The worst thing about knowing is the unknowing. The forgetting, the body remembering the before and not the after, clinging to things you thought you had unlearned. The unknowing is the worst because it comes with the knowing, the sharp sting of understanding yet falling into the same rhythms. As if one needs to be undone all over again, as if we are defined by making the same mistakes over and over and over again. Stitching and unstitching, on and on, never beyond.

flyaway hairs, a child’s painting with all the sense of innocence and none of mastery, the sip of ice cold water down a parched throat, the light brown of thai milk tea // archaic remains 78

At Ease

I'm at ease knowing that I got myself to fight for

My dreams a high branch I'm trying to reach for

To climb up to the fruitful blessings to devour

I'm at ease knowing that I know myself completely

My character is no longer a defensive Armour

But a golden sculpture that I display openly

I'm at ease knowing that my soul is devoid of negative thorns and inner wars

I'm no longer pierced by my failures

Instead, I'm crowned by the Diamante sparkles of my worth

As I sit here, on my fortress of discovered confidence

I'm at Ease

NRK-K

Chop, chop, chop knives displayed, a joyous array moving as though they dance and play slice, slice, slice the fire grows light as the pot cooks in delight cut, cut, cut a dash of crimson a rare wisdom but careful, not too much avoid a bitter taste as to not let it go to waste chop, chop, c h o p. The meal is now complete mouths could water, begging to eat but amidst the magic a hint of surprise a taste of metal a whisper that lies.

Very short snippit for the hermitcraft zombie thing I talked about a bit ago and wrote at 3am yesterday

—————

“Your hair, it’s brown.”

Xisuma looked up abruptly, almost dropping the box he was handling as his spine straightened in his squatting position.

“What?”

Joe is gestured to the back of his neck, causing his friend to mimic the motion. Xisuma’s fingers brushed the hair peeking out the base of his helmet and he looked down at the box in front of him for a moment before he responded, his voice quiet.

“I suppose it is. I‘ll cut it later.”

“It wasn’t a complaint, Suma.”

Joe’s voice was gentle as he assessed his friend, his eyes flicking over his tense form. Xisuma stayed quiet, resuming his careful picking through the box’s contents.

And the pair drifted into silence once again.

growing up, she has always been the goody two shoes. way down and far, she knows exactly what to choose. growing wisely, maturity is reclusive and dreary; being a well-behaved matured child was the only choice. one way or the other, she is appalled at the constant battle of existential issues, believing that growing apart ...may heal all wounds.

— G.D.A.B © gessynfectant 2022

so writing has been a no go recently (and also tumblr a little bit im sorry) and im wondering if i should pick up the inkstay daretowrite prompts again.... i last did those like, when i made this blog. so like. 4 yrs ago. but prompts are good for writing again right...?

transcript under cut

bedroom hymns

Mum can you come and tuck me in tonight? The sky is dark and I miss you. Someone wore your perfume today and it made me ten again, rolling around in your bed while you try to chase me out. We have been at a party and you are tired but I am overexcited and over the noise of it all there is love. We have had an argument and I am sulking, rumpling your bedsheets and bouncing back onto the crash of pillows. We have made it up and I am lying on your side of the mattress, waiting for you to finish cleaning your face so I can have a hug. They walked away and I am two hours distant. I would call but it is not quite lunchtime and you must teach your boys like you taught me. You are still teaching me how to be an adult, but some things I must do alone. I don’t pick up the phone.

Dad can you come and tuck me in tonight? The air is cold and I miss you. Someone played your song on the bus today and it made me ten again, whirling around in your arms while you spin me in the den. We have been dancing and you are tired but I am overexcited and over the noise of it all there is love. We have had an argument and I am sulking, hunching up on the end of the sofa bed and stomping over your shoes. We have made it up and I am leaning on your back while we watch TV, waiting for the football to finish so we can play a game. They changed the song and I am one hundred miles distant. I would call but it is not quite bedtime and you must train with your team like you trained me. You are still training me to be an adult, but some things I must do alone. I don’t pick up the phone.

- c. p. m. b.

The Painful Bardo of Dying

A realization, like a hand raised, colossal apex swinging towards a debutant.

And is he an elder, him waiting there by the window in the corner? Duty ascendant, pungent onus collecting dust on the sill which

happens to be where I prostrate my deity, she balances her pelvic floor atop a golden ball, her chariot called Kapidhwaja. 

Wrinkle handed my father is the charioteer, a resentful man. In the corner of his basement a shivering furnace for 

that which birthed him left him, haunting. Spores that plume when drowsy lynch pins sag and yawn. Lungs that let out air, wanting. 

