So I've been MIA for a while. I skipped drama today and was suddenly
inspired.
Also, if anyone's interested, I've completely re-written and finished Beneath the Surface. I've been trying to upload it for a day or two and have been having problems, but it will probably appear soon.
I don't own them! All comments are adored and appreciated!
***
I had always been obsessed with leaving my mark. Especially after my diagnosis, after she left, it kept me out of bed at all hours of night. But my fingers tripped on my guitar strings, making complete frustration out of what had once been as effortless and natural as breathing. I was not a good sport about this change. Stubborn as all hell, I persisted in trying to force the notes and threw spectacular two-year-old tantrums when they didn't come out the way I wanted them too. I wanted my song, and I wanted it now. My chance to make a mark could be taken away at any moment, and I wasn't going to waste this opportunity.
My poor best friend. My roommate, who had always been woken up by the slightest noise, a remnant of the childhood that seemed tragic to everyone but him. I could see the circles beneath his eyes in the mornings, standing testament to the hours that I had kept him awake even though he smiled. I never let him rest. I never had. He could only relax when I was safe in my bed, and the last time I had slept had been years before.
I fought the world, tried to claw my mark into it. I was terrified that it would forget me unless I scarred it somehow. I became so consumed by this idea of the perfect song that I locked myself up in my loft and my mind, focusing my every attention on it. He broke my concentration occasionally, when he knew that it would be good for me, but he understood my frantic determination. He was the same way about his films. Only he wanted truth, and I wanted immortality.
My mark. I was obsessed with it. My mark. If I had to die, then I wanted something of me to remain behind. I'm not sure why. Sheer ego, or sheer terror maybe. It began to destroy me, because I couldn't find it. I was so scared. No matter how deeply I searched into my own heart and soul, I couldn't find my mark.
Until I realized that it wasn't inside of me at all. It was in him.
He was my Mark.
He was as much a part of me as I was of him. Part of him would die, but part of me would live. He would remember me, and that was suddenly enough.
Leaving my Mark was the hardest thing I ever had to do.
Also, if anyone's interested, I've completely re-written and finished Beneath the Surface. I've been trying to upload it for a day or two and have been having problems, but it will probably appear soon.
I don't own them! All comments are adored and appreciated!
***
I had always been obsessed with leaving my mark. Especially after my diagnosis, after she left, it kept me out of bed at all hours of night. But my fingers tripped on my guitar strings, making complete frustration out of what had once been as effortless and natural as breathing. I was not a good sport about this change. Stubborn as all hell, I persisted in trying to force the notes and threw spectacular two-year-old tantrums when they didn't come out the way I wanted them too. I wanted my song, and I wanted it now. My chance to make a mark could be taken away at any moment, and I wasn't going to waste this opportunity.
My poor best friend. My roommate, who had always been woken up by the slightest noise, a remnant of the childhood that seemed tragic to everyone but him. I could see the circles beneath his eyes in the mornings, standing testament to the hours that I had kept him awake even though he smiled. I never let him rest. I never had. He could only relax when I was safe in my bed, and the last time I had slept had been years before.
I fought the world, tried to claw my mark into it. I was terrified that it would forget me unless I scarred it somehow. I became so consumed by this idea of the perfect song that I locked myself up in my loft and my mind, focusing my every attention on it. He broke my concentration occasionally, when he knew that it would be good for me, but he understood my frantic determination. He was the same way about his films. Only he wanted truth, and I wanted immortality.
My mark. I was obsessed with it. My mark. If I had to die, then I wanted something of me to remain behind. I'm not sure why. Sheer ego, or sheer terror maybe. It began to destroy me, because I couldn't find it. I was so scared. No matter how deeply I searched into my own heart and soul, I couldn't find my mark.
Until I realized that it wasn't inside of me at all. It was in him.
He was my Mark.
He was as much a part of me as I was of him. Part of him would die, but part of me would live. He would remember me, and that was suddenly enough.
Leaving my Mark was the hardest thing I ever had to do.