Define Surrealism
Title : Define Surrealism
Summary :It became a hallway inside a hospital with the best of intentions housing the worst fates, right next to preschool that was right above the morgue.
Author : breaking_vanity
Rating : P-13..R..ish. probably becasue of content
It was a night when all the lights were dimmer then usual, and all the knives in the kitchen glistened brighter then usual, even through the wood of the drawer. He came home later, and Pete asked no questions, only voicing concern with a simple hello and a usual punch on the shoulder. However, receiving no answer and no kiss, just a walk to the bathroom without a word, the lover boy sat down and pondered as to what could be wrong, and whether or not bad luck actually existed in the form of too many sirens for one night. He was a simple boy, with lots of stories that got told in poetry, and no one could actually place the words into an accurate picture, instead painting a Dali abstract image, with failing time and lots of nothings inside of somethings. There was pretty, and then there was gorgeous, and then came stunning, but the better the photograph, the worse the fate. Peter, however was not on the list of qualifications for any sort of description, therefore dooming him to his own disaster and masterpiece to solve. Its name was Patrick, and it drove over Pete’s heart like a fucking dumpster truck filled with goodies and tempers, and pasts. The goodies were the best part, but those came rarer then sleep on constant flights. Their good graces barely lasted a week, and usually ended in confusion and questioning of whether or not they were actually right for each other. The interesting thing about this all though, was the pain factor. A constant need to cause and inflict, and take it upon their flesh, their minds and hearts, all doled out unevenly and vengefully, and usually resulting in train wrecks that killed everybody except for one or two people named esperanza. And even they, were wounded.
Sometimes, Pete would talk himself blue in the face trying to apologize for that one mistake, that he didn’t even have a name for, so he listen everything that could have labeled him a sinner in the hopes of making peace, and making love later. But that never worked, and he never learned. Instead, on this grayish night, like many others, Patrick shut himself off and when Pete went to wrap his hands around his head and curl up in doubt once more, something snapped and echoed off into the spaces of his mind, off into a chest with a lock and no key, off into the quicksand and the never-ending staircase downwards. Rock bottom, he’s visited it before, but briefly, for a sentimental couple of hours wishing he was dead, wishing that hearts didn’t beat and blood didn’t cloud his hearing and fog didn’t eat his eyes from the inside out. The trees beckoned to him, and the sunlight shunned his name, but fuck that, Peter never liked the sun anyways. All it did was shine a ray of truth on what this really was, and he didn’t like that. He wanted to prove to the worlds that they were right, to the world that said they would never be, to the friends that laughed, and the girls that got so jealous their faces turned green, and the mascara stains never came off. Even the phone both quietly laughed at that thought. He liked bruises with his plate of heartache, he liked to be smacked around just to feel like their life wasn’t a surrealistic merge of memory. Writing killed reality, and free time killed his purpose, but laying there covered in blood, whose doesn’t matter, felt tired, felt okay. A sufficient marriage to his punishment, and a pen though the hole in his head where the voice of reason used to be.
And so he slept like that, for who knows how long, awaking only to hear silence, and it was still a flaming sort of dark, of what day he didn’t know, of alive or dead, he didn’t know that either. For what reason this time, it was hard to place, but as soon as everything clicked once more, not in the same way, but still together, he detected a background sound. Of soft singing, and vicious screaming, of lullabies and metaphors, and hallucinations. Of sadness drawing with pencils in the air, and kicking and yelling inside his head, noises not of this world, images of nothings alike, no air particle unnoticed. Perhaps he was dreary dreaming, or maybe that was Patrick’s voice creating all the confusion, maybe it was like an apology except not directed to Pete and not really sorry at all. Just sorrow of a love that once was , and is no more because the keyboard said no to this word and this phrase and his fingers stopped working right, because they had nothing left to say to the screens, and no note was left to feed to the magazines. It became a hallway inside a hospital with the best of intentions housing the worst fates, right next to preschool that was right above the morgue. What we needed to teach them at the beginning was that death will eat all alive one day, and the way out was the same as the way in, but opposite. To not accept what does not feel right, to live each day like tomorrow your throat will be slit. But instead, whoever taught the children immortality, doomed them to fall until the ground felt like salvation.
It was morning soon thereafter of next year, and Patrick would still stalk away and Pete would no longer care, just did his hair and crawled along the bottom to someone out of their minds, searching painstakingly for a way home once more, for a place that felt like the top of the slide and the swings that you could go as high as the sky on. No one had ever died there, and never would if not for the broken engine, and the flat tire. Pete was driving, with words on his lips of apologies and good byes on the way home, because he didn’t feel like standing up and holding himself together for someone that would cut him apart with soft voices, while it made Peter schizophrenic, even though as far as he knew, he didn’t actually have it. But a quick stop at the old breeding ground couldn’t really hurt, and so he did and ran across a nail in the pavement, placed there especially for him. To stop the break-up with an angel of good luck that tried and tried to throw off all the black paint on his wings, that love has brought. And so Pete cursed the words of time and time again, and begged to be let out of the broken locks and bulletproof windows on wheels, that couldn’t move all the weight he’d gained on his heart as of late. He called the towing company, he called the gun shop, he called his doctor, and really he was calling no one because the ringing phone was actually dead, and the tow-trucks had all been sabotaged, and the gun shop robbed, and his doctor packed up and moved out of the city of the infected and the fake and healthy, but mentally ill. And so Pete was stranded, much like a poet on an island with no pens and no paper, and so he improvised and write in sand with his fingers until the skin had burnt away, and went insane when the tide rose and washed it all away, but could he complain. Now there was just that much more pain to skim away and write about, and drink until the bonfire went out he was never rescued. His corpse was never found.