I inherit a tangled mane. To have lost him like this is the view from that corner, years before he birthed me was also a time, like this: 

7 times I wake up in the night to make sure the faucet is not running, not running off, galloping the way it goes on in my dreams. 

Then when I return there it is again, next to you on the futon, a living wraith, depleted -a sexless diluted thing -How else can I describe these permeable feelings, cold sweat. 

Pivoting my ankle side to side, I probe for tenderness. A sigh shifts weight, shoulder propped against the wall. My 

fingertips, bluffed summits, forge battles in the dust on the sill. Have I been here before? The view out the window is of the wall of the building next door.

- Maya Doolali

July, 2021 - Evil thoughts

thank you and goodbye that's not how it works I know I tried to put suffering to sleep takes pills and pills takes hundred dreamless nights it takes will and power that I can barely muster that I no longer have within me this body is no longer mine it belongs to someone, something the darkness is unbearable the voices are way too loud just please make it stop please the well in me is dry I no longer have tears left to cry

As I'm standing on the balcony, looking down on the parking lot, it feels easier to look at the sky through a reflexion of the car window. They are too bright for me. Those clouds. White as a snow. One would say, innocent as a child. Perhaps last night's evil thoughts clouded my eyes.

I thought I was far away from it, but that doesn't matter because that addiction was, and still is, here in me. No matter how hard I try, how long I pray, it is like a chewing gum. Hard to remove. And even if I did, it is hard to clean off. Those remains invoke for new tenants.

But on the bright side (not the cloud one), a storm is brewing. I don't know why, but as a child I couldn't wait to feel the sadness, the pain in my chest, to find the definition of depression on my own. And now, when all of that is present, I can not wait for rain to clean me. From inside out. Through the reflection of my mind.

19.7.2021. - writing about evil thoughts

sometimes, i wonder where my Anger is. she has left me alone for so long now. i think surprisingly, i miss her.

your favourite green sweater stained by coffee, a pale blue ceramic candle holder. the chalky aftertaste of iced hong kong milk tea, the smell of burning plastic // archaic remains 77

You had placed me on a low priority list, and that was the truth I wished so hard to resist, I desperately fought so this wouldn’t be our demise, I wanted to be the one you chose above all the skies, but it was a restless tug of war, which neither of us could win, we ended up walking a line over a bridge so thin, we were desperate for a change, it took months for it to break, I wanted the blame to be yours, for you to own up the mistake, the distance widened, it grew us apart, I couldn’t handle it anymore, we needed a restart. It was a moment of clarity and I stopped to think, it had to be done or we would simply sink, you pulled the line and I didn’t let go we crossed the bridge together, not looking below.

ballad for the broken

Dare to Write Challenge

writing prompt #3: broken cages

AO3 ver.

For the ones that have been shackled Let no one try again For the ones that have been shattered Don't you falter and begin

They may want you out of desire But I remind you of your worth More than gold, silver and diamonds More than all gems made on earth

Don't bring down your standard Don't get less than you deserve Wait for someone to love you With their all plus their reserve

Tear down your walls and shackles Pick the lock and run Abandon your broken cages Then bask within the sun

Let no one ever shackle you Let no one tie you down Let your words, cries and screams echo Let your silence become sound

!Inkstay Update!

As many of you know, @inkstay will be under new “management” starting in March 2020. Firstly, let’s never forget the prior admins who helped build and develop the inkstay community up to this point. So let's give a big “Thank you” to @matrimcauthon, @unwrite, and @ibuzoo for their tireless work over the past few years.

Moving forward the inkstay blog will be administrated by @imperiallefty and @aprilmayblossoms.

We look forward to continuing many of the same traditions and content, i.e. Monthly prompt lists, the monthly magazine, and the #daretowrite challenge.

More information will likely come out in the next few days about scheduling and responsibilities, but until then feel free to inbox us any questions, comments, concerns, or just general interests.

Thank you and take care.

-r.p. & a.m.

Dare to Write Challenge Prompt #1

Vile Romance

For a hopeless romantic, falling is easy. You fall quick, and you fall hard, and it's very hard to get back up, even if you want to. Even if it hurts. Even if its repulsive, and you want to go, you want to leave, just get away, you can't. What once was love turns into something horrible, something that brings bile up to your throat. But you swallow that bitter taste and ignore the hot tears prickling in your eyes. It's not pleasure anymore, not happiness but it's a prison. The manacles dig into your wrists, drawing blood. You're bound hand and foot, with no way of escape.

Years later, when you look back, you shudder. Not because of the pain and disgust you suffered, but because of your own stupidity. You're older now, and wiser. You know that whatever happens in your life, it's no one's responsibility but your own. You're surprised with yourself, how you bore it, how you suffered it, how you thought it was an accident. Thought it won't happen again, thought it was love.

Never. Again.