It is called 'to be performed from under a table' and is a collection of sketches, poetry, short stories, observations, arguments, discussions and general musings. It was intended to be an outlet for my emotions and thoughts as I continued to work on my 3rd and 4th project but became something altogether. It is also something I thought I had completed a few weeks ago but...
...I have now decided to add a short story at the end.
This short story will deal with a character who has committed suicide. He is then confronted by a figure who shows him the consequence of what he has done and how it affects the people around him. It will delve into a future without our main character and give the reader an idea of how important a person actually is to others they come into contact with. Of course, not everyone will be affected in a good way by our main character and I will aim to show the other side as well. I am not aiming to be preachy or bring religion into it too much...if our being does continue on after death, then I believe the place it goes and the judgement is serves is determined by our own soul.
The reason for the short story is my own mind set at this moment. A mind set I have had bubbling under the surface for years now but which has recently become more prominent and as writers, we tend to write about what we know, our experiences and our feelings. So, below are some excerpts from the completed half of this project...enjoy!
Those who
I can see from
under this table
that there are
those who
want to reach down
and pull me out
from under this
table.
Yet I can also see
that there are
those who
want to bury me
with their shit
brick me in under
this table.
At times from what
I hear
that there are
those who
want to leave me
alone
walk past me under
this table.
A couple of
moments I feel
that there are
those who
spit on me
kick me as I lay
under this table.
Yet in the end,
from under this table I know
that there are
those who
like me don’t even
care
forever I am under
this table.
A scratch on a record
I knew I could never go back there
An advent of darkness now before me
As dust filled words follow empty voices
Whispers of regret and faith, no more.
For to go back there would be
Harder than it is to be here
A kind reminder of a sin committed
Littered by actions of self-harm
And left with a curse of memory
Of what I gave up and extinguished.
The coolness and safety of the night
The life and uncertainty of the day
Touch, taste, smell, sight, feelings.
The building crescendo of music.
Yet fear hold dear
Ruled my excuse for existence
And condemned me governing my decision
A certain finality twisted
One more day of regret.
A scratch on a record.
broken always finds broken
Finding a pattern through this fragmented life,
our own fractured light becomes tortured and lost,
its shards cut deep opening up once healed scars,
and spilling out come words tangled in blood and ink.
Separated, across clouds and starlight we write,
the only illumination in the darkness cast,
our shadows tainted with a rapture of pain
harvested by wings of bone and sharpened claw.
It digs into our soul and blackens our mind,
tears apart foundations built from a supposed trust,
a failed love imprinted throughout our being
is now the hated guide we tether ourselves to.
There is no freedom and time cannot save us,
we are forever locked in silent self-torture,
the punishment decided by our inner imprint
is deemed an absolute necessity and deserved so.
Yet somehow, broken always finds broken,
keeping alight the shine buried deep within,
but the cruel irony brings with it a fresh hurt,
the melancholy loss of a love never to be.
