The Princess Built a Castle for the Prince

Diren M | | comment
I built a castle for you, my dear - I spent my years on it, day after day after day. I listened to songs written by some lonely souls far across the ocean and thought of you. I wrote you a poem, and another poem, and another poem, and then tried prose but I learned quickly that all the words in the world weren't enough. I drew your face on a serviette, on the back of my hand, on a piece of paper, on the pages of my favorite book, on walls and on the whole world. I spent a thought on you and became addicted. I let your name roll over my tongue, again and again and again.

This is my castle for you. I built it all by myself and I will go down with this castle - let the earth beneath choke it all.

I built you a castle, my dear - but does it even matter if I never had the courage to show it to you?


When the Girl Asked Her Mother What Fear Is

Diren M | / | comment
Fear is asking yourself What if nothing will ever be as good?

Blank Mind

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There's a fly in my head and it just won't shut up. It keeps flying and buzzing and drawing its circles.

Fuck you, stupid fly. And fuck him, really - for being the only reason why I'm still wide awake in the first place.

I Did Something

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I let ordinary life part me from someone special and I pay the price every morning after having dreamed he's still here, he's still with me only to realize that he is not.

I let him be taken away by The-Way-Things-Just-Go and now things just go the way I never wanted them to.

Why Be Happy If You Can Be ART?

Diren M | / | comment
One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is that we want to be happy. We just don't.

As humans we have a dying desire to be constantly unhappy and sad and heartbroken.

Why do Romeo and Juliet die? Why do we love sad songs?

Why don't you call him? - The telephone's right next to you, there's his number. All it takes is you calling him and telling him that, damn, you have never quite loved anybody the way you love him. He would say something like "I love you, too." and you would live happily ever after.

Why do you stay with her knowing better than anyone else that she is toxic and that all she does is hurt you again and again and again?

Why didn't you go to New York, huh? Why weren't you in London, or Iceland, or South Africa, or wherever it is really that you're heart was hungry for?

Why didn't you work harder? It could've been you walking up that stage and her watching you, not the other way round. Then she would've been the one drained in jealousy, jealousy, jealousy, and not you.

The truth is - sadness, pain, terror, jealousy, loneliness, regret ... - these monsters are your best friends. You love them more than anything else. More than anything else you love staying up until 4 a.m. crying because the tears and the feeling of something heavy dragging you down are the most beautiful emotions you have ever tasted.

And you are obsessed. You are obsessed with destroying yourself.

Drowning in a Blue-Green Ocean

Diren M | | comment
Everybody has one person they will never be able to forget. 
My person comes in a blue-green ocean. 
And I'm drowning in this ocean.

At night I drown in the memories, unable to sleep as I am dragged to the bottom of the ocean.

I fall deeper and deeper into the blue-green water, letting it take me, fill my mouth, lungs, mind. And I will die in this ocean, die at its bottom without air to breathe - hoping that perhaps in death I will be free from you. Free from the chains you have put on my mind, never letting my thoughts get out of the cage that is you - thoughts about you, dreams about you, tears for you. Everything is just you, you, you. There's no room for anything else.


Will you always be there in every sad song, in every painting, in every stranger's face I pass on the street, in the sunshine and in the moon's light, in joy and in sadness, in tears and smiles, will there always be your last words echoing through my head, never giving me peace, reminding me day for day for day for day that a chapter in my story will forever remain unwritten? A chapter that might have been my favorite one.

I always come back to you. To your words from that night. Try looking at it from a different perspective, from left then right, but never getting it right, never understanding why it won't let me go after days, months and years have passed.

But they haven't passed, have they? It was today, today, it happened t o d a y, just a few hours ago. Today is all I can think. It happened today but feels like something detached from time and place and everything apart from you and me. As if it always was, and will forever be.

I hate how you change everything in seconds. Two sentences, one glance and I'm disgusted by my own weakness.

