thamesbelowwestminster

[thamesbelowwestminster]

I'm obsessed with the fear of wasting my life even before it has really begun. When you're forced to live in a bubble, you learn to romanticize even the littlest things just so you can feel something—alive.

[thamesbelowwestminster]

TAXIDERMY FOR BEGINNERS

Bears of wolf creek get their faces stuffed, forever baring their teeth.

Birds of prey never get their feathers plucked, forever suspended.

Butterflies of daisy chaining-memories make friends with moths, forever glassed.

We refuse to let the tokens of our past die, lest we forget. God forbid we ever forget. We pull them from our heads and lay them out on a table. You skin them, gut them. But this time we leave the bones in. The bones are the soul of the memory. Do not let them become empty shells of what was. 

You must die a thousand times over before you can learn to live.

Let them serve as a panacea for all your troubles.

Rage with intent as you cry out into the skies. The air you begin to heave will fill your lungs and make you choke. Is this your way of proving yourself to the gods? Learn to fight because you do not know how to die quietly.

Their black glassy eyes crawl all over the walls and you stare back at them. You whisper into their stitches to remind them of their tormentors. You suck at taxidermy. Why have you not hidden the stitches well? Are you proud?

Skin.

Gut.

Salt.

Stuff.

Stitch.

Read.

Write.

Think.

Bleed.

I suppose it’s all worth it in the end.

You continue to stuff your memories but do you ever mount them? Would you rather have them fade in the sunlight or rot into nothingness behind cardboard boxes as they beg and shiver for something more? 

What did you do with their flesh? Did you leave them on a curb in a bag that you know the dogs will come and devour? I suppose you will kill them too and keep it as just another trophy.

— When I picked up a pencil at the age of two and felt the familiar scritch scritch of lead on paper, I never stopped drawing. When I picked up a book for the first time and felt the familiar spines that begged to be broken in, I never put it down. When I picked up a pen at the age of ten and felt the familiarity of my words, I never stopped writing.

I traded my pain for art. An exploitation of the placebos of a dying mind.

#taxidermy for beginners #writing for this blog has been a joy and has relit a fire i put out long ago #writers of tumblr #poetry #prose #SoundCloud

[thamesbelowwestminster]

I SCREAM VAGUELY ABOUT INJUSTICES WITH UNDERTONES OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP AND BETRAYAL

[thamesbelowwestminster]

implicit demand for proof. . .

Angel of great and terrible light, you should’ve raised a baby boy.

Growing up, people have told me that people come into your life for a reason, that there is a purpose for their presence. They also say that they come into your life as whatever karma you've had in the past-good or bad. Like a good daughter to a good mother, or a bad friend to a bad friend.

But it's the same people that say they didn't do anything to deserve to know someone like me. They claim to be so clean, so chaste, that someone like me should have never been welcome in their lives.

I don't believe in such things. I don't believe that people are brought into your life for a reason. To me, they just simply come and go, leaving small fragments of them with you as they leave.

Angel of great and terrible light, you should’ve raised a baby boy.

Years ago you were told that I felt like I had raised myself so I wrote the prelude to what I assume must’ve been something greater.

Months ago when grey cement and headlights were all I could think of, I drank my apathy and found a place that is home where the walls are thin and the ceiling has collapsed and the sound of vowels at dark are ever so potent. But do you press your ear against the door to listen?

Weeks ago when I stained my walls with ink and the remnants of my past, that was when I REMEMBERED HOW TO SCREAM BUT ONLY EVER IN MY HEAD AND I AM SCREAMING NOW TO MAKE MY WORDS FEEL MORE IMPORTANT THAN THEY REALLY ARE AND TO SCRATCH YOUR BRAIN SO YOU CAN SCREAM WITH ME SO THAT THIS ALL SEEMS MEANINGFUL AND WORTHWHILE.

Angel of great and terrible light, you should’ve raised a baby boy.

Because baby boys would be tougher yet malleable under your hand. Baby boys would have a heart. Baby boys wouldn’t disappoint. Baby boys wouldn’t be me.

But why do I still say I love you when you don’t hear me? Is it because you still comb my hair, or peel my oranges that your hands stain yellow, or is it because you remind me of myself when it should be the other way around?

Angel of great and terrible light, I am your shadow. We are one.

#mothers day is just around the corner and i never liked this time of year #because i never knew how to say thank you or i love you without feeling like turning inside out #we however still find ways to show that we care despite everything #i hope my story was told through my poetry and metaphors without having to /explicitly/ tell it. haha get it? cause that's the assignment? #poetry #prose #writers of tumblr #Spotify

[thamesbelowwestminster]

Athazagoraphobia

The pine trees rustled as crows flew past and sang their shrill song. She didn’t know how she got there but she knew where she was going. Twigs and pine needles cracked under her feet as she climbed over logs and through the bushes until she came to a clearing at the edge of a cliff that overlooked the mountains. The air smelled of chamomile and moss. At the center of it all was three tree stumps. One wide stump that couldn’t have been wider than four feet, and two narrow stumps good enough for sitting. On the larger stump, there laid a delicate tea set and a tray of sugar cookies. On one of the narrow stumps, there sat a figure. They looked more of an apparition rather than a physical being, most likely due to the fact that they were a faceless aura of white. She stood and watched from the edge of the clearing as they poured tea into a fragile looking cup that sat on a saucer.

