⇾ Daily #6 ⚘ {prompt - flower daily ♡} [i]Bury me in the meadowsweet, love When all the traces of me die[/i] There is a grief particular to self-awareness. The knowledge of your own being, the way you are seen by others, the consciousness of the simple act of existing. No, existence is not simple. Existence is the most complex, soul-tearing, costly action there ever was or will be. Existence costs us everything we have, for our existence shapes everything we are. I try desperately to explain this to those around me, but they do not hear me. Or perhaps it is because I cannot speak. Since birth, I have been entirely silent. I find myself faultless in this. Others do not. They find me weaker for it. I have grown so wise, so very wise, so hauntingly wise from never releasing a sound in my life, not even a weep. I've never sung an elegy, never laughed at a joke, or screamed at any of the bothersome things in my life. My silence is not uselessness. It is everything. I often imagine conversations I could have, if only my throat and tongue would be set free. I would dazzle people with my wit and cleverness, stun them with my wisdom, and make myself seen. [i]Mother,[/i] I say in my dreams. [i]why did you ignore me for so very long, when I was still just as clever, just without voice?[/i] [i]Oh, I don't know![/i] she'll cry, and wrap me in her arms apologetically, and we'll both voice our tears. She'll never say that, just as I will never voice that question. It lives in me nonetheless. The screams live in me. They won't die as I will, as my voice did the moment I was born. The screams sometimes take on voices of their own. And those voices have meaning. [i]I am not without meaning, nor purpose![/i] The voices and the cries, all die eventually. No cry, no weep, no frustration can live long enough when they can't be set free. Just as a prisoner dies in his cell, my cries die inside my head. However dead the cries may seem, I still feel the grief for them. Grief keeps them alive, in some way or another. I feel grief for all that I've lost. For my voice. For the love of those around me. For the perception of that which I am. But I am not bitter about my wisdom. Mother keeps a drawer of nightshade in the kitchen to ward off evil spirits. She hides it, but she clutches it every time a loved one is with child, as if my silence was a poison, an evil spirit, something to be warded off. She doesn't know I see her doing it. She doesn't know how much I see, inside and out of my head. In my head, I can cry and sing and yell and laugh. Mostly I laugh. I had a dream when I was a child. I ran far away to a meadow of white meadowsweet, where the whole world smells of rich tea and spring mornings. And there, I cry, and can be heard by none but the meadowsweet around me. ⇾ 532 words ⚘ (maybe reuse this idea later? ^ maybe for the writing comp? it's certainly interesting...) -- ⇾ Daily ⚘ {prompt - how to} How to Successfully Be Annoying 1. You wanna know how to be annoying? Ya do? Ya really do? Ya sure ya do? Ya really really sure? Like sure as sunshine? Double sure? Triple sure? Quadruple sure? Being annoying seems like the game for ya, huh? Huh? Huh? Huh? Ya /sure/ sure? No backsies? Super sure? So sure you'd beat sherbert on it? Alright, if you say so, buddy.... but are you sure? Just wanna be sure that you're sure that you're sure that you're sure. 2. Fine, if you're really sure and you really wanna know, then I'll show you how to be annoying. 3. The first step is to adde randome e'se ontoe everye worde thate youe typee. Thise ise suree toe drivee everyonee crazye. Step Number Four: Never be consistent with your step titles. Five: wHo needS proPer capitaliZation anyWay? oR spelLiingh? VI : Never stay on topic. Oh! Actually, this whole thing reminds me of this one really annoying person who loves trees. Haha, and that totally reminds me of time that I walked outside and there was just this tree! Like, right there! A tree! Right there! Crazy! Insane! Have you ever seen a tree before? Speaking of trees, maple syrup comes from trees. Maple syrup has a variety of uses, from pancakes to waffles to your younger sister's hair. What we were talking about in the first place? Yeah, I can't remember either. Hmm. Probably wasn't important. So anyway, what we were talking about before this? Oh! The economic effects stemming from the discovery of radium. 7)) Say stupid things but make them sound wise. Remember, when applying this, remember the weight of the situation. Courage is found when one is weakest, when their legs are broken and they are being attacked by the penguins of sin and sorrow. Truly, we are all like hawks- tortured by the memories of our past. Ate: Riteway niay igpay atinlay. 9Nine9: Withhold important context T to the E to the N: Now, when you cut the red wire, be sure to tie the tie-dye shirt around the aforementioned wire, and be sure to leave all +
previously mentioned orange juice inside the box, or the entire world may blow up. **11** ) Leave random things blank Noon: 13!!!!!!: End right in the middle of ⇾ 383 words ⚘ ⇾ Daily #8 ⚘ {idiom} We are all fishermen. Fishermen of life itself. Each day we wake, desperate. An empty ache in our chest. Something in us- the something that keeps us alive each day- begs for relief. Cries and weeping in your head, reminding you of all that is at stake in the next few precious moments. The moments that hold all of life. The moments that hold today, tomorrow, and the next day captive, under lock. The only key is our own strength. We reach for the poles beside our bed. They rather resemble dreamcatchers- the silly little nets children make in the hopes of good dreams. Little feathers hang off them, a little net woven to catch nightly visions of flowers and friends. On ours, there are no feathers or colorful crystals. Only one little bead- one for each day of your life. You wake at dawn. The light streams into the window, waking you from the slumber that moments ago seemed like it was the only blissful thing in the world. Suddenly, you are pulled from it. Your life is gone, for but a moment. You reach out. The pole- the soft wooden groves and familiar feel. You grip it in your hands. Ghastly sounds begin to emerge from your throat, so desperate. You lift your hand gingerly. Something above you- glowing silver, twisting and turning playfully in the air. You reach up with the pole, but the silvery thing eludes the grasp of the spider's web-like threads. Desperation overtakes. As it often does in these sorts of mornings. You cast the net a little wider, and finally, the silvery thing slips onto the threads. You place your mouth on the bottom of the pole and inhale sharply. The little bulb whizzes down the hollow tube of the wooden pole and into your mouth. You sigh in relief. You've done it, once again, as you have every day for the past twenty-two years of your life. You've caught your breath. Mothers do it for their youngest children, as soon as they catch their own. Some do it for the elderly as a paid service. But some, the weakest, the poorest, the oldest, cannot do it. Their arms fail them. The silvery thing refuses to be ensnared. Life, breath. It favors the rich, the young, and the merry. No one speaks of the poles and the nets. They are just there. They just are. We are fishermen of life, my love. We must live to fish another day. (416 words) -- character image by Canva ai
