Tag / stream of consciousness

by MNK

Close to Closure

It took two frustrated attempts to ignite the lighter, his hands shaking. The ocean air was too damn cold: he remembered it once as a peaceful sensation but now it just made him apprehensive, almost bitterly so. The flame caught the tip of his cigarette pinched halfheartedly between his lips, and died against the wind a moment later.

How long ago was it he started smoking? He asked himself the question without wanting the answer. He knew. He didn’t want to remember.

I wish you didn’t smoke those.

He turned his head and coughed violently, spitting the cigarette into the sand. His lungs were screaming in rebellion as they did every year, every time he came to this spot and inhaled that stupid, masochistic poison, and every time he hated himself just a little bit more because he didn’t want to remember.

And because he did.

Shifting footsteps and a red sunset and the feeling of butterflies and the sunkenness of a lost anchor, anxious hope and worthlessness. A thousand peaceful sounds time-locked in an overplayed memory. A picturesque romance typecast the enemy. A mistake.

The cigarette had gone cold but its job was finished. It was the smell and singular taste of sincerity. It was a sacrificial ritual in progress for decades.

He hated these fragmented thoughts.

What do you think you’re doing? Do you really think so little of me you’d make some stupid assumption like that?

I was just worried about you.

That’s a lie. You don’t get to barge into my life whenever you feel like playing lifeguard.

It was a punch in the gut, a lifelong fear. It had to be saved…

No, hey, I just want you to be happy. You know how I feel, you know I would never… never smother you.

Stop. You don’t get to do this. An exasperated sigh. He could smell that scent on her breath. You can’t just be a hero. You always assume the worst in people, like the world is a big black hole and you’re the only one that hasn’t been sucked in. It’s not a reality for us: it’s a reflection of you, because you just couldn’t stand living on without having someone to rescue. You need a damsel in distress. You don’t want me to be happy. You just need someone pitiful enough to save you from yourself.

One final exhale. A cigarette dropped in the sand and its scent hung in the air. It’s all that was left. All that could be known again.

The coughing stopped but his eyes were watering and the cold saltwater air didn’t help. He stood on stiff joints and brittle bones, muttering to himself. The stars were bright in the sky but he hadn’t the strength to care anymore.

I wish you didn’t smoke those.

He imagined it was her saying those words but he shut his eyes at the thought. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve any one of them.

 

by MNK

In Limbo #2

I have refrained from social media for almost a year now. I have no Twitter, no Facebook, no Instagram. And the platforms I do have, such as this site, I have no presence.

It’s an uncomfortably awkward situation, to have no presence yet wish to speak to the void regardless. Not many people are aware I have this page, and even fewer are interested in my hobbies. Perhaps no one is anymore. Those that were are gone now.

So where is this now? It’s incredible to look at my work on Supaku and realize it’s been over two years since I started the damn thing, and even longer since Senseless was updated. My interest in these universes hasn’t changed, but my voice faltered for a long time. I don’t feel embarrassed to say that, because it’s a reflection of my change as a human being, and a reflection of the flaws that I recognize in myself. Creation is a critical facet of growth, and to me it’s an astonishingly satisfying aspect of social interaction. I deeply enjoy the thoughtful reactions to my stories, but I think that’s a problem when it comes to proper motivation because, well…

If no one cares about reading it, what’s the point.

“Why would you say that, of course there’s a purpose! You write for yourself!”

Well, yes, in a sense. I create stories because they’re fun, but they’re also a lot of work. Most of my ideas are dreams and daydreams, suspended and muddied somewhere in my head, and whenever I’d like I can visit those thoughts and just soar through them as I please. Why would I spend my time working for someone else who doesn’t exist if I could just drift pleasantly through these dreams? There are obvious arguments against this mode of thought, but it remains.

“That’s disappointing.”

Yes, it is. To be completely honest, the situation is far more complex than this timid example, but much of the rest are more-or-less private matters unfit for public display. I keep away from social media for many reasons, and one of them is my dedication not to air my dirty laundry for a few pitiful likes. While I publish this update for my future self, I hope if there’s anyone reading this they can respect my reflections as partial glimpses into a situation that could never be explained in a single post.

White, Black, and Everything in Between. Neon Lights and a Testarossa. The Acquired Taste of a Bad Cigarette. These are the titles of stories I left half-finished this year. Maybe they’ll see light someday, and maybe they won’t. Perhaps the most important thing is that they were ideas that saw some form of immortality on paper. Perhaps the most important thing is that they existed at all: it’s proof that I’m not dead quite yet.

I’d like to finish this somewhat dreary and confusing post by saying if you’re reading this, thank you. I needed to write a bit about my frustration and I want to emphasize I’m not done. My method of writing has always been haphazard but recently I began outlining the structure of my Supaku novel and I’ve had so many exciting ideas I can’t wait to grow into something I can be proud of. In the future, I’d like to make more posts like this because, as you can likely tell, I’m rusty as hell and I need practice. Apart from my fiction, I’m confident I can write about general life, motivation, and social things. I don’t expect them to be popular or relevant, but they would be a fantastic archive of my thoughts and growth. What would this site be if it were just years-old stories and depressing Limbo posts?

Answer: exactly what it is right now. And that’s just unacceptable!

by MNK

In Limbo #1

No one wants to be at this point, here in writing limbo. School has picked up again, a certainly interesting affair that prevents me from doing the things I wish I were doing. I would like to continue to churn out the lives of Sapphira, Ryo, and with the most recent short story slowing down, the trauma-stricken Katherine. It’s been far too long since I’ve made a post, but I must persist in the promise that I will make something new soon, along with a post from some of my older materials.

I am somewhat hesitant on discussing the further details of life as I find them personally unbearable from a stranger’s mouth. I do, however, think it is important to recognize and allow others to recognize the problematic points that really affect myself and very likely countless others.

I am not special. I’m a human amidst humans. I am not special. The work I can do is special, is unique, and runs of the risk of becoming something horrifyingly extraordinary. I go to school, I clock in at work, I greet people with smiles but that does not make me stand out. The things I can create have a footprint. They are digitized and in readable ASCII and hopefully will be on readable paper, the kind that eventually emits a pleasant smell to the reader. You can’t smell a computer screen.

The point here is being so focused on the trivial things, the things that no one will remember, least of all yourself. Creation is the greatest gift to others. Practiced creation is the greatest gift to yourself. It begets both failure and accomplishment of the most memorable degree, and without the former there will never truly exist the latter, because true success is a learned tool. The trivial things can wash away this principle in a mudslide of melancholic misery, as it has for myself. I find the memory of most days erased by the next sunrise. I find the thought of celebrating every New Year’s Eve wondering just what the hell I did for the last 365 days absolutely appalling; if it can be boiled down to a handful of rudimentary habits and routines then why am I still here?

There needs to be a purpose.

I would like to go further into the subject at a later point, and I do sincerely apologize for the stream-of-consciousness style writing. For now, I’d like to leave it as-is, and perhaps think about committing some effort to writing a pseudo-philosophical piece on the subject in the future. In the meantime, farewell!