Saturday, 30 April 2011

Grand Finale

They tell me three weeks.

I don’t believe them.

As I stuck my tongue down death’s throat sucking my life the hell out of there.

---

And that's it.

Thank you.

Noah was a portrait of all the guys I ever liked.

Exit is the next on the line.

Friday, 29 April 2011

Day Twenty Ninth

I realize that I know nothing of the situation and I don’t want to. I let them inject more, as the liquid goes into my body nearly twenty four per seven. I don’t speak I only cough when my body feels like it. I stroke you, running my hands over the pages receiving a papercut. Now there are bloody stains as the nurse makes out a big fuss out of it.

The blood doesn’t stop. I wait for the doctors to call my parents and say that their son is going to die. I stare at them, wondering if they’ll bite my finger off in order for the blood to spring out with the liquid swimming around in my body who knows why.

In the end they manage to stop the blood, as the nurse strokes my hair. I stare at her puffy lips, wondering her age and if she has a boyfriend. I yank myself from her touch, as stupid possibilities of me dating her once I get out flood my head.

But isn’t that what are life is around?

Flooding our head with stupid adventures, luring ourselves into danger we create ourselves? Create a problem out of nothing and see it unsolvable to cry into our crush’s chests? Isn’t it about it?

Because if that’s not what life is about then about what is it?

To shove our tongue into somebody’s throat?

To have babies?

To –

To-

Just do something.

---

I got dragged away into Script Frenzy and forgot about Wednesday.

I'm very sorry, but now well, tomorrow is the last ever chapter of Paperbag Writer, unless something changes, the Exit prologue will be posted this week and the short stories/poems on Wednesday will be resumed as usual.

Noah is one of my favourite ever chracters, so it's hard.

Grand Finale 

Thursday, 28 April 2011

Day Twenty Eight

I get afraid of the thought.

I get afraid of the journal itself.

I shove you in my drawer.

I threw in the waste bin.

I had to walk up, coughing, with the covers wrapped around me, the wires pinning me to the bed, as I knocked the bin down grabbing you with my toes.

I wrapped my arms around you, pulling you closer, realizing that you are nothing.

Empty, blank with my scribbles from earlier. I curl to sleep as you lull me into my nightmares.


---

Basically my thoughts are filled with winning Script Frenzy with The Gray Fear which is a rather sick, humorous and erotic (if you can call weird peeling off skin parts that) script with sexuality stereotypes with a dark tint which everything I write has.

Yes, I'm in love with it, because asexual is cool.

Asexual is the main character, which is a female, which I don't usually do, maybe she is as cool as Roberta or maybe even cooler.

Day Twenty Nine

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

Day Twenty Seven

I wonder how death is like. I remember people or rather I see them. Screaming, gasping for the last breath, hearing a horrible screech, seeing people in white. I always thought that you’d see death in front of you reveal itself under its hood. What’s under that hood?
It was death itself. Nobody who saw it could say something about it. They were dead, lying there under heaps of tears or disgrace. Why was it a sin to say something bad about the dead? What if we were disgraced by their actions and their further action, the one which wasn’t on then their will? To get buried or burned to ashes. How could you write or ask something like that.

I always imagined death as a figure drenched in black with the scythe pressed against my throat. I feel it pressed deeper as he’d reveal his face.

Who was he?

Or was it a she?

Or a skeleton so dry, that all is impossible to reveal? Would he cock his head sideways as I’d spit the phrase into his face. But then my face would turn chalk white. He’d do whatever follows next for me to collapse, memories flashing as they get sucked out of me.

Does he get them? Does he feed with them? Is that how he kills, destroying our essence as the memories build us to drop off us in another body or another world, destination?

Or does he end it with a kiss, judging how much we cherish that action? Does he end it with a quick brush, as his fair hair would brush my cheeks, as he absorbs me into his mouth, eating my memories?

How does it feel?

To end a life with a kiss?

To drop the body, the tingling self in the mouth, like a remaining, foreign taste in the mouth, as you see people storm into the room. Do you brush them off if it during a middle of an operation? Do you play with the doctor’s hair; unbutton the nurse’s clothes, smirking to yourself as you are completely not interested as you glance towards the victim. He sees you. Lick the lips.

The feast is prepared.

You’d lean closer to get a right angle and start.

Start taking away the life, as other mouths are pressed along with yours breathing in unwanted oxygen giving a satisfying taste to the kiss.

Would you rub your mouth as you lean back?

Would you kiss the forehead?

Or would you just chop his head off?

Day Twenty Eight

Day Twenty Six

It eases me.

I press myself into the touch.

Into the blue-gray.

I wake up to see my sister crying.

She presses the bracelet into my hand. I stare at her.

Whore

She puts it on my arms, the one without the wires.

I’m the Noah who drowns.

