I licked the silver barrel in front of me. It tasted fishy, kinda of like blood, who knows, it might’ve been blood after all. I should have been afraid to wake up and see a guy on top of me and pointing a hand gun at me. From a rather far away realm, I could hear stirring screams from my most rational parts but right at that moment, I didn’t give a damn. The guy in front of me twitched at my peculiar action. I stare right back at him. He had dark hair neatly combed, long bangs falling to his sides, onyx eyes, slight feminine features. That shouldn't be the important thing to check out right there and then, though, when he's wearing something that resembled a CIA uniform which I had only seen on TV. If only I can see his back, I'll be able to confirm but I don’t think he’d allow me that kind of luxury. You're under arrest under suspicion of drug distribution, he explained. In the corner of my eye, I could see other people with the same cloths, digging all around my place. Now play your cards right and come with me to the police station or else... He left his words trail behind as he demonstrated his intention by roughly further plunging the glistering weapon into my temple. My heart skipped a beat as I began to shake more violently to the point I'd have to hold onto my sheets to stay in place. My life slightly flashed in front of my eyes, panicked, I closed them shut, it looked too much like a premonition, I'm not dead yet, not soon either, damn it. My emotions at that moment were very muzzy, no mater how hard I try to grab it, it always managed to slip through my fingers. The closest thing I could come to terms with is that I'm attracted to him, in one way or another.
Nothing, commander. A voice stirred from behind the both of us. Okay. He confirmed, eyes still locked with mine. He stood up and forced me to follow with my life on the line. My body was stoned, even if I want to, if I ever did, I can't. In the end, I simply lifted my arm, an invitation to pull me up. The commander raised an eyebrow, not really annoyed, rather, interested. For a second, I though he'd help but the only thing he's willing to hold onto is his gun. Now, he raised it and pushed on the trigger, just enough to make me jump onto my feet. He moved behind me and I could feel cold metal dug into my back. And then the rustles, finally he took my right hand and cuffed it in a very professional way where he kept himself remaining in a perfect position to beat the crap out of me. Correction, shoot my brains out. He was about to cuff my other hand as well when my mouth finally work it's magic after a long and endearing stoned period. Isn't it better to cuff me to you? He looked at me with the purest what the fuck face I'd ever seen in my entire life. Scared? I provoked him, that also worked like a charm. He lifted his left hand and in a second we’re linked together.
I seriously bear no explanation to my flirting section in such a circumcised situation. I hope it does help that I’m innocent and a rich kid with a good lawyer, but I can’t help but to feel something’s still very off. I must’ve been kinky without knowing it, I concluded. But maybe it just had everything to do with him. Because I finally found him. The first time I laid sight on him, I found the other side of my coin, the pea of my pot I had no idea had been missing all these 20 fucking years. How could I have lived, I wonder, how could I manage to live without him. I mean, really, what can a one faced coin do? I knew him, I knew him all along. I’m seriously the last person you want to tell about your afterlife bullshits. But I knew I knew him and I knew I had been searching for him. His name, his name, I knew I knew, it was on the tip of my tongue even if, when I opened my mouth nothing came out. I could’ve sworn I called him so many times before, I called his name, I screamed his name, I shouted his name, I cried his name, I whispered his name, I mumbled his name, I tasted his name. There were once, maybe very long ago, had I repeated his name like a prayer. What was it again? Tell me, mister cop, and I’ll confirm. What? He asked. Had I said that aloud? Yes, he confirmed. Are you by any chance mental? He added. I decided I like him more with his mouth shut so I din’t answer. Our hand would occasional slide through each other very slightly. The small chain didn’t allow much space between us, which is exactly what I wanted. If I can, I’d even hold his hand, and we’d walk down the streets, and we’d go to the amusement arcade, and maybe grab some food at a fast food store. A date. A fucking fluffy teenager date. Wait, but would he want that? Even I don’t find anything chilling about it. Those are for kids. But those cheesy things represented well my feelings for him. Cheesy as fuck with butterflies flooding in my stomach. And hopefully, in his too. Somewhere along the way from my bedroom to the door, I heard a loud pang in my head I almost though he’d betrayed (betrayed?) and shot me already. Turned out it wasn’t the case and I’m the only one who’d heard it. Sa... I stumbled like a kid who’d just learned to call his other’s name. Sasuke. He looked at me, not that he’d ever turned away, the same way someone would when their name ware called. Where had you been all these years? I asked, so emotional I almost cried. Sasuke completely ignore me the way you’d ignore a psychopath. I don’t hold anything against him, because he may very well be right, maybe I was mental. That’d explain everything. Once we’re in his car, though, he said something I’d assume to be his answer and I’d assume my feelings were reciprocated. Nowhere, I can still hear his low chuckle today and it was as thin as air.
I haven't written in about a week. I feel like I've hit a dead end. So it's time to blaze a trail! Burn through the brush, create a new path! I've started playing Skyrim again, and Morrowind. Both being amazing games. Vicki just walked back in from her lunch.
Kind of a slow day for my brain, been really tired and groggy all day, even after my walk. Just thinking about it makes me yawn. we don't have any rooms coming up except one, be back in a bit.
OKAY! I'm back 1;45 to go. The eclipse is tonight, that'll be cool. Too bad I've got to work and won't get to watch a lot of it.
doing some SQL stuff to get the hang of it on codeacademy. Other than that not a lot going on here at the library.
I'm also getting a little hungry, and will have to check second floor here in a few. Yaaay stairs, welp outta time, be back later.
Dreaming lets your mind wander in your sleep. Are you in Japan looking at kimonos or are you at your desk thinking of stories? Whatever you do, don't stop. CReate magical scenes-such as fairy kingdoms and act out them in your dreams. Are you Cinderella or Snow White? Dreaming can help spark ideas for stories. Kimonos and opera? Maybe write about visiting that opera and watching the actors wear the kimonos? Write about your dreams so you get new ideas. Choose appropriate ideas/passages from the dream stories and incorporate them into your real story that could get published. I don't dream very much (or remember them) instead I imagine being at a party or with my friends at/on a playdate. I talk to myself and make up random scenes. I'm running out of time...DREAM!!
I'm getting to know my own voice, just like every other teenager out there. I'm beginning to like, however, the sound of it. Is that bad? I suppose not, because when I find my style, I have to like it. But I lack the drive. I can start stories quickly with enthusiasm skyrocketing, and then... It descends. Excruciatingly slow. How do I become motivated again? By imagining up how people will love my writing? By telling myself how accomplished I feel once I finish it? How about this: That I enjoy it? I do enjoy it. It gives me a certain satisfaction, weaving words together, that nothing else can, but I've tried to go about it methodically. Maybe that's the problem. I'm methodical at all, and I just need to write what is on the top of my head. Alright, problem solved. Nope, there's still the obstacle of fear. I'm afraid it's terrible. Realistically, what's on the top of my head is pretty terrible and so I'll have to deal with it. Just write. Let the words flow from your fingertips. No one is the judge. Okay?
He measures my intelligence by the amount of effort I put into running away from my own reality. He sees my writing as a form of art, but I see it as survival. The thing that most people don't understand about me, is that I use literature to heal the brokenness inside of me. At least with false stories of broken hearts, people think I am in love with the stories. But really, I am in love with the heartbreak that looks like mine. I gather these stories and shattered pieces to fill in the gaps of my own life in hopes that my writing will become whole once again. I am not smart. I really just understand the world in a way that shows the brokenness that lies with the beauty. Being smart is my way of staying alive. Without it, I might as well be dead.