Memories can be good, can be bad.
Memories can be joyful, sorrowful, significant, boring.
They can define someone, they can make them smile.
Memories can bring tears, or simply bring back pains.
Memories can be fuzzy, barely remembered at all, or memories can be sharp, defined and full.
Is that all I am though?
Is that why I live?
To become a happy memory to you, because you don't want the pain?
When you leave me behind, what will I be then, if not but a memory?
A memory can be important, but why do I stay for you, if you just plan to leave?
Why should I endure this pain, if only for you?
In my dreams, I am always falling. I fall down, as if from a high height, a bridge, a building, a plane, I don't know, but I know I am falling. Below me the misty depths. Or is it the misty death? I don't intend to survive the landing, that I know. I tumble, the world spins around me, a cold, desolate world, filled with tall dark shapes, concealed by a dense fog. There is no sound, no wind rushing by my ears as I fall, no water rushing below me, but sometimes I still feel it is there.
I may not recall where I fell from, but I always know why I fell. I fell because I failed. For once in my life, I actually tried, and for once in my life, I co
The Good Die Young, Chapter Two by Merin593, literature
Literature
The Good Die Young, Chapter Two
Diane stared at the dark courtroom like cavern she was in. It was dark in here, so dark she could barely see her own hand. Orangeish red light flowed from behind a giant podium, that stretched in a large semi-circle around her. Silhouettes of humanoid figures surrounded her, the light casting them in fearsome shapes. "You have abused your power, youngling." A great voice boomed. The room seemed to be shaped that the sound would come from everywhere at once, making it impossible to know which of the dozen or so figures actually spoke.
"Young Reapers are expected to be impartial, to follow their instructions." Another voice sounded. This one,
The Good Die Young, Chapter One by Merin593, literature
Literature
The Good Die Young, Chapter One
Diane Mallory Mortred stood on the porch of the large mansion. Inside, a wealthy old man sat in his study, reading a particularly boring novel that he had read and reread many times. Diane really didn't know why he was still reading it, again at least. She didn't care. She had a job to do, and she was more than pleased to do it. Overhead, a crow was heard, cawing loudly. There were always crows. They never came down, never went away. They just circled.
Diane opened the door, her left hand resting on the hilt of a sword. Rather old fashioned, but she liked the feel of it more than a gun. It was more personal, more satisfyingly gruesome. The h
Lillian sat on the stool in her bathroom stall. Splayed in front of her lay the open bottles of half a dozen prescription bottles. One to help her with her sleep issues, another to help with depression, another for schizophrenia, or whatever that psychiatrist called it. It wasn't something she knew about, but sounded like schizophrenia. Pills lay scattered over the tile floor, a myriad of purples, reds, and whites. Big pills, small tablets to be chewed, all lay amongst one another in an almost pretty pattern.
Lillian recalled the various doctors and psychologists telling her what to take when, what not to take with what, and what to take to
He was at the top. He was one of the greatest men alive, said some people. He had been married, with two children and a third on the way. He had been completely mentally sound, said his psychiatrist. He had money, power, everything a man could want. He was said to be handsome, kind, a truly good person.
The world had been so confused when the headlines said he committed suicide the night before. Foul play had long been ruled out, his house had security beyond most people's imagination, and his family was off on vacation. He was a well loved man, a man of stature, importance, and he was gone. The world seemed to sit still in shock.
Everyone
I feel it. A consuming fire, something I cannot control, cannot stop. It rages, burning sanity, rationality, and common sense, leaving the charred and broken remnants behind. It writhes and turns inside of me, begging for release. I sit still, huddled in the corner. Every word I say carries venom, the meaning of every sentence I speak is shifted, and there is nothing to do about it.
It burns me. From the inside out, I feel the influence of it corrupting me, changing who I am, what I think. And I can do nothing. I pound out words, trying to give it a release, but despite every word typed into the laptop in front of me, I only feel it growing
Memories can be good, can be bad.
Memories can be joyful, sorrowful, significant, boring.
They can define someone, they can make them smile.
Memories can bring tears, or simply bring back pains.
Memories can be fuzzy, barely remembered at all, or memories can be sharp, defined and full.
Is that all I am though?
Is that why I live?
To become a happy memory to you, because you don't want the pain?
When you leave me behind, what will I be then, if not but a memory?
