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— Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things: A Novel

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Fydoror Dostoevsky // Clarice Lispector

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Night Thoughts V

“This is the last poem I will write about you.”

That’s what was said on your solar return. I remember when your face fell after, The regret was instant, feelings learned, We could no longer hide behind laughter.

And here I am, still writing you poetry. I complained that you are a bad liar, Heh, I suppose I am too, woefully. I want the upper hand—yours is higher.

I don’t know how to talk to you as “friend,” Because I’ve only known you as “soulmate,” That causes you to panic—constant trend, My feelings for you are not up for debate.

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-Chuck Klosterman

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Down my spine, A weight descends, relentless, uninvited. Not mere gravity, but a phantom burden, A shadowed specter that clings to my ribs.

It digs its talons deep, carving hollows, Aches woven into the very fabric of my being. Each breath, a struggle against its grip, As if the air itself conspires to suffocate.

I trace its contours with trembling fingers, Seeking comfort in the cold, unyielding mass. It whispers secrets—dark and ancient— Promises of oblivion, release from pain.

Yet, paradoxically, I am numb. The ache, a silent scream echoing within, But my senses dulled, cocooned in indifference. Emotions, once vibrant hues, now grayscale.

Is it grief? Regret? Or some nameless sorrow? The weight remains, unyielding, inscrutable. Perhaps it’s the echo of forgotten dreams, Or the residue of love lost, like smoke dissolving.

I yearn for release, for the weight to lift, To breathe freely, unencumbered by shadows. But here I am, Choked by the heaviness, yet numbed to its touch.

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If a scene feels flat and you can't figure it out, ask yourself:

• What can MC smell? Is there an ocean breeze, sweat, a cinnamon roll fresh out the oven?

• What can MC hear, besides the dialogue? Is a bird singing, river flowing, a car speeding, clock ticking?

• Can they taste something, even if they're not eating? Previously drunk alcohol or juice, aftertaste of a cigarette, smog, too instense perfume?

• Can they feel something on their skin? Rough clothes or delicate material, blowing wind, an allergy or a rash, grass that theyre laying on?

• What does the character see, besides other characters? Is the room dark or is sunlight coming in nicely? Are the colours vibrant or dull? Are there any plants?

• What's the weather? Is it snowing and the cold is making goosebumps appear on their arms? Is it hot and sweaty and clothes are clinging to their body?

• HOW DOES IT MAKE THEM FEEL? To any of the above.

Do they like the smell of cinnamon rolls or are they weirdos (I'm a weirdo, I don't fit in).

Does the clock ticking calm them down or annoy them?

Do they enjoy the aftertaste of a cig and like how dirty it makes them feel?

Are they sensitive to touch and how their clothing feels on their skin or are they indifferent?

Would they enjoy the scenery more if it was more sunny out, because they're afraid of the darkness?

Do they like it snowy or are they always cold and hate winter?

Come on, give them persoanlity, likes and dislikes, don't be scared to make them people and not only likeable characters.

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Talk with an intention to understand

Think with an intention to grow

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— Rainer Maria Rilke, from “I am praying again, Awesome One.”

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HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE ハウルの動く城 2004, dir. Hayao Miyazaki

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If you don’t accept me at my worst I make sure you won’t ever see the best of me.

k.b. // u never deserved my best in the first place

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The dog went in to be neutered and the vet took a picture of the dog and sent it to his owner as soon as he woke up.

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The Glass Essay, Anne Carson | Molly Brodak, Molly Brodak

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It’s trickling in now, like a stream touching stones. As it twists and turns creating a path that all humans through time have known.

I’m learning, maybe it took a little time, but just like that stream the learning will only grow with every single one of my age lines.

It’s sinking in with a soul crushing truth, that you’ll always be a scar in my heart and I’ll always mean something to you.

I don’t know what memories of me will make you feel, maybe you don’t know either but, we were born to cross paths yet burn with the destruction of a deadly fever.

With time it’ll hurt less, with time I’ll even forget. Our memories of each other that once burned a brand on my very being, will become blurry, murky in the human brains wondrous way of slowly but surely freeing me.

I am learning.

It’s slow and cruel, the way I must tread every path covered in broken glass only to learn that the cherry red gashes on my feet were always optional.

If only I had chose to listen to the warnings, that yes I may grow but I’ll lose so much to the shards sinking teeth into my skin; this blood would be un-washable.

I am beginning to understand I need it, the sharp growing pains keeping me awake when I crave sleep more than I can ever truly admit it.

I’ll keep growing, and my skin will shift around the scars you left but, I’ll keep them there to steer me along. They are my lighthouse making sure I never become shipwrecked by another seeking to reopen the wounds you etched into my very bones.

you were my favourite fever dream - t.k.o

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FALLOUT (2024)