I write her that and she cries a lot, as I stare at her, feeling my eyelids drop.

I’ll sink in their tears.

I want the gray blue.

I tell her that.

She doesn’t understand and takes it the other way round.

I see her destroying machines which plump liquid into my body. But she doesn’t. The nurse walks in.

When will I see the blue gray?

You should be Noah’s chosen. The other. The one who-

Floats on the gray blue. The one who-

Day Twenty Seven

Monday, 25 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Twenty Five

I feel worse as I wake up, the pain not bearable.

I want this to end. I consider doing something, as I feel worse.

They tell me it’s the side-effects. I want to sleep, but they hold my eyes opened, telling me to hold myself conscious at least an hour.

I don’t get any visitors asides from my crying parents, wondering how come I was here. They make me feel worse. I ask, I write the nurse to keep them outside when I’m conscious as I feel sick watching their tears dry out as new ones fill their eyes.

I curl awake for an hour, feeling better, before I get another dose of whatever it is. I feel my body burning, but I feel better. I feel numb as I stare into the window, not making out the clouds, but just stare into the blue gray mix, wondering if it will surround me from now on

Day Twenty Six

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Twenty Four

I ask for water. I cough for water. I shake writing the word.

They all run around, crying that I was alive and conscious.

They ignore me, as I cough more.

I shove the notebook, but as soon as I get a reply I fall.

I have nothing to write.

Day Twenty Five

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Day Twenty Two

I felt something yank me out, shake me.

I tried to speak, but I kept coughing more and more until I went unconscious.

Day Twenty Three

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

Day Twenty One

My mum says I’m lying, that it’s all in my head. Hmph grown-ups can't explain, they blame it on you, because the society says so. If I'd be badass and not real, my mission would be to kill it, but I am a dinosaur condom.

They say that’s it’s easy to explain, but I just stare.
I show them my writings, but they ignore them, looking off into a distance as everything begins to spin.

They say side effects. All of them, as I hear them hissing, talking, hushing as I feel a pain screeching through my body as all I can emit is tears, as I hold my tongue not to scream.

It fades out.

I wonder if they’ll cut me. Dig their hands into my body, most likely my chest, fiddle with my lungs and yank them forward, as I’ll gasp from my sleep.

It feels horrible.

I see myself sitting.

Cars, cars, cars, cars, cars.

I emit a hissing cough as I cup my ears watching the cars grab speed and drive faster, further into the driveway. I look down, or rather back to see more cars below. They all go in a maniac speed that I can’t make out the colours as they turn into a bleached out intense gray. I stare dumbly at them, behind and in front of me, dodging every possible move of mine.

I realize how my hair out grew.

I realize that I need a shave.

I realize that I am sitting cross-legged staring at the gray, wondering if I’ll ever come back.

It feels like life, going so fast that it is impossible to catch it.

And you have to sit cross legged throughout all your life, waiting for days to pass dumbly, as we kill them ourselves. School. We just kill our days by going there, dazing off at lessons, as we pray that we’ll get the fuck out of there and do-

What did I want to do?

Nothing.

It felt blank all of a sudden.

I have no reason

Who did I love?

Nothing.

It felt like a suicidal moment, when the mind goes blank, the breath is getting heavier to do, a nagging in the head and the option of ripping the thread apart with your bare hands seems like the only option. I gasped, looking down, watching more cars drive by, as an echo held out in the tires, cars breaking air, hissing traffic.

It was calling me.

I closed my eyes, swallowing, still feeling the numbness and pain in my throat. I leaned back, feeling the cars nearly touching my head. Just an inch. I stretched out my legs, not letting them too near as I opened my eyes feeling my head fall to the ground.

Day Twenty Two

Seven and One

I am going to be seven and one
Such a biography
With an intense feel
If the hatred I imagine from outside
As if it were the bed covers
Which hold the fears
Which stick at my nose
The covers tight around my head
Holding what I imagine to fear
I wish I was 71 to blame
So honest
So sincere
When I can't stay still about my thoughts
As I think of the people who may read
And I panic
The fear
Of the awaiting ages
And the seventeen I had once imagined
With the dyed spiky hair
Instead of blonde in a few hours
Under The Doors
With When You're Strange in my head
With an alive Jim
The inspiration
From a person I do not know
the ages
When I feel for people who I had imagined
When I had clung thinking that it was fate
If only I got told what awaited
I want to know the future
To sleep calm
And watch myself unfold it
Without screaming
Onto the walls with pleasure
You just don't confess
Upon the 20th and between the 22nd
Because I'll be too busy
Staring
At something
Which I hold mutually
Deeper than music
Deeper than life
As the grains are eaten
As the grains are split
In laughter
In mouths
Borders erased
Screams hired
It's the twentieth
You know history
You've been tried to get it down your throats
But those who refused
Need to be shot
I am not the one to judge
I just sin
By the thoughts which are not
Until they go black
With a background which should be changed
I am seventeen
With the black and blonde
The banality of my soul to expose
Never to be twenty seven
Under the light
Of a magazine
In the flash
Of the notes
And letters
As the thoughts come
The end not clear
Only the facts and eternity
Known

-

Today is the day before my birthday, favourite day of the year, actually, the age is different though, as I kept thinking and the poem came. I still write poems more than prose and my style changed from my deep abstract to something more complex and shelved at the same time.

