Tag: writing

22 Diaries. Story eighteen

~ W. Donovan ~ 1 Comment

I don’t know why I thought it was temporary.

I don’t know why I thought I would go back there at some point. I guess, it still feels unrealistic. I guess, I’ve never accepted it.

All I wanted was to be there. All I wanted was to be next to you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And not seeing your face for so long, it feels like something is stealing pieces of my soul, until there’s nothing left.

You know, you still travel with me everywhere I go. And like a lunatic I’ve been talking to myself with your voice, hoping one day you’re going to say the exact same words.

I opened my mouth and wanted to
say words I would never say to anyone.

I opened my arms and wanted to
give the warmth I would never give to anyone.

I wanted to talk to you about so many things, yet my lips went sealed once I saw the clasped hands on your lap. In that moment I felt like you didn’t treat me like your friend.

In that moment I realized that you weren’t my friend.

I realized that I didn’t have friends.

I was alone.

22 Diaries. Story seventeen

~ W. Donovan ~ 1 Comment

I’m disinterested.
I’m bored.
I’m sad.

I was forced to take a step back. That left me hanging, that left me lost. I thought this chapter was behind me, and yet again, I find myself standing here. On a pile of stained sheets, showing me the faces of my past.

I feel trapped. But the worst part is that I cannot see a way out. I’m in a limbo.

I’m trapped
in my past
in my misery
in my thoughts

Life’s like a labyrinth where all I can see are blank walls with no signs.

My goals are so clear and simple in my head. It’s the world and its humans that make them impossible to achieve.

That makes me realize that my goals are unrealistic, and all what I am is just a daydreamer.

Just drop it and live the life you’ve got, you silly girl. It’s never going to work.

22 Diaries. Story sixteen

~ W. Donovan ~ Leave a comment

Dr Ellman once said that only we can make sense of our lives.

So, if I cannot find sense
then the life doesn’t make sense
right?

Looking for the point is like looking for the feeling that, perhaps, has never been in you.

You try to grab their physical edges, while they tiresomely blur away within your memories. Within dreams that used to be alive.

Your life, mixed with illusion and high expectations, crashed like a simple machine that you entrusted your life to.

your dreams escaped
your flesh exposed
now you’re lost and sad

22 Diaries. Story fifteen

~ W. Donovan ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been through a traumatic event. Yet again.

When she stared at me. With recognition. Where the chemical signals refuse to comply. There’s only nonsense. I’m hallucinating.

I burst into tears. Feeling the skeleton arms around my neck. I chocked on the past. Wondering if it was her at all. Wondering if it wasn’t her fault at all.

How did it happen. Why did it hit me so hard, when I’d found myself cold-hearted before. Perhaps, a spark jumped on my skin. Evoked the yearning in one’s heart.

Standing next to her half of my life. It soaked me to the bone. Having it in me, I never escaped. No matter how far I’d run away.

Soaked in her blood. Always with her. I’ll always be her.

22 Diaries. Story fourteen

~ W. Donovan ~ Leave a comment

Dear You

I never thanked you for the note that you left on my desk the other day. I’m still not sure if the words were meaningful or meaningless. Are they a pearl or a piece of glass found on the bottom of an ocean?

I would have been blessed that I’d met you, if only I accepted your help. Otherwise it’s pointless, like breathing under the water. What if you were my salvation and I just passed you by, walked away without looking back?

I never reached out to you, even though I knew I should have. Even though you were the one who offered the advice. You were so nice to me, and I feel so bad for not doing anything, for not saying a word.

It’s killing me because I know I will never be able to ask for help. I wished and I prayed for you to ask again. But it never happened. My phone was unbearably silent only to die only a week later.

Perhaps, I was afraid to say all the words aloud because that would mean that they were true, and all I wanted was to walk in the haze of illusion to make everything less hurtful. To delude myself.

You must know, though, that I wrote a hundred letters to you, all in my head, they never made their way through the line of my eyelashes. Now is too late for the universe collapsed, burying me under the castle that never had any foundations.

I’m so sorry. Not even know why. You probably didn’t care

anyway.

22 Diaries. Story nine

~ W. Donovan ~ 3 Comments

Dear You

I hope you are (un)well.

I am writing because I have a lot to say, or a lot on my mind I should say.

You probably do not think about me. You probably erased me from your thoughts like chalk from a board. That is what you do, is it not? You erase everyone and everything that brings a whit of contemplation. A life on a white board, where you feel nothing. Where you see nothing but your notes.

You probably do not know what damage you caused. You probably are comfortably sat back in your chair already. I cannot blame you really, since I knew what you were. An egocentric, deprived of empathy, living only in his circle and caring only what’s in it. Like the robots that you build.

