Saturday, July 19
Sometimes its so quiet that no amount of noise or music I can put on, it still stays there. That dim silence that resides in my mind, waiting patiently for something. I don't know. Late at night, when everything is so quiet while I am reading there's that silence again and everything, sound, images just slows down around me as if god decided to turn off the world for a sec. And try as I might it won't go away and there's that sense of utter panic and I want to run far away, smash my head against the walls for it to go away. And I settle back trying to be calm, but its there like a fatal appartion. Trying to kill me.
Its really quiet now but its not there.
Extract: Braithwaite (My Fic)
The old matriach's lips were like fuzzy mold, brittle and pursed. They were darkest red at its tips and then from there slowly degenerated into a stressed white. They reminded Elaine of two coil's of bird shit, cement color streaked with white. Wetting her own lips with a dry tongue, she pushed past the old lady into the room. The lady's eyes followed her, under furrowed brows. Elaine pulled at her skirt unconciously, was it too high? She didn't think above the knees was too high.
"You have a very nice home," she remarked. She glanced at the lady's apparel, pearl-knit sueter, a floor length skirt of a rich grey tone. And three rings on each finger. The lady noticing Elaine's eyes on the extravagant stones, touched them each gently. She did not touch them in a self-concious way but protectively, her eyes still trained on the girl's face. She did not like Elaine. Those chocolate ball eyes were too wide, giving the girl a look of precouciousness. Her entire figure was wrong. The hips flared out and her waist too thin. The arms were gangly and rolled up into the arms of her jumper. The girl's irascible demeanour is intolerable, the woman told herself. She would not do. She certainly would not do.