I feel old.

About Script Frenzy I'm going according to plan, my script is called The Gray Fear about an asexual girl and one-sided platonical/physical love. I can talk about it for ages, but that shall be things to spoil.

So far Exit is winning, the voting will be used, so The Gray Fear might be the next after Exit if you wish so.

Thank you

Jim

Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Twenty

I realize how irritated I am by everything. By the white ceiling, the soft orange walls reminding how it feels to peel an orange, but now I want to tear them apart, to rip them, understanding a heroine in a classic novel.

I should bite them off with my bones, stretch out and soak with a knife.

I get irritated by the nurse.

I keep writing that I want to go home, page after page, as I show it to my crying parents.
They thing is I know that I won’t go home.

Day Twenty One

Day Nineteen

I spent the day just staring into the window, at least what could I see, how many pillows I could put underneath, I saw the cloud whizzing by in a weird maniac horse formation until they mutated into hearts, ponies, rainbows and guns. I added the guns bit for banality and I won.

Bang bang parade.

I sat up and saw a bit of the opposite buildings. It wasn’t a hospital. I wondered how could those people even live there, opening their curtains to peek into dying windows filled, reeking with death. What was it like to greet the sunshine with mortality hinting itself, peeking out?

It felt like slow suicide, actually. I sat up. I wrapped my covers around me, as I had several minutes before more wires would be shot in my body. I could have gone barefoot up to the window, but I didn’t, I’d just greet something which I didn’t want and crossed out of my mind faster than expected.

I shoelace my Converse, the wires out, blood soaking the mental fabric, the skin pierced, I can put rings through, feeling the familiar touch that brought the emotion when you take off those dreadful winter snowflakes from the ground and watch grass grow in a unrealistic babyish green and you put on that awaited pair of footwear.

Only now I had no spring. I was stuck in some sort of never ending and last winter as I headed up to the mirror.

I saw people stretch out on the bottom. I was staring at them from above, literally and not.

Day Twenty

Monday, 18 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Eighteen

I hated how many people sobbed that I asked the nurse to put up a sign that read:

Cry before or after, please. Thank you.

Love, Noah

Cake anyone?

Hint. I want cake.

P.S. I should write something spiffy here.

P.P.S. Insert your ad here for free, if I like it.

P.P.P.S. No product placement in the ad.

After that my humor drained, if there ever was any.

I got a pink straw.

Day Nineteen

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Seventeen

They visit me. Mum, dad, sister and my friends. My best friend visits me a lot, it’s just that there was nothing to mention, all the same and like by a slow reaction the other would follow maybe because Madison, my best friend, elbowed them or threw a baseball into their heads, hitting their empty heads.

How cruel of me.

Madison walked in, again, a basketball in his hand causing me ask how come he headed in with one.

He said I looked like hell.

Thank you :)

He thought I was in a good mood, until he saw my sour face and the never healing bruises under my left eye. I said to myself when they start to heal, I'll get out, but they just get worse, as if they deepen. He stared at them in shock, as if he hadn’t seen them before. I shrugged annoyed, but then he switched the topic. Madison sat in the chair, wiggling his feet as he mumbled into his finger about school, trying not to look at me. I thought that he might cry and go hysterical like everybody would.

But he didn’t.

He headed out and left the door unlocked for me to hear his sobs.

The hurt should hear how the others grief.

Day Eighteen

Saturday, 16 April 2011

Day Sixteen

I wake up stirring, a pain echoing through my body as I try to understand if it is real or the leftovers from my nightmares. I get a load of nightmares, one after another as I wake up screaming which results into a severe coughing session that the nurses run inside.

Should death come with your relatives, the pieces which built you out of their own flesh, what if you die when they do or after the body fully rots or the ashes get scattered away in the memory of the platonically beloved?

My mother is besides me, as I wake up. Her face twitches as she calls out, screams out for help, as I can’t stop coughing, her fingers soothing my hair, never touching the opening wound or my bursting lips or cracking from her touch bones, running through my head deeper and deeper until I feel bruises and she rips my skull, sending me to infinity, I try to tell her but I cough even more.

My hands shake too much and the notebook is too far and she doesn't give me it, saying that I am allergic to paper, the first thing she comes up with.

I get something injected into my body as I already have wires intertwining liquid and blood in my body. I bit my lip as I feel a pain where it is injected.

