Blah.
I wrote something I am mildly content with. Very random. Very weird. Very fictional.
Title: the Room.
Word Count: 275
Fandom: Original
.
I couldn’t think of anything to say, which was odd as I had just spent the last 3 hours talking.
the Room.
The walls were coated in words I couldn’t understand, but I knew what they were trying to say.The dirty floor was an adventure all on it’s own, a mess of things that he didn’t want anyone to know.The bed was a dull, thin and dirty mat in the corner with blankets in a heap pushed into the crevice between the two adjoining walls.The low ceiling showed signs of a life that was beautiful but over-looked.He had empty rolls of film and chemical jugs scattered around the tiny apartment, which was really just a small room.He had pasted the pictures he took and developed on the ceiling.He is a genius, and he was alone and tormented.The world is mean, he showed it, felt it and absorbed it. He is missing. Who is he?Where did he go?For how long, did he sleep and live in this room before he left it?Did he leave it for good?Is he even apart of the world anymore?Or has he simply moved on?The writings on the walls reveal nothing, except what we already know.The pictures show us nothing, but what we already see.The tiny scraps of paper are all we have, the dirty, dingy book we found under the mat is a clue.The words he wrote in aren’t words at all.He is an enigma, some one and no one at the same time who will live in the back of my mind forever.
***
Very weird composition, I know. I honestly have no idea what the first bit is about. They were separate pieces at first, but I thought they went together nicely. In an awkward, weird sort of way. Comments are nice. :)
Title: the Room.
Word Count: 275
Fandom: Original
.
I couldn’t think of anything to say, which was odd as I had just spent the last 3 hours talking.
the Room.
The walls were coated in words I couldn’t understand, but I knew what they were trying to say.The dirty floor was an adventure all on it’s own, a mess of things that he didn’t want anyone to know.The bed was a dull, thin and dirty mat in the corner with blankets in a heap pushed into the crevice between the two adjoining walls.The low ceiling showed signs of a life that was beautiful but over-looked.He had empty rolls of film and chemical jugs scattered around the tiny apartment, which was really just a small room.He had pasted the pictures he took and developed on the ceiling.He is a genius, and he was alone and tormented.The world is mean, he showed it, felt it and absorbed it. He is missing. Who is he?Where did he go?For how long, did he sleep and live in this room before he left it?Did he leave it for good?Is he even apart of the world anymore?Or has he simply moved on?The writings on the walls reveal nothing, except what we already know.The pictures show us nothing, but what we already see.The tiny scraps of paper are all we have, the dirty, dingy book we found under the mat is a clue.The words he wrote in aren’t words at all.He is an enigma, some one and no one at the same time who will live in the back of my mind forever.
***
Very weird composition, I know. I honestly have no idea what the first bit is about. They were separate pieces at first, but I thought they went together nicely. In an awkward, weird sort of way. Comments are nice. :)