#aureliearchives

[libraryofaurelie]

tw wound

my cat bit me around a month ago.

I didn’t scream or cry, even when she did it again. 

and when she drew blood, I just sighed and went about my day,

not even bothering to clean it off my arm.

the thing is, it seemed as if I had done it on purpose.

had i? i couldn’t tell myself.

it was fun to look at, though. 

as it healed, i could see the little white fibers tying the skin together,

like string desperately clinging onto fabric.

i felt like i understood how sadists felt then.

the longer i spent eyeing the stitchwork,

the more i wanted to tear the wound back open.

-n

been a while. thought i'd come back with a bang

[libraryofaurelie]

library.

aurelie archives' biggest inspiration... not really.

Every day, I pass by my old elementary school.

Compared to the rest of my life, I’d only have been there for a blink of an eye. 

After an uneventful Halloween of watching little kids running around gathering candy,

I passed by that elementary school. 

At the core of it was its expansive library. Walking by it now, 

I notice that it’s not big at all.

It’s much smaller than the libraries 

You’d see in New York and such. 

But back then, it was perpetual and filled with wonder. 

Sunlight streamed in through the great windows as I descended the staircase. 

I wish I visited more. 

I’d read every book in that library if it meant staying there longer.

I’d never realized that I’d be yearning for it,

That short lived childlike wonder.

So I would spend all my days

In that small, massive library

No Shakespeare or Jane Austen

No murder or bloodshed

I’d read books about purple mirrors leading to fairy tales

Countesses below stairs and girls who drank the moon

I thought everyone in fifth grade was childish 

I thought I was mature and I was proud of that fact.

But deprived of that library,

I’d turn out to be the opposite.

Clinging onto something long gone,

Grasping for a minute in that blissful wonderland.

That library has cursed me,

For it settled my fate when I’d visited too late.

The unspent time buried in books when I was little

Ensured I’d be buried in books when I die.

-n

ironic, i can't seem to read much of anything recently.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.

[libraryofaurelie]

do you ever think about dying?

i imagine myself talking to my therapist.

a therapist of fiction, for i'll probably never get one.

i'd sit in their office as they coerce me to uncover

my deepest secrets.

we'd sit for hours, strangers; me on the brink of tears, for why can't i just talk to them?

i had run the scenario through my head a million times, me pouring my thoughts out on their desk for them to decipher and diagnose; why can't i go through with it?

i pause the scene in my head. this seems all too realistic, as if it'd actually happen if i were in this situation.

i never could fathom the idea of not being able to do something well.

hey, that's another thing to talk about with my imaginary therapist.

an eternity with this grown, experienced person who wants to categorize me. eventually, i give in. i speak my truth, my dreams, my wishes.

and of this exact scenario i spun in my head.

perhaps i'll omit the part where i imagine different people in my life torturing me with various murder weapons at least twenty times a day. mainly teachers, friends, and classmates with automatic rifles, shanks, snipers, rope. sometimes strangers. pistols if i feel dramatic. and it comes at random times. i'd be walking in a grocery store and i'll zone out, be transported to that spotlighted stage with gun barrels in my face.

funny thing is, i've no scars, so they won't count this off as depression. they'd say i'm crazy. perhaps i am.

but i have the capacity to write during my descent into "mental institution" insanity, so i suppose the masses will be entertained. i'll be their new dahmer, or delvey, or milligan. deranged, calculating, or broken.

scared yet? i understand, i scare myself.

i'm destined for a "bright future" in a room covered in pillows.

what did anyone ever see in me?

maybe we should invest in actual, real therapy.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.

[libraryofaurelie]

ink and pen

what do you expect?

it’s suffocating, 

this shame i feel.

i yearn to write

of experiences i do not hold

and of worlds

i do not know. 

i yearn to write of the romances and tragedies 

the stories untold sprouted from those that awed me

but this urge begs the question:

“is it worthy of being written?”

am i writing for my personal enjoyment,

for people like me to enjoy?

or is it for people to recognize 

the critics to inspect and 

tell me i am worthy of telling such a story

is it a given that artists my age

must have impeccable stories that are bound to shake the world 

or otherworldly skills that flicker at you between each line 

is it not enough just to want?

wish for the letters to dance for you

dream of weaving a waltz that’s just 

pleasing to the eye, if only a little?

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.

[libraryofaurelie]

tales of old.

bliss

a writing by aurelie

That sound.

That beautiful sound left her lips. Oh, so pure you'd suffocate.

She muffled the sound with her blanket as she continued to giggle, slightly snuggling into it.

For the first time in a while, she felt pure joy. 

Not like the joy she felt when she read her lovely, precious stories. However lovely they may be, could one even call that joy? 

The almost unbearable pain she felt deep in her chest as she imagined the people who'd captured her interest, infatuated her, acting so sentimental towards her? 

She'd smiled through the pain, through the chills that ran down her spine to her toes as tears welled and burst, falling while burning as if they were fireworks down her cheeks. 

To her, this was happiness. This was bliss.

This joy was different. Instead of the pain of not being able to experience firsthand what the writers had done their best to express in words, it was harsher, warmer; a shortness of breath. Laughter. It was as if a wave crashed over her. It would have been salty like those tears, but to her, it was tasteless. Exhilarating either way, for it gave her that wave, that rush; and it had finally quenched her thirst after an eternity of abyssal emptiness, topped off by a rotting ceiling above her bed. 

The moment was, as all are, fleeting. Every wave crashes upon the shore and sinks into the sand, its destination.