I am no longer left outside.

I want to tell my mother to head outside, as I curl, sobbing in a mute way, but she just stares. It reminds me how I used to watch catastrophes on television. You stare in a numb state, in a lull, not able to do anything but mesmerize the scenes of horror.

I am the terror.

Something so surreal, something so sick that it twists inside you, forcing your eyes to get glued to screen, as the mood fades out.

In this case it's my veins, as the blood freezes inside them and eyes fall out, it feels like it and I say it with my tongue only it doesn't gets written upon the world.

Fades out into nothing, leaving you to daze and wonder what you were thinking about before, erasing the moments of grief.

Day Seventeen

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Daydream Fifteen

I get called in by a bald man who apparently finds it interesting to talk about psychology in front of me, as if he just read it upon an old, rotten shelf with an empty pizza box. He gets annoyed as I don’t answer up to the point that he yanks my shoulders forward as I stare into his big black eyes and corny hairstyle combed so badly that I can see that he is bald.

It’s canon. It’s a nightmare.

I chant that in my head and write that in my notebook, line after line.

“You should get out!”

It’s canon.

“You’ll rot here”

It’s a nightmare.

Then he yanks my arm forward hissing the phrases into my mouth.

A kiss so mutual.

Day Sixteen

Paperbag Writer. Day Fourteen

Lars visits me. I send him away as he leaves some bestseller. I can the content.

Hug, smile, brief encounter, graphic scene, break up and another one.

Love is from one relationship to another.

It irritates me.

The whole hinting, that I must forget as I get more liquid poured into my body, through that small hole in my vein moisturizing my blood, giving me more chemicals as if I don’t have enough thank you for the contaminated air.

I thank her after she’s gone mentally in my head.

But then what for? This gives me fucking nothing, my throat gets worse up to the point that I consider myself dead. I wonder how many people will actually be at my funeral, how many will grief and how many will spit at my tombstone.

But then I’m not worth it.

I look at the wires stuck to my hand and soon enough the beeping machine making sure that I don’t die, staining their reputation with my teenage blood.

I stare at the beeping machine as its beeps go louder and louder. I cover my ears irritated by the beeps. I kick the wires from my hand yanking the needles in the process results a wound to open. I stand up nearly hysterically, heavily breathing from the drug injected to my system.

What if I wasn’t human, what would I do then?

What if I was a cheese cracker? Would I get dunked in milk, because I'm different?

Of course I was bloody human. I bled like one anyway. I've seen it, maybe someone had filmed it, the real thing. Then I’d have blue blood or whatever. I stare at how my body shakes lacking the warmth coming from my covers and the wounds and my skin drenched in my inner liquid. I grab a tissue and press my palm against the wound.

And I press the red button above my bed.

Daydream Fifteen

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Sphere

You have the dream
Of slowly watching yourself die
Chain yourself to a chair
To a mirror
Watch yourself age
As the bottle of innocence is licked out
By your own self
Kiss your imagery
Trace your chest
Rip it open
Watch it bleed
I write about death
You think about life
Cycle
Cycle
Fade

Seven and One

Paperbag Writer. Day Thirteen

I hate the significance of love because once it’s gone everything is fucked up, because when you don't know what the fuck it is, you even call a car love. Until the soul reacts attracting yourself to another person, but there is no moment when you don’t love even the back of the mind counts, a random passenger in the subway, a long lost girlfriend or boyfriend, some pop star.

The greatest thing you ever learn is to love and to be loved in return.

So basically the reverse one is easily explained.

My throat gets worse, I feel as if it’s a crumbling wall with spiders, I hate spiders, smash, blocks of dry paint falling down hitting nothing but leaving holes for me to fill with coughs.

Day Fourteen

Tuesday, 12 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Twelve

I tell them that my coughing gets worse via my notebook, crossing out all the swearing which escapes from my shaking with fear fingers, as I write. I have fear, it came with the pancakes, it likes clothes, you feel what you eat, it was a scared banana. They keep telling me the magic thirty days which I’m counting already, as if I’ll get cured straight away.

The take my silence as a cue and turn around leaving me in my silence of agreement.

Day Thirteen

Monday, 11 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Eleven

They tell me the same crap just like yesterday.

And they call me impatient.

Am I the impatient, rubbing my feet in front of other patients, just because I do not want to come into my husband's mouth and fake an orgasm?

I want to write everything what I think about the orange blankets, the whole orange and white hospital, secretly dancing Lars and Dalton shoving his tongue down Yumi’s throat.

But then I realize that I might be left without supper.

And I really do want pancakes.

With hospital-made banana syrup.

Surely made with patients' pancreases.

At least they don’t get somebody else’s tongue shoved down their throat, they are mute like me, they don’t play guitar, they don’t dance, they don’t flirt and they get patiently eaten with syrup, they are syrup, they are the dead, cheers Orwell.