Sometimes I try to walk away from it, but in the end all I do is walk in circles, always ending up in the same place - in the prison made up of your words. Then I'm wondering whether I'll ever be able to get out of it or if I'll be stuck forever.

Breathing is so hard when all I can do is think about you. IcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstop thinkingaboutyou aboutyou you youyouyouyou. It's always you, and it's always me not being strong enough.

But the truth is when something really, truly bothers you, you can't get away from it. It will always be there - and either you change it or you die with the chains these words have tied around your wrists. That's just how life is. 

Some truths lie not in front of our eyes but inside our hearts and it's much harder with those to pretend they're not there.

And words once out, when derived from deep inner truth, come with a great, unbelievable freedom. And relief. Oh, the relief. 

Death is a pleasure when it means drowning in memories of you. Painful, but a pleasure nonetheless.

Thank you for making me feel this way. Thank you so much.

I can't take my mind off of you. I can't take my eyes off of you. 

Writing Update #1

Diren M | | comment
So, I have been meaning to write a novel for ages. Even had a go at NaNoWriMo a couple of times but it never wanted to work out. The story lost steam and every sentence I wrote seemed like the wrong one. Currently, I'm working on another thing. Sure, it's probably condemned to fail just as it has happened all the times before.

For some reason, though, I'm hopeful. Perhaps that is naïve. Somehow, without having written one single word of the novel itself, I'm closer to a finished first draft than never before. I have been planning a lot lately - a lot.

The idea of the story is kind of a mixture of all the ideas I had before. It takes the good from each of them. I've been working on the idea for quite a time now and I'm still not tired of it which is definitely a good sign.

I have done some wordbuilding with more than 2,000 words until now and that's not even the half of what I have to do to fully grasp the world and the setting. After that, I will concentrate on the characters - especially my protagonist needs to be prepared for her important role of being the novel's main driving force.

Last but not least, I will finally be able to flesh out the skeleton I keep calling my rough outline. Fill all the plot holes, think about the details of that particular conflict and that other plot twist.

The only thing left after that will be to transform the detailed outline into an even more detailed scene overview (yes, that's the extent to which I want to have the novel planned out before actually writing it!).

If everything goes as planned I will be able to do all this in August and September so that I can spend October doing some writing prompts and exercises and getting to know my characters better (by writing diary entries, social media posts and everything else I can think of).

And then when November and with it NaNoWriMo comes I want to finally write the novel and at the same time finally, finally win NaNoWriMo for the first time.

So yeah. Guess we will have to wait and see what happens next!

All the love, Diren.

The Man

Diren M | / | comment
The man came and went like a lightning.

 He came on a friday - the rain was heavier than anyone could remember - and spent the night in the only pension the village could offer. He was gone in the next morning and would never come back.

However, as is commonly known lightnings aren’t measured by their duration but by the amount of catastrophe they leave behind.

"The Man", Ed Sheeran

Thank You For the Venom

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Today #1

Today was an absolutely shit day. I'm left again thinking that I'm a worthless and ugly piece of shit. Also, I was ignored by someone I kind of may or may not care about. Which - you know - really, really sucks. And now that stupid hoe has just entered the bus - god, what have I done to deserve this?

Today #2 

I feel like throwing up, do you even know what an asshole you are? Do you know how much it hurts? And I'm sick of wondering what exactly it is I have messed up and this is not the first time that I'm feeling like this because of you and I just don't want to see you anymore, don't want to talk to you anymore. All I want to do is to throw up because there is no way, no way at all, I can keep all this inside of me, all this bullshit, all this hurt, the rejection, the aching, the pain, the feeling of being unnecessary and not welcome and just a worthless piece of shit and waste of time.

Thank you for making me feel like that. Thank you very much.

Anything at all

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My brother disappeared on the coldest day of the year. It had been snowing for a week straight and it was impossible to go anywhere. It kept snowing and my mother was a mess. I waited for spring to come and things to get better again. But it never came. 

