anyway.

Thanks Kelly. All I could remember as an imagine in my head was the beige tile in one of the hallways of a high school I attended, and the chin up bars in the park I smoked pot in all the time....and that sense that everyone just wanted me to "get over it already"

puffinfuckcunts.

I LOVED the friends piece Herge. I tend to "collect" people when I bother, which anymore isn't often and people just piss me off. Even those I think I like. So I just don't have any, and I like it. I want beer-I sit by myself. THis bull crap about having to have friends....SHITESHIteshite

and it is cathatic, preventing one from blowing up at someone....and I find that there are things I just can't move past until I've written them as I want them written, hence the depressing posts lately. I'm trying to leave that part of my life behind me, where it belongs. I find it very cleansing.

But you're right. I have been a depressing git lately...

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