Day Twelve

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Ten

I ask them how long this is going to take they tell me not too much, that I am getting better.

Day Eleven

Saturday, 9 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Nine-Ten

Lars is a dancer. He removes his cast like it is made out of Lego, jumps from his wheel cart and starts to dance hysterically as Dalton taps to his music and he tells me he's trans. Leslie and Yumi dance away asking me to join them. I shrug, shaking my head. Dalton yanks me by my school tie as Lars asks for more music. I want to say something, but I can’t.

All I do is croak.

My decease has immigrated to my subconsciousness, I'm ill, not really.

I wake up in sweat, as I try to speak up to prove myself wrong.

But I forgot.

And I end up coughing myself to sleep with a smile.

I'm still awake.

Day Ten

Friday, 8 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Eight

Lars comes to visit me but I practically mouth him a phrase which has been lingering in my thoughts but he stays over anyway, saying that if his guitar playing irritates me he’ll stop.

I nod rubbing my nose into the pillow, I wonder if there'll be someone instead of the six pillows I have to make a circle around me, can I get to heaven this way? As he watches me rather amused. I catch him glancing at me and he starts telling me about himself about his past lovers, yes, he had some, I want to ask him if they were the detuned guitars, but my tongue produces nothing but saliva, does tongue even produce that? Shit, it doesn't.

The cast upon his leg is told, another person's problems never worth mentioning, unless the person was the problem you wanted and how he got into his guitar. I rub myself deeper into the pillow not being able to hold the first three seconds but in the end I have no option, but I still feel tense until the end of the story.

But he never thinks that even his stories or mentions of the instrument irritate me even more. Personal reasons. But I don’t tell that to an excited guy with his leg in a cast. I wonder if he actually can hit me with it. In the head. Make my voice go back.

Get me in a coma.

Make me wake up in my thirties.

With kids.

Married.

Unshaved.

With piercing holes due to the new sub-culture coming.

Maybe a few tattoos.

In the end I ask nothing, I say nothing and he leaves soon enough satisfied with himself.

Day Nine-Ten

Thursday, 7 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Seven

I expect it to be different, calm actually as I banned the guitarist named Lars to stride inside with the guitar in his lap. Instead I get another visitor. I stare at a blonde head guy walk in his school uniform a matching blue jacket and shorts which make me wonder but then I realize that the weather is rather hot and the drenched jacket hints of the outside rain. He walks inside and a familiar dark head behind him with their fingers intertwined.

Heeey, our love is eternal.

Yumi greets me and introduces me Mr. Goldilocks. He says his name is Dalton. I raise an eyebrow realizing that I haven’t known anyone with that name. He laughs as his eyes sparkle with his locks. Shake them, baby, shake them, ew. They laugh at inside jokes forgetting me in the end. So do I, I draw sheep and Lars wanks musically, he just had an orgasm thinking of Chris Martin, fucker. They all looked so idealistic up to the point that they looked like from a magazine cover. They looked all posh and celebrity-like Yumi in her designer clothes and Dalton still in his posh school uniform.

Are you happy, Yumi?

I sigh and cross it out before even showing it to her knowing the answer just by judging her bright face.

Day Eight

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

Day Six-Seven

Night.

I hated it.

I couldn’t sleep as I moved from side to side not disturbing the wires until I realized that I had none. I considered getting up and apologize to Lars but then I brought myself together and fell asleep with tunes of my own cracked playing in my head. He checked me out.

Day Seven

Teeth

Apple pie with toothpaste
Lick a finger inside
Cut my nails
Dye them
So that I'll scruff them off
Thinking of the monster
Under my bed thoughts
The frustration
Of the Terms and Conditions
When you're fourteen
Wondering how'd you look after you read them
The reflection in the pool of leaking out blood
A shower
Water dividing
When now how does the person look is asked
Is he fatskinnyshortdoeshecomefat
But then
Everyone has a concrete image of the one
So it's just a name

---

Poems/short stories shall still be posted on Wednesdays.

And there's a small chapter of Noah to come up later today!

(2014): There is no strict schedule these days, have fun xD

Sphere

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Six

I shaved finally, not as if I was scary, I just got told, I want to look like Santa Claus then I'd walk down, the cords stretching, as if they'd be my wings and I walk naked to Tesco as an angel, to buy blonde dye, not like I looked like the ideal image of myself in my mid-thirties, because judging several musicians, you get the thought that I’ll earn a short haircut and light, not shaved look along with some constant girlfriend which I’ll end up asking myself: why her?

Then maybe a divorce will follow or maybe I’ll end up with the right one.

Fucks sake let her listen to something decent and not yell at the sight of nudity, by nudity I mean my hairy leg.

But that doesn’t erase the lack of shaving problem.