Even if it were to dampen the brittle grains of sand for a small amount of time, color them darker, saturate them-- the Sun will eventually dry it out come low tide. The once loosely linked grains will crumble once more. Fair weather friends, you could call them.

People say never to drink water from the ocean. The girl cannot taste, but the water is still dense with salt. It wouldn’t quench her thirst in the slightest. Not knowing what to do with her newfound, enhanced yearning, she once again retreats to the depths to read her stupid stories and endure that pain in her chest; and by the time high tide arrives with the poison apples, it may as well be too late. 

For her, this was happiness. This was bliss. This was all she’d ever known.

-n

drown in the salt with me.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.

[libraryofaurelie]

i renewed my piano lessons, so i'm kind of in the wrong

i hate piano.

don't get me wrong, i'm a pianist.

at least, i considered myself to be one.

but maybe one too many embarrassments or

one too many scoldings or

instances where i felt like giving up

i wonder if my parents noticed

dust's collected on the surface and pages are scattered on the floor from the fan

blowing it off too many times

and i just can't seem to pick it back up.

the thought of playing makes me sick

that clean tone in anything that reaches my ears will have me immediately removing myself from that situation

and i tell myself

"i'll go back eventually, this little rut will pass"

but when will it pass?

years, months,

when i can't think of myself as the girl they called musical or talented any longer

when i don't recognize myself in the plaques or medals

i've had scores of experience with pianists.

i tend to be drawn to them, their beauty

their skill, their artistry

but even if they aren't, they just seem to be

such negative creatures

perhaps i made them out to be so

because once, i admired them;

now i can only resent them.

so i grow my nails out

until they tap against this black mirror

and i make excuses to shun

the instrument i helped my dad move from the living room to mine

the books of pieces worth a fortune

blame it on schoolwork or friends or other hobbies

this is the first time i've ever had my natural nails this long, for this long of a period.

i'm sure if i lift the lid to greet the monochrome,

i'd hurt them.

that still won't give away or reveal any color.

you know i'm a fan of color,

don't you?

-n

poetry you can share with the class.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.

[libraryofaurelie]

paper airplane.

you know of paper airplanes that transcend reality?

please don't leave me

i promise i never meant to make you cry,

or did i?

i throw that word around like a paper airplane,

expecting it back any second, minute, year now

watching as it sways in the wind, and you, speechless as it dances

will you catch it and throw it back? or will you crumple it, throw it out the window?

or will you simply let it pass you by,

blissful ignorance; avoiding the subject,

never experiencing the thrill or pain.

arguably, that's the worst way to live.

you're at fault for entertaining me.

observing the airplane, you start to see the details

like how the paper is wrinkled and slightly stained

with words of hatred and rejection from years ago

was i not enough? will you not answer?

please answer.

you're at fault for making me this way.

no wonder there's three different ways to say it.

in that other world that i should've lived in, died in.

lost in translation,

if i were to say it in that dead tongue from long ago,

buried deep under the noise,

which one would i choose?

i love you. i love you. i love you.

seems all the same here.

so i suppose you can't understand the differences,

because i'm living in a mirror,

a reflection of that old world

i just never can truly let go of.

and you don't have the guts to reach out,

pull me over into yours.

you're at fault for tapping on the glass,

garnering my attention.

it's all your fault.

-n

hi! i'm aurelie. i write sometimes! i hope it makes you feel differently about a boring day.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved!

[libraryofaurelie]

it's why i need you, you're as pure as the driven snow.

and so is human nature, a drive for purity. a purity within humans that's not so innately human at all.

there's indeed something so pure about it; the non-human, "human" nature. that of craving, connecting, continuously constantly surviving. and yet follow all of these actions, likening them to that of animals. "like a pig", "like a rabbit", "like a rabid dog".

so then what discerns and separates us from pigs, rabbits, rabid dogs? what makes us human? is it intelligence? if we are capable of increased intelligence and self control, and yet our roots remain as those of animals, are we not just animals wearing human skin? shaving our fur off, so absorbed in the arboreals around us, reading into every ring.

so those that ask if one is even truly human should be asking that to themselves. for are any of us truly human?

perhaps humans do not exist at all. we all come from and return to the dirt, after all. we all bleed the same red on the white backdrop of the snow. we all ruin the sheer white coating.

physically incapable of holding itself together upon our presence. or perhaps, we're unable to tolerate anything so fragile being in our proximity that we simply just... melt it out of habit. we can't even handle the smallest, most fragile objects within our presence. we are no better than animals.

when the world burns white, when snow prevails and we all become incapable of bleeding onto it, ruining it; will it matter how human we are? or will it be the animal instincts, craving, connecting, surviving? will it save us? and will it matter?

everyone's born as clean as a whistle, after all. who cares how we return to the earth?

snow will land on top either way.

merry christmas. nonsense based on the ballad of songbirds and snakes.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.

[libraryofaurelie]

red lines.

they're just really annoying.

art.

it calls for negative feelings. often. 

grammarly scrutinizes my work, 

red underlining every little mistake,

every little change i dare try to make 

for even i cannot possess my own writing,

and even i cannot own my words, these letters. 

these words, these phrases, these strokes and letters.

all this i can create, i can pour out of my mind;

i could squeeze every little drop until my pretty little head is wrung dry, fried;

but every word traveling through my slim, bruised fingers

have before been arranged in the way they are now.

a piece of art, you say?

all of my words have been spoken, written, projected before. 

how unoriginal, how fake. 

how could i, 

someone who speaks in fragments of copies of before; 

how could a writer who recycles the already written

ever be considered an artist?

-n

why don't they put green lines instead? it's more validating.

© credits to library of aurelie, all rights reserved.