/lit/ - Literature

Hello once again. I'm back here again. Not "here" but that same place again. No matter how far I go, how hard I try, I'm lead back here. It's that melancholy that I keep forgetting is the common thread. Its always there. Recently I went on vacation, saw people I loved, rediscovered hobbies, was proud of where I was in life. How far I've come. I'm not in that smoke filled basement on a futon mattress on the floor crammed between furniture that wasn't mine. My life ahead of me has promise. That was supposed to be a fix. All I needed, get my head on straight. But the internal realms below bubble endlessly with their bleakness. That moonlight forest, canopy blocked twilight, dawnless purgatory of the soul. I guess. Images are the only way to express it. Expressing it is the only relief. All my writing, god forbid any ever comes to light, are a tap for the strange waters of that autumnal dream-place within. I read them sometimes when I'm in good spirits and scoff at my self-centeredness. Isn't there anything else I should write about? Is that all I have to say? The answer will surprise you, click to read more.

But I suppose I really don't have anything to say at all. Relieve the pressure, pour some out into your notes then hide them away, tie them down and lock them up, but dare not destroy them lest they return whence they came.

Grey clouds block the morning sun, casting the city blocks, tree tops and ocean in monochrome light. You could fall into the still dawn and find yourself far out to sea, where wind alone has ever been. I wish to rest there. Not a burial at sea, but a place for vivid lonely dreams. One last breath of salty morning air, and then sink below the surface into the grey dark deep of pregenisis, the final call of the stone.


I promise I will read some of your posts, anons. They will not go unread.