I look to too many people to tell me how I ought to live my life. Too many people who determine how I feel about myself. I let myself be carried in too many unimportant hands. I want to live in a way that makes me happy.
Just a little something I've written:
His mind twisted mercurially past the thoughts, the scenes; shattering into a million directions like a dish dashed against the floor. No, no, his mind wasn't even concrete. It was liquid. It was dripping, oozing in greats gobs of congealed and madly firing neurons. It was pulling itself with wet, lewds sound into corners, behind picture frames, into stories, faces, feelings, long forgotten memories, and purposely forgotten ones. But his mind couldn't, for all it's manic racking, find the answer it was looking for, the answer to How Could This Be Happening?
The man spoke.
"Comment ça va, Vincent?"
He spoke in the familiar, sing-song-way that had once been so comforting to Vincent. But now that voice held taunting malice, like the man was dangling some precious object just out of the other's reach.
With a sinking feeling, Vincent's mind at last stumbled upon its answer.
Augustine was alive.
................I like it? I wonder if it is good.
blahblahblah horror stories with slashy subtext. YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.
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