Crickets

I’m caught in the throes of grand tidal waves of sentiment, and I feverishly type these words hoping to communicate the sense of loss I feel within myself, however cryptic I am in the act of delivery.

“Outside you can step, bathed in warm airs, to listen in on the crickets' conversations; they only babble about inconsequential things, small talk, but their voices are sweet to the ear, confectionaries for the sensational beings that we are. I'd devour it all if i could! I've never been very good at controlling myself around those things delectable... To me, the treats of atmosphere and setting are greater than any delicacy.”

Why! unto this little quip of mine, my friend suggests compilation! Truly, I agree with him, but in some sense I court the qualities of impermanence of things beautiful, hesitating to etch them into some digital stone such as this. Thus, my faults are neatly displayed.

“It is my bet that the words of the crickets are better. Nature's busybodies, always talking; surely they've to make something wonderful at some point or another.”

“Then, Cynthia, be their voice unto the world.” I’m touched by his romanticism, his plight with the romantic fool that lies upon the opposite end of the exchange.

Towards him I am impassioned: “I'll light out of this here damned house and kiss every one of them, fleeting kisses touched by moonlight, the silent beauty of the night weaved into each collision of lips and exoskeleton. My love will become intertwined with the fabric of the earth, and in turn so shall I find solace in this place, this ever raptured place of my abominable youth. Each and every one of them will be held to my breast for as long as it takes me to quiet them, in their frightful bawl, constrained by the damning nature of it all… They'll stop crying when I bring to them my love. Isaac, can you imagine? A grand jamboree… Yet my mind falls quiet when I think of it. I just wish to be a mother to someone, even if just a cricket.” At this point, myself, I am fraying. A pitiful remainder of the aberration who once sat there, absentmindedly pouring out her mind. Eyes transfixed by the colors cyclical before her.

“Mother to us all.” He’s hushed. I can feel his voice echo through my ear, despite the utter silence of everything. The faltering of his voice, conflated with the lessening of truth, though truly a tool of intimacy. “Cynthia, for the love of God, just write.”

Soured. “To write for the love of a god proves fruitless. I could write endlessly, an unending river of words, yet what love ever comes to me, made so aberrantly? A cascade couldn’t bring the love of that bastard, nor could a deluge make him reconsider.” A piercing tongue is known to snag the lips of she who flails it. Notwithstanding, I’ve never been known to have bloody lips.

He thrusts his blade at my heart, though as it makes contact I find it to be just a facsimile. And to think I had readied the implement of my heart against him…

I offer my words as a gift. “Consider them a gift; restructure them and create. Make something that only your romantic enigma of a friend can appreciate. Her writing makes her happy.

“Just, not enough.”

how people think representative government works: the representatives represent the people’s wants and desires within the government

how it actually works: “now I’ve listened to all of your calls and complaints but I really do think that the Break The Legs of Every Man Woman And Child (Except Lawmakers) Act would greatly benefit the people of our great nation.”

my fursona looking hecking cool (by @rinkhet !)