Decrepit Times
Serf
- Local time
- Today 7:07 AM
- Messages
- 24
- Age
- 27
So, while I may not have the most experience writing in this kind of format, I will shove an example of a post in here to give an idea of how I write and what kinds of skill levels I prefer when looking for a prospective writing partner. Now, for me I love everything EXCEPT reality. I do this, role playing to beget reality. Not glorify it in a fictional yet objectively sound medium. Maybe I sound like a pompous arrogant ass, but it how I do. I love out of character chatting, and enjoy learning new things to add into my creative process. Would love to hear from anyone to write something!
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Eyes open. It lasted for minutes. A couple of blinks that spelt the myriad of absence that was conscious thought. A man who didn't watch his beautiful lover wake up and leave the bed. He didn't think to. Didn't want to. It didn't detract or happen because he did not love, or care for her. It was because he didn't feel too much anymore in general. It was something that took effort. To feel. A man with a stubbled, angular chin. A man with short, unkept hair that betrayed a black phenotype. His dark brown eyes watched that ceiling.
Not like it was interesting. Or even disinteresting. It was just above him. In front of him as he lay. But suddenly did a singular, unoriginal thought breach his dilapidated cognition. Made barren, made emotionless and even lost through his previous thinking.
'Where are you, God?' A thought. A thought that reached deaf ears due to the metaphysical properties of existential belief. This man, whom used to be full of life and hope. Was grated to dust. Not his taut, lithe but muscular frame. Rather it was his state of mental fortitude. Loss. He finally moved. Reaching to the side of his bed and extending a hand outwards over the edge. Slowly gripping the exposed sheet of blanket and removing it quickly from his person. An extended burst of effort. As his eyes frustrated, then quickly back to the way they were. Frustrated by his use of alcohol the night before. Gone because he knew he was going to be doing it all over again today. Because there had to be happiness somewhere without his child. He got out of the bed. First sitting up and observing the wall like he did the ceiling. Not groggy. Not tired. As he was, or at least used to be a significant morning person. He sighed in the silence of the room.
He got up on his feet, wandering out into the bathroom where he observed his light skin in the mirror. Turning on the shower to clean his body from the night's dreams and tribulations. For a couple of times, woke in a cold yet warm sweat. Hurdles of his subconscious. Encapsulated in woes of memory. The shower hot, he got in to simply wash his hair. His body. Like always like normal like the state of society itself. Monotonous yet needed. Hands, that drift with soap along his emotionally drained and weathered frame. The shower off. The steam completely enshrouding the mirror. He got out, towel off the rack. To look into the mirror and sigh at the truth he knew and felt. He couldn't easily see who he was anymore. He dressed himself with clothes he retrieved from the dresser in their room.
Their. His and the woman he swore fealty to. His loyalty never broken. Yet he knew in his heart, was absent mindedly without thinking of the consequences was trying to drag her down with him. He loved that woman. He wanted to be with that woman. But the days that go by, he goes through bottle after bottle like slut after whore. To be used by his lips and discarded after use. As he stood and saw himself in the mirror, nary effected by the steam that hid his handsome self. He looked at someone he didn't recognize anymore. Eyes that lacked life. In the silence of the room save for the clock that made noise after noise in the ticking. His hand reached his mouth as he looked down.
A sob.
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Eyes open. It lasted for minutes. A couple of blinks that spelt the myriad of absence that was conscious thought. A man who didn't watch his beautiful lover wake up and leave the bed. He didn't think to. Didn't want to. It didn't detract or happen because he did not love, or care for her. It was because he didn't feel too much anymore in general. It was something that took effort. To feel. A man with a stubbled, angular chin. A man with short, unkept hair that betrayed a black phenotype. His dark brown eyes watched that ceiling.
Not like it was interesting. Or even disinteresting. It was just above him. In front of him as he lay. But suddenly did a singular, unoriginal thought breach his dilapidated cognition. Made barren, made emotionless and even lost through his previous thinking.
'Where are you, God?' A thought. A thought that reached deaf ears due to the metaphysical properties of existential belief. This man, whom used to be full of life and hope. Was grated to dust. Not his taut, lithe but muscular frame. Rather it was his state of mental fortitude. Loss. He finally moved. Reaching to the side of his bed and extending a hand outwards over the edge. Slowly gripping the exposed sheet of blanket and removing it quickly from his person. An extended burst of effort. As his eyes frustrated, then quickly back to the way they were. Frustrated by his use of alcohol the night before. Gone because he knew he was going to be doing it all over again today. Because there had to be happiness somewhere without his child. He got out of the bed. First sitting up and observing the wall like he did the ceiling. Not groggy. Not tired. As he was, or at least used to be a significant morning person. He sighed in the silence of the room.
He got up on his feet, wandering out into the bathroom where he observed his light skin in the mirror. Turning on the shower to clean his body from the night's dreams and tribulations. For a couple of times, woke in a cold yet warm sweat. Hurdles of his subconscious. Encapsulated in woes of memory. The shower hot, he got in to simply wash his hair. His body. Like always like normal like the state of society itself. Monotonous yet needed. Hands, that drift with soap along his emotionally drained and weathered frame. The shower off. The steam completely enshrouding the mirror. He got out, towel off the rack. To look into the mirror and sigh at the truth he knew and felt. He couldn't easily see who he was anymore. He dressed himself with clothes he retrieved from the dresser in their room.
Their. His and the woman he swore fealty to. His loyalty never broken. Yet he knew in his heart, was absent mindedly without thinking of the consequences was trying to drag her down with him. He loved that woman. He wanted to be with that woman. But the days that go by, he goes through bottle after bottle like slut after whore. To be used by his lips and discarded after use. As he stood and saw himself in the mirror, nary effected by the steam that hid his handsome self. He looked at someone he didn't recognize anymore. Eyes that lacked life. In the silence of the room save for the clock that made noise after noise in the ticking. His hand reached his mouth as he looked down.
A sob.
