Feeling trapped is such a subjective thing then again the word feel entails subjectivity have you ever been perfectly objective and said the word" feel" in the sentence before? I think not. Well you can feel trapped in the largest desert because obviously you have no water but you can feel the same in a very confined space like a locker or your classroom and even when the space itself is perfectly comfortable the people populating the space make all the difference sometimes it doesn't even matter if that person's a nice person or not they're just there and herein lies the problem feeling trapped with the presence of another with you which sucks I want to get out of here sometimes because I'm tired of wearing a mask even though I don't want to whatever I feel for another person I cannot show everything, even if I want to my body seems to have an automatic mechanism that forces a mask onto my face whenever there's someone around and the mask makes sweat accumulate on my face and I just cant breathe because the heavy plastic smile is guarding my breath and it's horrible and that's why other people make you trapped and even when you are alone there's the constant fear of someone barging in and seeing you without your mask am I afraid of what's under my mask or is it automatic.
An intellectual party must never miss two things. First, communist propoaganda. Second, paintings. Violent paintings, traces that can be seen, like the marks a whale leaves over the water. Night will never fall if we can see the oil of the stars and feel the waves of the dying sea, the blood of the Saint Sebastian in pain, or the skin of the ronin who burns in his armor. The people will laugh for a while, talk about how art is bourgeois an discuss Breton's radical absurdism. They will always miss a few points about color in the middle of their exquisite corpses, and will struggle not to notice how they all have the same baroque and needlessly showy style. That is no style. It is as stylish as the complex tunnels ants build, when they have enough space to live and simply want to keep invaders thinking. The smart ones should fill the holes with silver and copper. Then they would unearth the blazing bush Moses saw when he fled the void within.
No one ever thinks that the guy next to you at work is the monster. Instead, we search under our beds and down dark alleyways, looking over our shoulders at every glance in fear of a monster lurking in the shadows. But who's to say that we are really safe anywhere? I thought I was safe at work. And I was. But poor young girl, she wasn't. She worked in the same building, with the same people, but her safety was stolen away when he thought he could get away with something. He took every bit of her and broke her down. He belittled her and embarrassed her name, all to get what he wanted. A small office, a young helpless girl, and his restless hands. Where does it stop?
rhythmically, the tap dripped and the sewing machine whirred as he clinked on the edge of the glass while stirring the liquid.like clockwork, he heard a nervous tapping on the green arched door.cool air rushed into the room causing the chain on his pocket watch to swing gently.
sliding down her hood, she revealed to him her long tendrils of golden curls which were arranged perfectly to frame her angelic face. exchanging a small smile, he stepped aside, inviting her inside.
watching intently, she noticed how the grooves that had been dug into his forehead over the years resembled crop rows.his worn hand reached out for hers and the warmth of his palm settled the cold of her fingers and together, they found balance
Why is there a writer's fixation about the sea? I'm probably not a real writer then. Because all the great ones had this obsession about that dark blue giant pool (or, sometimes, about the skies - made of the same blue). I prefer to write about a guy taking a shit, staring at his toenails - that need to be cut.
Ugh, the sea. Is it because of the vast emptiness of a never-ending blue? Does that reflect the inside of a true writer? A sight the goes way deep into nothingness. Yeah, I can see why it appeals. But, still, it does not inspires me. I might as well continue to write about dirty toilets.