Up until now, I have never seen or valued the worth of blogs. I mean, who really wants to read a daily blog from some individual, who you may or may not know that may or may not live on the other side of the world? Answer: Plenty of people love it you numb-nut!! So I wanna now become that person who lives on the other side of the world who you may or may not know, and hopefully my blogs will be interesting. So, as a starting place I am going to start writing a creative piece of writing everyday.
Here is my first piece...
My feet curl within themselves, sharp feelings, and they curl within even more, in defenses. My precious asian-lady (possibly student) cared for feet. I call, all the primitive gut of my voice now gone, but I still call. A cool breeze splashes against my face, a tease within the fire. Internal fire, external fire. Shake it, shake it, SHAKE IT FOR FUCK'S SAKE! Look at yourself, look really, really hard at yourself. I call out again, am I really fucking calling out or what? Then that smell, that fragrance, that aroma... It's wild, it's sweet, and it's known. I know it, I grew up with this smell, this smell means something to me. Note to self: Stop blocking out childhood stuff, comes handy when your trying to be lost.
A big breeze again, and it's got something for me. Like a waiter bringing you the bill, proud as punch, judging you as he lands it on your table. "Yes bitch I can afford it, now get me a fucking mint you povo fucking uni student".
That smell, blowing, blowing, blowing... WILD PASSIONFRUIT! Wild passionfruit, those little orange bally-shaped things that grew on that vine. I know that smell, wild passionfruit. Every time I picked the fruit I would take her some, she smiled at me, gammon like she loved wild passionfruit. She didn't love it, she just loved me. My feet are turning into balls of meat and bone. They are hurting.
Then that bird calls, the wind picks up the sound and rushes it to me. I hate you bird, the sun's still out. Call out at night like your meant to...
Then I know, I tried to get lost, just like I am trying to be found.
Wild Passionfruit.
Here is my first piece...
My feet curl within themselves, sharp feelings, and they curl within even more, in defenses. My precious asian-lady (possibly student) cared for feet. I call, all the primitive gut of my voice now gone, but I still call. A cool breeze splashes against my face, a tease within the fire. Internal fire, external fire. Shake it, shake it, SHAKE IT FOR FUCK'S SAKE! Look at yourself, look really, really hard at yourself. I call out again, am I really fucking calling out or what? Then that smell, that fragrance, that aroma... It's wild, it's sweet, and it's known. I know it, I grew up with this smell, this smell means something to me. Note to self: Stop blocking out childhood stuff, comes handy when your trying to be lost.
A big breeze again, and it's got something for me. Like a waiter bringing you the bill, proud as punch, judging you as he lands it on your table. "Yes bitch I can afford it, now get me a fucking mint you povo fucking uni student".
That smell, blowing, blowing, blowing... WILD PASSIONFRUIT! Wild passionfruit, those little orange bally-shaped things that grew on that vine. I know that smell, wild passionfruit. Every time I picked the fruit I would take her some, she smiled at me, gammon like she loved wild passionfruit. She didn't love it, she just loved me. My feet are turning into balls of meat and bone. They are hurting.
Then that bird calls, the wind picks up the sound and rushes it to me. I hate you bird, the sun's still out. Call out at night like your meant to...
Then I know, I tried to get lost, just like I am trying to be found.
Wild Passionfruit.
