chandler
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2004
- Messages
- 712
Unedited. Wrote in about half an hour. First creative piece. Any thoughts would be great.
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He stared longingly at the ashtray, cigarettes butts ejecting in every-which-way direction like some sort of bizarre fungus. Except uglier. The way in which they reared their burnt orange heads was a reflection of something deeper. His inability to ever get around to emptying it, and the collection of dirty ash peppering the desk like a fine moss was an all too distinct metaphor for the greater portion of his life.
"Fuck it" he said, largely under his breath, but audible to anyone within touching distance. It was her again. Always her. "Her" changed occasionally, but despite the exact form of "her", she always managed to crawl into his thoughts. It was nearly 4pm. The old urges were slowly creeping around. Weekends were now a 48 hour period of indistinguishable momentum. Day, night and in between were essentially irrelevant when seven-eighths of the weekend was spent under the influence of something, and daytime was an inconvenience, pent up in a darkened room in front of a screen. Why was it her? What had drawn him so strongly to her?
She was pure. Pure enough. Yet to become so jaded with one’s self-view that she’d lost all hope. He wasn’t. She was drawn to something. That glimmer of good he could show. Same old story. It never changed. Nothing draws them in more than a charity case. Except for a charity case where, deep down somewhere far in their heart, they don’t honestly believe he’s that bad. He was drawn to something. Something he can’t have became something he shouldn’t have became something he had. The hooks were in on both of them. Same old story. Friend’s girlfriend, colleague, best friend, what did it matter...? Labels were unnecessary. He just enjoyed doing what he shouldn’t. Now he was so deep respite was a foreign concept. It played on his mind day and night.
Despite his feelings, he’d been overjoyed when she finally left the previous afternoon. Her company, like most, was a source of savoured pleasure, so long as he was drunk. He woke up the following morning with the usual sense of self-loathing that goes hand in hand with the crash of sobriety. Physical and psychological ugliness grew heavy and all-encompassing as she lay by his side. Why wouldn’t she just leave? Something beautiful didn’t belong in the sea of ash, empty bottles and half-formed goodwill that were his bedroom.
His mind grew back to the ashtray. Unable to bring himself to empty it, gathering an odd degree of satisfaction from every bit of disgusting it represented. There was a reason he surrounded himself with filth. It felt comfortable. Conforming to what his life had slowly become. He slowly placed another cigarette in his mouth, and went to light it. The sun was finally setting. Not long now. It was just a question of what…
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He stared longingly at the ashtray, cigarettes butts ejecting in every-which-way direction like some sort of bizarre fungus. Except uglier. The way in which they reared their burnt orange heads was a reflection of something deeper. His inability to ever get around to emptying it, and the collection of dirty ash peppering the desk like a fine moss was an all too distinct metaphor for the greater portion of his life.
"Fuck it" he said, largely under his breath, but audible to anyone within touching distance. It was her again. Always her. "Her" changed occasionally, but despite the exact form of "her", she always managed to crawl into his thoughts. It was nearly 4pm. The old urges were slowly creeping around. Weekends were now a 48 hour period of indistinguishable momentum. Day, night and in between were essentially irrelevant when seven-eighths of the weekend was spent under the influence of something, and daytime was an inconvenience, pent up in a darkened room in front of a screen. Why was it her? What had drawn him so strongly to her?
She was pure. Pure enough. Yet to become so jaded with one’s self-view that she’d lost all hope. He wasn’t. She was drawn to something. That glimmer of good he could show. Same old story. It never changed. Nothing draws them in more than a charity case. Except for a charity case where, deep down somewhere far in their heart, they don’t honestly believe he’s that bad. He was drawn to something. Something he can’t have became something he shouldn’t have became something he had. The hooks were in on both of them. Same old story. Friend’s girlfriend, colleague, best friend, what did it matter...? Labels were unnecessary. He just enjoyed doing what he shouldn’t. Now he was so deep respite was a foreign concept. It played on his mind day and night.
Despite his feelings, he’d been overjoyed when she finally left the previous afternoon. Her company, like most, was a source of savoured pleasure, so long as he was drunk. He woke up the following morning with the usual sense of self-loathing that goes hand in hand with the crash of sobriety. Physical and psychological ugliness grew heavy and all-encompassing as she lay by his side. Why wouldn’t she just leave? Something beautiful didn’t belong in the sea of ash, empty bottles and half-formed goodwill that were his bedroom.
His mind grew back to the ashtray. Unable to bring himself to empty it, gathering an odd degree of satisfaction from every bit of disgusting it represented. There was a reason he surrounded himself with filth. It felt comfortable. Conforming to what his life had slowly become. He slowly placed another cigarette in his mouth, and went to light it. The sun was finally setting. Not long now. It was just a question of what…
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Consider it bunted out.