Under the oaken tree lies the grave of the fallen king. No fancy casket or extravagant marker, just a man 6 feet under. The king found no consolation in war, riches, or drink. But his one true love was the great oaken tree. Where once upon a day long ago the queen received a deadly blow. Upon it he erected an extravagant grave where he mourned his love everyday. The queen never saw value in things made by men but only beauty in those made by the land. Thus out of the tomb sprouted a tiny seed that grew at an extraordinary speed. And at the return of the king there no longer stood a grave but an oaken tree.
11:49 pm. Can't sleep. Perhaps its because i had quite a long nap in the late afternoon. Good thing it feels good to stay up now. Feel like doing some reading or writing.
420 fables....very inspiring ! Forgot about this website for sometime. Good i found it again. Feeling very compelled to write.
Freewriting... Here i come!
I’m trying to dissipate into mystical abysses, but how can when my mind can hardly stay awake? Every breath I take is a breath closer to my last one. Fate lies in every move I make. Dreams are just escapes because my mind cannot bear the truth. The truth that this is my life, a confusing and dark place where I can't seem to even call my own mind a home. A place where the walls close in, and I can't think straight because every emotion that pours out of my soul is vulnerable to be judged. What can I do here, but simply be alive? I cannot feel alive, simply I am just breathing and living. Save me from my mind, since even here I can't find a way out. Darkness from all corners of every word I write and every thought I think. Happiness now is just a memory that seems to have faded away into the darkest depths of my soul. Yet still there is a part of me that longs to be the person I truly am, beneath this mystical abyss that suffocates me alive.
As I walked across the stage, I didn't feel my life change. Everyone has always told me that today would be some magical day. But really, I was just counting down the minutes until I could go home and curl up next to the man I love. I wasn't interested in being surrounded by hundreds of sweat-covered adolescents who never seemed to care much for me either. For half of high school, I don't feel like I was ever really there. Freshman year, I was chasing an older boy who lived five hours away because I sure he loved me. Sophomore year, I was just trying to find someone to give me love and ended up chasing right back after the same older guy from the year before. Then junior year came, and I swore I was done begging to be loved by a guy who didn't seem to love me at all. In turn, I fell in love with a guy who tried to give me his all but came up just a little too short. He wasn't quite capable of loving me fully because he too had once loved a little too hard. I spent half of that year heartbroken and searching. By the time summer came, I found the love of my life. I spent my summer then my senior year consumed with this amazing guy. I would count down the days and then the hours until I was out of that place to just spend a nice, quiet night with him. I spent my high school experience chasing after guys and giving my heart away far too easily. But once I met the one who made it all count, it seemed as if these big moments were insignificant. My life didn't change by simply walking across a stage. My life changed the moment when the people in it really started to matter.
The dream started fine. I was on a vacation by the ocean. But then this rocket, intended for some Elon Musk mission, exploded over the sky somewhere North. Then, this big passenger plane landed on a deserted road right near me and I could see inside and I could see terrorists taking over the plane. Nobody else was around. I knew I had to try to stop it from taking off. I was looking for things I could throw into the jet engine. Then I woke up. On the couch. Slept too long. But I was still tired. And it was Sunday. I wanted to write. But how can I write in such a scary world, where things explode, and the things that don't are stolen? I'm getting old. The things I used to care about, I don't anymore. I feel more comfortable in my own skin, now, even as it ages, and itches. Time may heal, but time also wounds.