You probably do not know how much I cared. You probably do not realize how important it was to me. Being in a place where the sun shines at you in a midday. It does not matter, though, because you turned out to be a snake, swimming in the calm waters of my life.

Tell me now how do I explain myself to other people without telling lies. Tell me now why should I engage with people, knowing how cold they can turn.

I do not care what you have to say. I do not care if you hate me. I do not care if you like me. I do not care about anything anymore. I just want to be alone.

That is what they did to me.

(not) Yours Sincerely

© W. Donovan

22 Diaries. Story eight

~ W. Donovan ~ 4 Comments

Hi lovely people.

Have you ever read a fairytale where a princess becomes a maid? No? That’s because there isn’t one.

Usually, it’s the other way round, right? Poor girl finding a prince, lost princess finding her family, princess finding her purpose, queen finding her freedom. All of these stories have happy endings, there’s no tales about girls who lose everything, never getting anything instead. Why? Because no one wants to read about unhappy endings.

I put on a dress and I pretend to be a lady. I talk like a lady. I walk like a lady. I smile like a lady. But all I want to do is scream and dance on the streets of my imagination.

Is that what society wants me to believe in?

They say that life writes best scenarios. I disagree. Because if that was true no one would write stories. Any stories.

Life doesn’t write anything. It just sits on your chair passing by, waiting for you to die. Life doesn’t care. If you stand still, you’re going to stay still.

Do you believe in fate? In an invisible force that takes you to the path where you belong. It doesn’t matter what decision you make, doesn’t matter where you go, doesn’t matter what people you meet… You’re always going to end up in the place where the universe assigned you to.

That makes a lot of sense for me right now. And knowing that is devastating and relieving at the same time. Why should I try if my trying doesn’t bring me the desired outcome? Why should I put all my energy in something that is not meant for me? I only caused myself pain and now everything hurts me inside.

Someone who was born in dirt will always end up in dirt. I cannot fool my destiny. I cannot fool myself.

Life doesn’t have a happy ending. No one truly cares about you, and in the end you die anyway.

© W. Donovan

22 Diaries. Story seven

~ W. Donovan ~ 1 Comment

Dear Reader. I must tell you, that nothing is for free in this world.

When you feel like something came easily to you, that should be a warning sign to you. For things that come easily are never worth it and, sooner or later, you’re going to pay for them. Except the price will be high. You’ll pay with your tears, with blood and flesh. They will leave you scarred for life.

How do I move on now, when all I feel is your warm embrace. When all I feel is your cheek on my cheek.

You broke me, drained the energy out of me, took away all my warmth. What do I have now, when I have nothing? When I don’t have you…

Perhaps, caring too much is my problem. Caring about things that aren’t mine… and will never be.

Just be an icicle. Exchange smiles. But stay indifferent. Like they all do. Hate everything and everyone around you, so that it’ll be easier to just leave. Is that the solution?

Perhaps, I shouldn’t have treated you like a friend. Perhaps, you shouldn’t have acted like my friend.

Tell me now, why shouldn’t I crawl back in the shell, not showing any signs of interest anymore.

I wish I could say I don’t care. I wish I could say I don’t… But I still want to be… I want you to be around.

But the only thing around me right now is the emptiness and the memory of your face leaning against mine.

The open wound in my stomach, dripping with rust on the fluffy surface of the conversations that never took place.

Remember, nothing is for free in this world.

22 Diaries. Story six

~ W. Donovan ~ 1 Comment

What people in your life really mean to you?

your family, your friends, your colleagues

Do you even have any friends?

Friends who never let go and never let you feel the cold. Friends whom you feel safe with. Friends whom you feel free with.

content isn’t enough

They talk to you through the clouds, not through the metal that makes them blind.

I cannot recall.

But I exactly remember the day everything ended. I remember how it made me feel.

How can I say a word now? When all you want me to be is a silent machine of your imagination.

You told me once to always say how I’m feeling. My truths are blunt, though.

Sorry should I feel…
or say.

However, I’m not the one whose words float in the air.

Careless. Like the soul that never found its home.

Understanding. It’s what you expect, giving a shake of your hand in exchange.

and that’s all

Everything we’ve had. Everything we’ve built. There’s no room for it anymore. Even on the dusty shelf of the forgotten.

Shall I stay put, even though the words were never said. But the leaves that fell from the trees cannot grow back on them.

Being still in your arms, I should feel love, happiness and safety. But all I feel is nothing.

Splinters of the shallow and mute guard that are still stuck in my skin.

They will remain only splinters.

and that’s all

© W. Donovan