Anthropomorphic Ravens

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's something I wrote during my stay in the USA when I was 13 years old. It's about hallucinations and stuff.

Submitted: October 24, 2012

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Submitted: October 24, 2012

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Flashing lights were sighted as they darted across the windows, being spotted by my eyes as I giggled with fear. None had I ever seen before, and they didn't add up to anything, being just random pieces of heaven which winded me up, for they were alive and had a flagrant intention of driving me mad, even madder than I already was, if that was even possible. I couldn't do anything apart from chortling with amusement, apart from goggling at those blinding colourful lights which scampered around the room. I had to admit I was under complete derangement, for I had reached the zenith of insanity. My guffaw was probably heard by everyone in the neighbourhood, but no one dared to try to find out what was going on. The door was suddenly opened and my mother scurried in. I just sniggered at her preoccupation, so she simply frowned at me and left the room. I was flabbergasted, I must admit, for the lights had started to dance. Blue and red, and green and orange moved gracefully by meddling ostentatiously with my view of the room. They surely did quench my thirst of pulchritude of sight. Nothing as vivid had I witnessed for a long time, since my eyes had already lost their capability of distinguishing colours, having brought me down for entire months. I lay in bed talking to an anthropomorphic raven wearing a suit, a cane and a top hat, having no notion of its dearth of verisimilitude. It often commanded me to end with my own life. It often told me to strangle myself to death. But I have never obeyed it, nor am I going to do so. Ah! Life was so beautiful during those moments of euphoric chuckles that I would have never considered such an atrocious act of self-annihilation. The raven was a rather irascible and wicked character who often embroiled me with its self-satisfying smirks of benevolence paucity. It once told me about a magical place where I was supposed to go if I committed suicide, some sort of hallucinating oneiric eternal experience. A land far, far away, where pigs fluttered from branch to branch as butterflies scampered across the ocean, where his own house was located, and where his anthropomorphic raven family read a wordless newspaper beneath the light of a lightless lamp. In spite of his convincing arguments, I never paid much attention to what he said. His voice just swished by and my ears could not listen to the malevolent ideas its mouth expelled when it was trying to exhort me to indulge in self-destructive activities. But I shouldn't get off the subject: I was talking about those lights. Those lights which were shaped as Pink Floyd's music made its appearance within my ears. The raven could not be seen because of those lights, which covered its figure so my eyes could not perceive it. I was finally elated, once again.


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