dysfunctional-writer-blog

[dysfunctional-writer-blog]

Windshear

(start: 9:12 ⤄  stop: 9:29 - 5/3/18 - {Arya - Lies } ~ beautiful ~ 1426361608 ~ freeze your brain ~ stay)

She left her mom passed out.

What could she do anymore anymore?

There was no point.

She’d rather be out there anyways.

Everyone else hated her anyways.

Too skinny. Too fat. Too weak. Too short. Too pale. Too everything but good.

Wandering through the halls with year-old headphones held together by tape and shreds of fabric and wire. Blocking out the white noise with white noise because what else was there to do?

She had no real family. She was raised by drugs and absence.

Arya considered it sometimes. What did she bring to the world? What was there for her to be there for.

Reach for the stars.

Leap for the concrete. Forget everything.

None of them had anything to lose.

People call it recklessness.

They called it freedom.

People called it unlawful.

They called it their home

People scoffed at their scrapes.

They wore them as medals of prestige.

People shouted at the to get down.

Their brain shouted at them to jump.

They told themselves to run.

They ran.

They flipped and swung and pulled themselves hand over hand.

Dangling from a foot, a finger. Falling was death.

Her gown ripped and that was okay, it was all okay, they were all okay.

And the lies continued.

[dysfunctional-writer-blog]

Windshear

(start: 9:44 ⤄ stop: 10:02 - 4/30/18 - {Fallon - Solace } stay ~ counting stars ~ closer ~ island)

Fallon’s feet dangled off the edge.

Wind pushing and pulling.

Back and forth, tug and tag and dancing in circles.

He leaned his head back and let it swirl around him, wrapping him up.

Sean danced and sang all around them, his voice carrying along with the speaker they’d brought. Them and the clouds and the birds.

He saw the sun rising, felt the first ray wash over them.

Perched at the top, he felt like a god of the city. Basking in the warmth and denial.

What was his problem?

Looks and numbers and judging looks. Toilets and acid and cramping stomachs.

Of course it was something. They weren’t here for nothing.

Weren’t reckless for nothing.

Weren’t up on the roof of the tallest building in their city for nothing.

Eating stolen bread and twinkies from the nearest convenience store. First aid kits to patch each other up and vodka to match up forgetfulness and regret.

Stunts along the edge of the building and tossing grapes off the side.

Running along and feeling the breeze scrape through their hair.

Loose clothes and leather, bare feet and boots.

Combs and hair clips and headbands and dye jobs.

Hugs and journals.

Small presents for each other. No questions asked, no inquires about where it all came from.

Throwing dirt and leaves at each other, placing stray flowers in each others hair.

Laughing until their stomachs hurt and being careful to never ask what happened down below.

The rooftops were their sanctuary and they came here to find solace.

And Fallon tilted his face up to the sun, laid back on the warmed stones, and thought that maybe solace wasn’t so bad after all.

[dysfunctional-writer-blog]

Windshear

(start: 9:29 ⤄ stop: 9:54 - 4/29/18 - {Johnathan - Countryside} counting stars ~ don’t stop believin’ ~ believer ~ closer ~ stay)

The countryside was theirs.

Rolling along in a rental car that wasn’t even theirs, music on full blast and wind carding it’s fingers through their hair like a lover. Drinking lukewarm water and week-old cheetos, getting by with scattered gas stations nestled in amongst the grass and dirt.

Fires and hot dogs and singing until their voices cracked. Black hair tangling with Jonathan's hands and Trish’s laugh ringing out at something outrageous.

Vodka and headaches and matted stains. Self-piercing each others ears.

Their car breaking down. Hiking over the desert.

Packs on their backs. Slightly drunk and swimming in dirt and each other.

Gas stations they had passed millions of times.

No one to judge, no one to care.

No one to intrude.

Nothing to stop anything.

Nothing but each other.

Old clothes and worn in shoes.

The sunrise over the hill as they beheld the highway again.

Hitchhiking and living off their meager cash supplies. Sleeping in parking lots and inventing games as they go.

Needing a distraction. Finding it in each other.

The clock wound down with each step.

Feet drumming a familiar rhythm, familiar nightgown, familiar laugh.

Chris getting mad. Coming back.

Not easily forgotten. No matter if gambling makes life hell and home hell. His parents would be gone enough to not notice him.

Clean clothes, hometown. Nightgown, clinging to him, begging not be left.

Slipping between the sheets, praying to be back out there where the struggle is to stay alive, where they can be alive.

He burrows back under, and seeks for a few more minutes of solitude.

[dysfunctional-writer-blog]

Windshear

(start: 10:21 ⤄ stop: 10:37 - 4/27/18 - {Arya - Silk} ~ Counting Stars ~ Stay)

Flimsy nightgown.

This silk wasn’t made for nights filled with laughter and racing over rooftops.

She sat and stared up at the stars. You could see them so much easier from up here. Where the screams and the begging, the bruising and the bursting out of self-made seams couldn't reach.

Where were they?

Her fingers traced the embroidery on her chest.

Arya.

Her hair rustled as the wind blew past.

John and Arryn. The twins. Larissa and Chris and Trish and Fallon and Sean and Ari.

They were hers.

They were there.

Descending like she knew they would, they could, how she could. How they’d taught her. Surrounding her and tugging her up and laughing with her.

Ari’s gloves roughed up her skin, John’s awkward laugh filled the gaps around them. Sean’s fingers trached the fresh bruises and Fallon ruffled his hair with an airy countenance. Chris and Trish both bounced on the balls of their feet.

Larissa and Arryn and Ari all dissapeared first, racing off the ledge to the next building.

One by one, jumping as if there was air filling them, lifting them.

Arya was last.

She ran, she jumped. She flew. Her laughing finally joined theirs as she flew. Silk against her skin and concrete against her fingers and brick against her bare feet.

Again. Birds.

They were birds and here nothing could stop them, would stop them, like she know couldn’t. The city was her escape and she was the escapee.

Freed. Here they were freed.

[dysfunctional-writer-blog]

When colors are gone, we are gone.

We are colors and colors are us.

Colors without us are meaningless.

Us without colors is meaningless.

Take one away, you get nothing.

Yet why is it that in a world of rainbows, some remain an untouched blank?

[dysfunctional-writer-blog]

Come join me in my fairy-tale of words and rythms as we pretend the world doesn't exist.. and the night goes on without us.