“How do you take your chamomile?” they asked merrily. It was a strange sight yet she felt safe, “Two sugars.” she responded.

“Come sit.” they urged, and motioned towards the third empty stump. The figure set down the teapot and plopped two sugar cubes into her cup of tea with a pair of silver tongs. The stump was quite comfortable for a piece of dead wood. She brought the cup to her lips and let the tea’s aroma fill her lungs. It tasted like grass and honey. Sweet and earthy.

“You came to me begging for mercy once.”

“What-”

“Do remember how bright the headlights were? How the white bounced off your skin and onto your fears? I was there that day.” their voice was soft, like the fuzz of a dandelion. However, she was quite confused, but she knew that her life and essence was an open book to them. She stayed silent and set her cup back down onto its saucer, knowing that denial was not an option.

The aura continued to speak, its head turned towards the horizon where the sun emitted its golden glow as it went down. Though she wasn’t sure where they were looking.

“Do you remember the smell of freshly cut grass after the rain? When you laughed because another child had sent you rolling down a hill and soiled your brand new shirt?” They sounded like they were smiling, even if she couldn’t see it.

“Do you remember how much you loved the smell of coffee and bagels after a long day? Or how much you loved the sound of trains?” 

“I-”

“Do you?” the aura politely interrupted. 

The winds blew gently and made the flowers of the forest clearing dance, “Of course I do.”

“Then do you remember how it felt to have your insides bruised and battered? Your soul tossing and turning and giving eulogies for the requiem of your dead dreams?” the conversation took an unexpected turn, the figure’s voice monotonous, their head turned towards her. 

“Do you remember puking and the sigh of relief afterwards because the bile stuck in your throat no longer hurt? Do you remember how hot searing white rage felt like? You said it felt like being underwater, the salt burning your lungs.”

The sun had fully set, the air feeling colder now that its warmth no longer graced the two.

“Who are you?” she finally asked the one question she meant to ask when she first happened on the clearing.

“Do you remember what your mother said about the dreams you have at night?” the figure sounded curious, though she knew that they knew her answer.

“I wish I could.” she spoke somberly.

“Everything spread before us is a subconscious manifestation of who you are.”

“Is that what this is then? A dream?” she twisted her neck towards them, but they did not respond.

“Then who are you?”

“A warning.” the figure said nonchalantly with a sigh.

“I don’t understand.”

They got up from the stump and took two steps closer to the edge of the cliff. She got up and joined them, telling herself not to look down, “You don’t have to. At least not now. All you need to do is stop forgetting.” the aura said.

She chuckled, “Stop forgetting huh? You make it sound like it’s an easy thing.”

They turned towards her and tilted their head sideways ever so slightly it was almost endearing, “Remember why you cut your hair, why you put that band-aid on your knee and snuck off into the woods.”

The aura gently placed their hands on her face, it tickled and fuzzed the same way old tvs looked like when they sizzled after you turned it off, “Don’t forget your spite, your pride. Don’t forget who your enemies are and remember to pay their injustices a thousand times over.”

“The day that you forget who you are is the day that all is lost.”

She wasn’t sure what to do with this advice but she took it and nodded her head. The figure’s face, not that they had a face, seemed to be getting closer kinda as if it was going in for a kiss. The whiteness swallowed and engulfed her vision with its likeness until everything was white and she could no longer feel their embrace. Then it all faded to black.

I’m awake.

#outline ig

[thamesbelowwestminster]

Athazagoraphobia

The pine trees rustled as crows flew past and sang their shrill song. She didn’t know how she got there but she knew where she was going. Twigs and pine needles cracked under her feet as she climbed over logs and through the bushes until she came to a clearing at the edge of a cliff that overlooked the mountains. The air smelled of chamomile and moss. At the center of it all was three tree stumps. One wide stump that couldn’t have been wider than four feet, and two narrow stumps good enough for sitting. On the larger stump, there laid a delicate tea set and a tray of sugar cookies. On one of the narrow stumps, there sat a figure. They looked more of an apparition rather than a physical being, most likely due to the fact that they were a faceless aura of white. She stood and watched from the edge of the clearing as they poured tea into a fragile looking cup that sat on a saucer.

“How do you take your chamomile?” they asked merrily. It was a strange sight yet she felt safe, “Two sugars.” she responded.

“Come sit.” they urged, and motioned towards the third empty stump. The figure set down the teapot and plopped two sugar cubes into her cup of tea with a pair of silver tongs. The stump was quite comfortable for a piece of dead wood. She brought the cup to her lips and let the tea’s aroma fill her lungs. It tasted like grass and honey. Sweet and earthy.