A memory can be important, but why do I stay for you, if you just plan to leave?
Why should I endure this pain, if only for you?
In my dreams, I am always falling. I fall down, as if from a high height, a bridge, a building, a plane, I don't know, but I know I am falling. Below me the misty depths. Or is it the misty death? I don't intend to survive the landing, that I know. I tumble, the world spins around me, a cold, desolate world, filled with tall dark shapes, concealed by a dense fog. There is no sound, no wind rushing by my ears as I fall, no water rushing below me, but sometimes I still feel it is there.
I may not recall where I fell from, but I always know why I fell. I fell because I failed. For once in my life, I actually tried, and for once in my life, I co
The Good Die Young, Chapter Two by Merin593, literature
Literature
The Good Die Young, Chapter Two
Diane stared at the dark courtroom like cavern she was in. It was dark in here, so dark she could barely see her own hand. Orangeish red light flowed from behind a giant podium, that stretched in a large semi-circle around her. Silhouettes of humanoid figures surrounded her, the light casting them in fearsome shapes. "You have abused your power, youngling." A great voice boomed. The room seemed to be shaped that the sound would come from everywhere at once, making it impossible to know which of the dozen or so figures actually spoke.
"Young Reapers are expected to be impartial, to follow their instructions." Another voice sounded. This one,
The Good Die Young, Chapter One by Merin593, literature
Literature
The Good Die Young, Chapter One
Diane Mallory Mortred stood on the porch of the large mansion. Inside, a wealthy old man sat in his study, reading a particularly boring novel that he had read and reread many times. Diane really didn't know why he was still reading it, again at least. She didn't care. She had a job to do, and she was more than pleased to do it. Overhead, a crow was heard, cawing loudly. There were always crows. They never came down, never went away. They just circled.
Diane opened the door, her left hand resting on the hilt of a sword. Rather old fashioned, but she liked the feel of it more than a gun. It was more personal, more satisfyingly gruesome. The h
Lillian sat on the stool in her bathroom stall. Splayed in front of her lay the open bottles of half a dozen prescription bottles. One to help her with her sleep issues, another to help with depression, another for schizophrenia, or whatever that psychiatrist called it. It wasn't something she knew about, but sounded like schizophrenia. Pills lay scattered over the tile floor, a myriad of purples, reds, and whites. Big pills, small tablets to be chewed, all lay amongst one another in an almost pretty pattern.
Lillian recalled the various doctors and psychologists telling her what to take when, what not to take with what, and what to take to
I feel it. A consuming fire, something I cannot control, cannot stop. It rages, burning sanity, rationality, and common sense, leaving the charred and broken remnants behind. It writhes and turns inside of me, begging for release. I sit still, huddled in the corner. Every word I say carries venom, the meaning of every sentence I speak is shifted, and there is nothing to do about it.
It burns me. From the inside out, I feel the influence of it corrupting me, changing who I am, what I think. And I can do nothing. I pound out words, trying to give it a release, but despite every word typed into the laptop in front of me, I only feel it growing
So, those of you I speak to often will know that I am fairly (very) discontent with my name. According to each person who I have actually asked, it doesn't fit me well. So as soon as I can, I plan on changing it.
Sadly for me, the name I have has some rather significant meaning within my family, which means that attempting to change it while I live here will go poorly at best. So, for now, I am just going to try to get my friends to try and call me by other names for a while, while my family is away, to see if I can find one that "fits" more than the one I have.
Being indecisive as I am, I haven't decided 100% on a single name yet, so for n
So anyway, in my hometown, there was a lesbian who was beaten, and almost murdered after rather horrible things happened to her. Luckily, she lived, which is a good thing, but as of last time I checked the news, the three people that did it have not been caught. On that topic, but on a less scary/depressing note, last night (two days ago, technically) there was a vigil, which was rather impressive and thoughtful. Anyway, I went by there, hung around it for a bit, and it was rather nice. I was in a really terrible mood (the one that prompted my last journal) and seeing it all (there were lots of candles. It was pretty) definitely helped calm m
So today went really badly. Less than an hour ago I was one quick decision away from attempting suicide, which probably would have ended... badly. I am home now, and it is less one the front of my mind now, although its still there, as always. I don't really feel like saying much more than that though.
On another note, I won't really be submitting anything on here for a while, because I am busy with a few writing contests that nobody cares about and have no reward.