The home in which my grandfather lived was not very far so I used to visit him frequently during that time. I had a few people I hung around in school but I wasn’t too fond of neither of them and couldn’t imagine having conversations about anything that mattered. He always greeted me with a cup of hot chocolate and gave me his favorite blanket to sooth the winter’s cold away. 

My grandfather was an amazing man. He had refused to fight in the war and gotten into quite a bit of trouble but that was probably what I adored so much about them. He met my grandmother and it was love - real, proper, true love, the sort one would only find in romance novels. They had brought a son to earth - a wicked, adventurous and handsome man, my father. 

It always wondered me why someone like my father would fall in love with someone like my mother, and I wonder if my mother was different back then. When I ask Pop this question, he always says, »Oh, no. She used to be a bitch even back then. Still there was something that my stupid little son saw in her that I couldn’t see - and still can’t see, quite frankly. She’s a maniac if you ask me. But what do they say? Love is blind.« 

Pop and I we didn’t always talk. Sometimes we just stood there together on his bed, side by side and looked out of the window - watched how the snow was falling and turned the world outside into a mystery. Those were the best times.

In my free periods in school I spent my time with three guys who I guess one could call my friends if you want to, but I wouldn’t say that. I knew some stuff about them - mainly because they didn’t know how to shut their mouths and enjoyed talking about themselves a little too much. However, they hardly knew anything about me. I didn’t want them to and they didn’t want to, so everything was perfectly alright. I mainly hang around them so people wouldn’t call me a loner. Because if you were a loner, it caught people’s attention. If you were just third wheeling with a bunch of weird people no one took notice of you. And that was something I was more than fine with. 

It was winter break when Lars ran away from home which I was glad for. Some of my mother’s annoying friends had found about it and Littleton being Littleton it never took much until news spread around. I definitely did not have the nerves to talk to anyone about this and more importantly - I didn’t have the nerve to be forced to talk to people who didn’t really care about me and who I equally didn’t care about. 

Sometimes when it was snowing so much I couldn’t even walk the short distance to Pop’s and my mother was freaking me out more than usual, I just lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling feeling absolutely nothing. 

I hated feeling nothing. 

So once I just took that little knife - the one that had once belonged to my father - and cut my thumb with it. A tiny trail of blood flowed down my finger leaving back a slight ache. 

I felt happiness pouring over me as I saw the blood. It was the first time in so long that I had felt something again. Pain was more bearable than nothing.

-- Inspired by this

From Me To You and Him

Diren M | | comment
I don't know how to start. It's weird really - feeling as if you have so much and nothing to say at the same time. Just yesterday I passed all the places in which we used to spend so much time together. Where I told you my biggest secrets and you told me yours.

If I could turn back time ... I wouldn't. I don't want to have anything to do with you anymore. The thing is, I am not the same as I was before and you have changed, too. You have changed so much, I don't think there's anything left from my former best friend. It just saddens me to think how quickly everything can change. Losing you wasn't difficult because you were hurtful and toxic and not meant to stay.

But if lost you - you whom I was so certain of would stay - then who else can I lose? And I didn't only lose you, but I also lost him and while I've long gotten over you, I still haven't gotten over him and perhaps never will.

He still poisons my dreams, the loss of him haunts me and doesn't let me go. I hate him for leaving and then coming back with things being so different, so unnatural now. I won't tell anybody and sometimes I'm even scared of admitting to myself, but I feel so betrayed by him. Because we were friends for so long, I knew him when I was still a completely different person and we got to grow up together, didn't we? And then he just left, came back, and everything had changed. Our forced conversations had lost the lightness they once possessed.

So, if I lost you and I lost him, if I lost people who were meant to leave and lost people who were meant to stay, is there anything certain? Who will be there after everyone has gone?

Don't tell me »nobody«, I don't know if I could handle that.

From Me, Diren, to You, A, and Him, S

A Letter by Madeline Cork

Diren M | | comment
So. I did some writing, I guess. It is very incoherent and just me rambling, really. I do quite like the first one. I'm currently reading »The Secret History« by Donna Tartt and the influences should be very obvious. 