I'm not shaving my legs, I like scaring monsters.

I wonder as I stare deeply into my reflection watching the bruises grow and two identical deep stripes under my left eye, one longer than the other. I trace them then the opposite cheek wondering if I have anything there as well. I look up, trying to speak up but failing, ended up coughing and bending so that I touch my knees.

Maybe my legs are scary.

Shit, I'm ill.

I quickly look down my steaks falling down on my eyes up to the point that doing a fringe is actually possible. I gag at the thought and while pulling a shirt over my body I consider walking around the hospital, just for a while, I have less liquid to communicate with my body, injections more frequent as I get told to try and get adapted to my home, as if I wasn't alone in the accident.

The nurse shoves a bright scarf, a two-sided one in fashionable ornaments but I shrug it off, feeling my feet ease in my usual footwear. I breathe in the hospital sweet air of drugs, feeling myself cough, but covering in order for the nurse not to spot me. I walk down maniacally ignoring the nurses and several patients on wheelchairs as they greet me, I wave back, realizing that outer besides the scars, I shouldn't be here, I have a small notebook in my back pocket but I don’t even hesitate walking on, on and on into the corridor wondering if I’ll ever reach the end.

In the end I get caught that I even got a feeling that I’ll be wheeled back because due to my fast pace I break out in cough, as I get more liquid blown into my body that I wonder if it’s heroin because it makes me dizzy and smiley, that I smile at the nurse and kiss her. I want my one.

I got greeted by a guy in a leg cast as I was reading some classic shonen manga. He smiled at me and began playing his guitar, his own friendlier looking nurse humming to his tune hitting the wrong notes.

I ignored him despite the tingling feeling. I watched him string the cords out of the instrument in a rather jealous way as I remembered my own failed attempts up to the point that I wanted to hide myself under the pillow and ignore the ideal tunes, which would spring in my head out of the blue.

The night gave you music.

The traffic ate it.

The guy pouted asking me if I liked, I wanted to mouth, swear at him, but did nothing returning my gaze to my manga grabbing it as he made a second attempt. I watched him in the corner of my eyes as he closed his eyes his head bobbing to the music, mouthing words.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my notebook, third in a month or the days.

Anyone can play guitar and sing shite to get a shag.

Sing.

He stared at me in shock biting a nail in the process, running a hand through his hair until his eyes rested on my notebook. His dark curls danced against his dark skin as he watched me carefully.

“Can’t you speak?”

Thank you for reminding me.

No. Lost my voice. What’s your name? You keep mouthing words, if you feel so attached to them why don’t you just set them free? I mean all I can do is cough.

In the end I crossed out my last line feeling annoyed at my sudden closure to the tanned skin guy with curls who knew how to play the guitar. Even if it was pink, it had six strings unless you bite them off or chop them off with your erect cock.

“I’m Lars.” He smiled, his teeth a pearly white. Great, I sighted, trying not to sink into his music, irritated by the fact that he was good looking and a good guitarist unlike me.

“What’s your name?” He asked after five songs waiting for some positive review as glossy and sparkly as his eyes were. I rubbed my face with my hands nearly yanking the wires off, as I made a disgusted face behind my palms, hiding it like an Easter egg, only a well hidden for nobody but me to find.

I want to be your easter bunny, Noah.

Fucker, you wank.

Noah.

“Like Noah’s ark thing?” Thing? I’ll fucking let you drown, with the rest of the freaking sinners, thank you. He smiled wider, giving myself a theme song as he’s sing about how nice my name was. In the end I practically felt memories thumping their way back into my head, as if Yumi was barging once more into my life more than a friend.

I’m tired. Sorry. Fuck off.

I crossed out the last line as well, as he exited my room with an encouraging wave.

I asked the nurse to keep my room off limits to stupid, annoying guitarists with broken legs. She called me a grumpy grandpa. I held my tongue thankful for holding my emotions after all she could suck out my blood and give it for people who actually need it leaving me to rot. I'm too much of a fucker with a boner to die, anyway, might as well, save someone who can't fuck.

Day Six-Seven

Paperbag Writer. Day Five

My third girlfriend came, the one which I had a break-up with recently. I earned a first kiss post break-up in the three weeks we'd broken up, realizing how much I was lacking that feeling and any foreign taste at all apart from the liquid mixing with my own in my veins. I opened my eyes seeing her look around my white room telling how school was rotting everybody’s mind except my own which I was thankful for. I'd still choose hospital and death, just that I'd forget it anyway after I die and supposedly the life after it is worth living, I'll forget everything, might as well enjoy it for now.

I bent my arm and it ached.

Maybe not so worth it.

Open the door.

She fixed her black framed glasses pressing herself against the window sill as I had always done the talking.

