Eleven

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
My first really appreciated work, a stream of consciousness journalist emotional catharsis. For Miss Carrie.

Submitted: October 07, 2009

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Submitted: October 07, 2009

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It's so nice to see you here.

You weren't alive the last time I checked, but you are now. I'm certainly not complaining, though. Really, it's nice to have you back, even if you don't love me. Sometimes I wish you could understand how this is all happening...sometimes I wish I could understand how this is happening. This could be a lot of things, though. Even if I am sure we both know what it is.

You weren't breathing, the last time I checked. But now you certainly are, and you're talking. Words are coming out of your mouth, but I don't hear words, per se. I hear notes. Sounds like you're playing some sort of harp. Maybe you AREN'T alive, after all. Maybe you're some sort of angel. But I guess I always thought you were one, anyway.

I remember your eyes, certainly. They aren't blue now, but I'm not complaining. Complaining hasn't got me anywhere. Doing has, so that's why I'm doing this for you. Doing all of this. Building a house of words to shelter you from the storms and gales of reality. So much wind, so much rain. I still think it rains because of you. I know it rains because of you, even if the sun was shining that day. I remember it, the sun was shining pure white.

All the lights have gone red, and I'm hanging on to my last strand of hope upon the dark precipice of despair. You might not be right here in front of me, but I know you're pulling me up.

Even if you're the one who pushed me over the edge in the first place.


We're all wondering about something. Right now, I'm wondering if you truly care. I think you know that I'm afraid, that I'm nervous of what lies beyond the end of this year. Everyone's future is so uncertain, especially our futures...always intertwining, always so similar, but always so backwards... Everyone's looking at the world sideways, I'm trying not to. I'd be telling a lie if you said you weren't straightening that part of me out, but I'd be telling an even bigger lie if I said that you weren't making another one worse off than it was before. You're both my problem and my solution, and that itself is a problem.

You might have stopped it turning once, but the world is turning again. Everyone's in motion, everyone's changing. I can't find many others to turn to though, in the darkness of reality. You're one of a few, rather, one of two, or the eleventh of eleven (depending on how you look at it).

Perhaps you've managed to shatter the sheet of ice I've created. Chances are, you'll either love or hate what lies beneath it.


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