I am probably not the right person to tell this story. From the beginning to the end, I can merely be described as a minor side character and even now, looking back, I cannot say that I have fully understood what had happened to Hanna Grace that winter. Still, I will try to explain my impressions as clearly as possible. Despite being not the right person to tell this story, I guess I am the only one left. 

The thing is, even now, after so much time has passed by, no one knows for sure who really had killed Hanna. It could have been anyone. Personally, I still believe it was Audree. But as I said — one cannot be sure.

One might wonder why I have come to talk about this now, now that it is much too late, now that it has been ages since we all have seen or heard from each other. The reason is, I had managed rather well to push the incident to the back of my mind. Perhaps I could have continued like that, kept living my life in complete ignorance of it, had it not been for Cameron visiting Littleton last summer. 

Since then it would not let me go again. I have come to understand that I will not be able to rest in peace until someone knows. And that someone, dearest reader, is you. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Audree Hampton and I killed Hanna Grace, our friend, on a chilly day in March. I cannot recall exactly which day it was but I know for sure that after that I saw the first snowdrops of the year and thought of it to be quite ironic. For snowdrops represented hope and beauty of the upcoming spring, and neither hope nor beauty were things I could see in my life then. 
Perhaps I should add that I am not aware of what I mean by saying that Audree and I killed Hanna. It seems to be a rather straightforward fact but it is really not. I mean, yes, Audree pushed her while I stood there watching and Hanna fell down the well and there should not be any way for her to survive — but somehow I knew even then that she was not dead. To say that she had survived was equally far from reality, though. How I like to put it today is that Hanna had just disappeared. One moment she was there and the next — gone. 

I tried not to think that much about it and, surprisingly, I managed it rather well. The first weeks were a struggle, but after that it slipped to the back of my mind and I was captivated by everyday life again. Perhaps I could have forgotten it completely, or at least turned it into a loose memory had it not been for the day that Audree disappeared. 

We had not spoken to each other much after what had happened, so I technically had no idea about anything. But, I guess, somewhere deep down I always knew that she had disappeared in the well, too — under the same mysterious and inexplicable circumstances that Hanna had too. 

No one except for me knew that three people’s disappearance was directly related to that plain well — Audree’s, Hanna’s and her baby’s. 

That’s why I need to tell this story. Because there is no one else that can do it. 

I always felt that despite being best friends Audree and Hanna hated each other with a passion. Perhaps I was the only person who noticed since I spent the most time with them. Every one else probably believed their little game, even Antony and Jonathan. 

Writing Prompt #1

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Prompt: Pick up the book nearest to you. Use the last sentence on page 89 as today's writing prompt.

I picked "The Book of Tomorrow" by Cecelia Ahern, haven't read it yet and there's probably no character named Cedric but I actually quite liked what I wrote. Which doesn't happen that often.

I was smoking in my room and I didn't open the window because it was absolutely freezing out and whenever I opened my doors they used to just slam shut, which was a total head wreck. The air was filled with smoke soon, making it hard to see, even harder to breathe and hardest to think. I could totally just kill the world right now.
My mood, of course, had nothing to do with Cedric. Definitely not. It was the fact that I was covered with smoke and couldn't open door nor window and had missed the bus in the morning and broken my favorite mug and my mum had stressed me out and my period was probably on the way.
I didn't give a damn about that Cedric guy, really. Why should I? He was just an idiot with a giant ego and I didn't need any more of those people in my life. Perhaps I didn't need people in general in my life. I should just stay in my room, filled with smoke and frustration and never leave again.

I did not need Cedric, didn't care for him and it certainly did not bother me at all that he had spent every minute of last week talking to me and making me laugh with his stupid jokes and then just stopped without any kind of explanation, as if I had done something wrong and he wouldn't tell me. Now he probably wanted me to feel bad and guilty and wonder what it was that I had messed up. But he could forget that, I didn't mind at all if he talked to me or not.

Cedric could go screw himself, really.