“You came to me begging for mercy once.”

“What-”

“Do remember how bright the headlights were? How the white bounced off your skin and onto your fears? I was there that day.” their voice was soft, like the fuzz of a dandelion. However, she was quite confused, but she knew that her life and essence was an open book to them. She stayed silent and set her cup back down onto its saucer, knowing that denial was not an option.

The aura continued to speak, its head turned towards the horizon where the sun emitted its golden glow as it went down. Though she wasn’t sure where they were looking.

“Do you remember the smell of freshly cut grass after the rain? When you laughed because another child had sent you rolling down a hill and soiled your brand new shirt?” They sounded like they were smiling, even if she couldn’t see it.

“Do you remember how much you loved the smell of coffee and bagels after a long day? Or how much you loved the sound of trains?” 

“I-”

“Do you?” the aura politely interrupted. 

The winds blew gently and made the flowers of the forest clearing dance, “Of course I do.”

“Then do you remember how it felt to have your insides bruised and battered? Your soul tossing and turning and giving eulogies for the requiem of your dead dreams?” the conversation took an unexpected turn, the figure’s voice monotonous, their head turned towards her. 

“Do you remember puking and the sigh of relief afterwards because the bile stuck in your throat no longer hurt? Do you remember how hot searing white rage felt like? You said it felt like being underwater, the salt burning your lungs.”

The sun had fully set, the air feeling colder now that its warmth no longer graced the two.

“Who are you?” she finally asked the one question she meant to ask when she first happened on the clearing.

“Do you remember what your mother said about the dreams you have at night?” the figure sounded curious, though she knew that they knew her answer.

“I wish I could.” she spoke somberly.

“Everything spread before us is a subconscious manifestation of who you are.”

“Is that what this is then? A dream?” she twisted her neck towards them, but they did not respond.

“Then who are you?”

“A warning.” the figure said nonchalantly with a sigh.

“I don’t understand.”

They got up from the stump and took two steps closer to the edge of the cliff. She got up and joined them, telling herself not to look down, “You don’t have to. At least not now. All you need to do is stop forgetting.” the aura said.

She chuckled, “Stop forgetting huh? You make it sound like it’s an easy thing.”

They turned towards her and tilted their head sideways ever so slightly it was almost endearing, “Remember why you cut your hair, why you put that band-aid on your knee and snuck off into the woods.”

The aura gently placed their hands on her face, it tickled and fuzzed the same way old tvs looked like when they sizzled after you turned it off, “Don’t forget your spite, your pride. Don’t forget who your enemies are and remember to repay their injustices a thousand times over.”

“The day that you forget who you are is the day that all is lost.”

She wasn’t sure what to do with this advice but she took it and nodded her head. The figure’s face, not that they had a face, seemed to be getting closer, kind of as if it was going in for a kiss. The whiteness swallowed and engulfed her vision with its likeness until everything was white and she could no longer feel their embrace. Then it all faded to black.

I’m awake.

#athazagoraphobia #short story #narration #fear #poetry #writers of tumblr #writeblr

[thamesbelowwestminster]

LADY BIRD : a short analysis on the opening and closing shots of the film by Greta Gerwig

I don’t think we talk enough about the opening and closing scene of Lady Bird. A phenomenal coming of age film that explores the troubles that come with being a teenage girl, feeling trapped by her small town, and simply yearning for more. Her pink hair, frequent arguments with her mother, unfortunate breakups with boys who are too busy feeling up other boys or too busy reading communist manifestos, and befriending the mean girl who peaks in high school and later regretting it, are all things that can make Lady Bird’s character so relatable to the viewers.

The very first scene that the film opens with, displays Lady Bird on the right looking left to her mother who is on the left looking to her right. They are facing one another, eyes closed. This first scene says a lot about the relationship between this mother and daughter, they are close yet closed off from one another. The very last scene is of Lady Bird in New York City and no longer in the small suburbs of Sacramento, California.

Lady Bird is a strong-willed and independent character who spends the majority of the film going by her “given name”. At the end, she finally moves to New York City where ‘all the culture is’, and she aquaints herself with one of her college peers, and decides to finally refer to herself by her birth name.

In the final shot, Christine is seen leaving a church, in the center of the frame and she is looking to the left. The difference between the first and final shots, is that in the final shot, Christine’s eyes are open, but when she turns to look for her mother, she isn’t there.

Another noteworthy part of the final shot is how the film ends when she inhales. Her eyes are open because she has finally woken up to a new version of herself, this was the end of her childhood, but the start of her life.

#sam speaks #lady bird #greta gerwig #saoirse ronan #timothee chalamet #film #film analysis #freeform writing #there's a reason Lady Bird is one of my comfort movies

[thamesbelowwestminster]

get to know me :

#bio

[thamesbelowwestminster]

"caught on film"

a series of self portraits capturing the light within the dark.

[ 2020 - 2021 ]