I looked at her wondering how come I was getting an overflow of attention, since I never was the ideal boyfriend turning everything daily and banal, a routine which I couldn't find. I blamed it to my sister’s drunk after break-ups drunk speeches about how the male population was dying I mean all those ‘men are bastards’ TV shows get born out of somewhere.

Maybe my sister zombified the females.

Leslie tapped her fingers against the wall, avoiding my gaze but leaving after a while as I made no intention to hold her more.

I watched the door close in a slow motion dropping my eyes faster not seeing the thud get audible.

---

Just wanted to say that it is the fifth.

The day of Kurt Cobain's suicide. There was a period when he ment a lot, the right nostalgia for a musician.

What I'd like to say is, thank you, you helped me build myself back when I was thirteen, even if it were brief, thank you.

Day Six

Monday, 4 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Four

My second ex girlfriend came by up to the point that I felt as if I was a graveyard, as if I were many people at the same time, pimps and prostitutes. As if I was dead and all my previous lovers came to visit me, having the thought that they were my one and only.

I could be theirs, but they couldn't be mine, just the feelings were playing with some written in books desperation. Right. It was like those stupid films when some creepy guy has loads of sexy young schoolgirls crying over his grave wondering how the hell life will go on, until they find another dude to fuck. I felt that after death they’d grief a bit and find another until death do they part, all of them in a hate relation, to fight over.

She came in tears, asking me if I was alright even if she had been turning my calls because she thought that my current was a bitch. Karina asked what was Yumi doing here yesterday and I wrote her a quick explanation.

It amuses me how you should keep talking to previous boyfriends but no other ex should, if she is according to straight females, she’s a self-centered bitch.

In the end Karina sat on the corner of my bed asking questions too many of them that my sketchbook ran out of space and gave me another, saying that I draw good, when she had forgotten her glasses and it were letters to myself, when I'd die to blow the pages, and only then she quit and left me alone to rot in my thoughts to which I was deeply thankful.

Day Five

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Three

I wake up with a light pain in my neck most likely due to how I slept trying to forget about the wires digging holes into my veins, sleep makes you forget who the fuck you are and you wake up innocent until the world falls upon you and the needle of reality gets stuck into your mouth, blood building your tongue and you speak.

I always imagined an irresistible reaction to pull out the cords and stand up destroying everything, shouting or in my case coughing but nothing happened. I just didn’t want to stare at them and that was about it.

Maybe at that moment of purity, I had wanted to kill myself, but not when my body had been torn, just because fate had sent it.

I never knew why was my body torn, but there was no suicide attempt in the papers neither in my mind.

My gran had attempted it, causing it to fall as a shadow upon my mind as a kid.

I would lie saying that I didn’t want to see her as I heard familiar footsteps with more familiar click clacks up to the point that I had a theory that she chose her footwear with that matching sound. I wonder if I could press my head against the ground, when she chose her footwear, I remember trailing along just to get pulled for one kiss, which was broken, my tongue too rough as the stale relation.

Because near death or not you find love barging into your life or rather what is left of it. It doesn't matter who is dying, you were whole just for once, so it aches. I could feel her lean closer as I held my eyes shut, wondering if she’d press her palm against my forehead, peck my cheek or capture my lips, but nothing happens and I open my eyes to see a wary smile.

She ruffles a hand in her dyed black hair with a dark blue steak matching her eyes. She asks how I’m I and I give out a shrug as an answer.

My ex girlfriend crosses her legs in a chair opposite of me, playing with the necklaces around her neck crushing the beads together making a violent breaking sound as I stare at her, as she crushes silence and throws it out of the window, as I see her heading up to it and throw the purple thing out into the traffic, her lips red.

I need to distract myself, before I die, just like everyone else does.

I give out a smile causing her to exhale and press her head against the wall. I watch her, wondering what or who her current boyfriend was.

I lost count how long ago was it, but then we met a party, dated a while, drifted apart, got back together as friends as she’d gossip about people we knew. I usually sat listening wondering how come I liked her more than my current girlfriends. I drank several gulps in a row then, realizing that I was used to see her gossip, in higher heels, mismatched socks and weird clothes. Up to the point that admitting to myself that I loved her was easy to exclaim, because sometimes you just don't find anyone better.

But then I never loved her more than a friend as I’d listen to her, drinking coffee or tea at the cafĂ© we’d meet as she’d ask me about my current hobbies, resting her head on her hands, her head sideways dark blue eyes focused at my dazing out state as I’d tell her.


My parents thought I dated her and still do, inviting her over sometimes or introducing her as my girlfriend. There's no need to make yourself a pimp, just because everyone is so worthless and the society makes people a good thing, when they listen to nothing and believe in nothing. She never minded using the same trick knowing that I did the same. The society makes singles look as bad, because a mirror is just for looking at how you look post sex.

In the end it was a lover into good, well best girlfriend or whatever. In the end she sat there trying to cope with the wires and my closed eyes. I stretched my hand out for the sketchbook, biting on the tip of my pen looking at her dazed state.

She took it instead, so I stared at her.

She kissed me.

I kissed her back.

Maybe she'd get the misfortune.

When you get it, you just want to get it off, the vanity is your ringtone.

They won’t give me coke. Not the drug, you get what I mean.

She laughed.

How are you? Hey, at least you don’t get your blood flooded by-

I tilted my head towards the liquid bottle, but got irritated as I tried to memorize the letters forming some smart word. I suck at biology and the bottle just reminded me.

Whatever the hell that is. I hope it brings life under the christmas tree.

“I’m good.” She smiled taking the steaks from her eyes, resting her head on one arms beginning to gossip as if I could still talk and that was our daily meeting.

Day Four

Saturday, 2 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Two

But then maybe you shouldn’t start a diary like that? Is this how you do this shit?

Name: Noah

Age: Would you believe me that I am 28 stuck in a teenager’s body? No? Shame.

Hair colour: Green, but immortals think that it is black.

Eye colour: Maybe my eating habits? No? Violet.

But then you shouldn’t start a diary like that.

I saw my sister hide a pack of cigs under her skirt as her boots were too obvious; sadly her boyfriend didn’t fit there as well. It's not like I'd pull him over me and tease his nose until he sneezes and I lick his snot off.

The feeling of being calm doesn’t last long as I feel the stitches on my legs as I wiggle my fingers trying to set the wounds free, but I fail as I try to stand up. It's like I can fly either, so I look at the mirror which is above my sister, to see my hair messed up, eyes beaten up and lips swollen and I fall back down into the depths of the hospital caves, I fail as the wires drag me down. I get told that it’s not as scary as it looks, but I have seen it all, all is written upon one's face. I hide under the covers and my sister raises them to join my world.

I want to ask what the fuck, but I croak instead giving out several coughs, I cover my mouth with my free right hand with the fact that I am a lefty. How nice. I roll my eyes earning a giggle from the nurse I sigh, feeling a dying need for tea. I try to speak up again, yet I cough.

I own a harem apparently.

Porn.

I get told that I cannot speak. I'm not dumb, a temporary lack of voice doesn't mean that I am stupid, but people believe that. I stare and try to prove her wrong, but coughing instead. I look at the clock hanging above the door, as a feel a sudden feel of panic as I try to say something but nothing comes out and I am pinned against the bed along with the giggling nurse and ticking clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

Even the clock can speak but I can’t.

It doesn't say much besides the time, but then I speak too. I speak death or faintness or accident or clinical death or hisses.

She gives me some yellow notebook and a pen. I sigh, wondering why can’t I have my own trying to hint a facial expression to the given freebie but I sigh instead.

I’m too calm for my own good. I pull the tip of the pen with my swollen mouth as I scribble with my hand shaking.

What happened?

She giggles stroking my head as if I am interested in her attention or her puffy lips or rather short nurse dress, which I can go under and lose my virginity to, I wonder if it feels that warm and wet which the mind hints, it may be an illusion or a truthful deja vu as I have surely had sex before or have participated being the lucky spermatozoid, it reminds me of a freaky porn movie, but I shrug it off, ignoring my brain. I expect her to press a kiss against my mouth but nothing happens, gladly. I don't feel like wanking to her anyway. I'm way too cool.

Oh, yeah, I wank to Megan Fox.

Ew.

Instead I stare at her and nod dumbly, wondering if the doctor is stupid enough to give me a dumb explanation unlike the nurse. I expect my parents to run inside but the nurse tells me about how I am guarded from the cruel outside world or rather waves just like Noah’s ark protected him, a bald doctor is, most likely outside with his arms stretched out covering the door from my sobbing parents to enter the room.

So the beloved is the puffy lipped nurse?

Wait?

What?

Shit, I forget what I write and think.

Vomit,

Yes,

I want to vomit.

I see green.

Did I already?

Can I get it back to have the eased post vomit feel?

I am a model or whoever vomits.

I gag.

She asks me if I’m alright.

I shake my head.

Vomit, vomit, vomit, sexy vomit.

I get my head petted like a three year old. She asks me what I’m I scribbling, but I can’t help it, maybe due to my constant rambling on everything now the words escape from my fingertips pressing the marker.

I talk too much, now I can't, so I scribble.

Look, mommy, I'm a writer, I scribble:

Not your business

I write it and feel a need to show it but I hold myself turning over the page and continuing writing. I look down to see my black converse neatly dropped near my bed along with a pair of clean socks. I stare dropping my hand down wondering if I can poke them. I catch the nurse’s glance but judging her look I see that I am not the only one if her career is with heavy mental problems.

M, blood.

I shrug and close the notebook, pressing my eyelids together and falling asleep.

Day Three