He called Patrick, with nothing to say but save me, help me please. But their minds wouldn’t connect, and the phone wouldn’t comply, and so he took his hand and whacked the window until all the bone was broken and blood splashed on his face in mere halves of gallons. Still no budge, and then the phone vibrated and his lips served as mouthing the whispers and his ears finally cleared up, because Patrick was coming, because his right hand would maybe be saved, because maybe he’d write the same again.
And it took hours, took weeks on end to drive away his graces with callousness and infidelity to his heart, and when he was finally saved, there was nothing left to save because of what had been allowed to waste away.
Summary :It became a hallway inside a hospital with the best of intentions housing the worst fates, right next to preschool that was right above the morgue.
Author : breaking_vanity
Rating : P-13..R..ish. probably becasue of content
It was a night when all the lights were dimmer then usual, and all the knives in the kitchen glistened brighter then usual, even through the wood of the drawer. He came home later, and Pete asked no questions, only voicing concern with a simple hello and a usual punch on the shoulder. However, receiving no answer and no kiss, just a walk to the bathroom without a word, the lover boy sat down and pondered as to what could be wrong, and whether or not bad luck actually existed in the form of too many sirens for one night. He was a simple boy, with lots of stories that got told in poetry, and no one could actually place the words into an accurate picture, instead painting a Dali abstract image, with failing time and lots of nothings inside of somethings. There was pretty, and then there was gorgeous, and then came stunning, but the better the photograph, the worse the fate. Peter, however was not on the list of qualifications for any sort of description, therefore dooming him to his own disaster and masterpiece to solve. Its name was Patrick, and it drove over Pete’s heart like a fucking dumpster truck filled with goodies and tempers, and pasts. The goodies were the best part, but those came rarer then sleep on constant flights. Their good graces barely lasted a week, and usually ended in confusion and questioning of whether or not they were actually right for each other. The interesting thing about this all though, was the pain factor. A constant need to cause and inflict, and take it upon their flesh, their minds and hearts, all doled out unevenly and vengefully, and usually resulting in train wrecks that killed everybody except for one or two people named esperanza. And even they, were wounded.
Sometimes, Pete would talk himself blue in the face trying to apologize for that one mistake, that he didn’t even have a name for, so he listen everything that could have labeled him a sinner in the hopes of making peace, and making love later. But that never worked, and he never learned. Instead, on this grayish night, like many others, Patrick shut himself off and when Pete went to wrap his hands around his head and curl up in doubt once more, something snapped and echoed off into the spaces of his mind, off into a chest with a lock and no key, off into the quicksand and the never-ending staircase downwards. Rock bottom, he’s visited it before, but briefly, for a sentimental couple of hours wishing he was dead, wishing that hearts didn’t beat and blood didn’t cloud his hearing and fog didn’t eat his eyes from the inside out. The trees beckoned to him, and the sunlight shunned his name, but fuck that, Peter never liked the sun anyways. All it did was shine a ray of truth on what this really was, and he didn’t like that. He wanted to prove to the worlds that they were right, to the world that said they would never be, to the friends that laughed, and the girls that got so jealous their faces turned green, and the mascara stains never came off. Even the phone both quietly laughed at that thought. He liked bruises with his plate of heartache, he liked to be smacked around just to feel like their life wasn’t a surrealistic merge of memory. Writing killed reality, and free time killed his purpose, but laying there covered in blood, whose doesn’t matter, felt tired, felt okay. A sufficient marriage to his punishment, and a pen though the hole in his head where the voice of reason used to be.
And so he slept like that, for who knows how long, awaking only to hear silence, and it was still a flaming sort of dark, of what day he didn’t know, of alive or dead, he didn’t know that either. For what reason this time, it was hard to place, but as soon as everything clicked once more, not in the same way, but still together, he detected a background sound. Of soft singing, and vicious screaming, of lullabies and metaphors, and hallucinations. Of sadness drawing with pencils in the air, and kicking and yelling inside his head, noises not of this world, images of nothings alike, no air particle unnoticed. Perhaps he was dreary dreaming, or maybe that was Patrick’s voice creating all the confusion, maybe it was like an apology except not directed to Pete and not really sorry at all. Just sorrow of a love that once was , and is no more because the keyboard said no to this word and this phrase and his fingers stopped working right, because they had nothing left to say to the screens, and no note was left to feed to the magazines. It became a hallway inside a hospital with the best of intentions housing the worst fates, right next to preschool that was right above the morgue. What we needed to teach them at the beginning was that death will eat all alive one day, and the way out was the same as the way in, but opposite. To not accept what does not feel right, to live each day like tomorrow your throat will be slit. But instead, whoever taught the children immortality, doomed them to fall until the ground felt like salvation.
It was morning soon thereafter of next year, and Patrick would still stalk away and Pete would no longer care, just did his hair and crawled along the bottom to someone out of their minds, searching painstakingly for a way home once more, for a place that felt like the top of the slide and the swings that you could go as high as the sky on. No one had ever died there, and never would if not for the broken engine, and the flat tire. Pete was driving, with words on his lips of apologies and good byes on the way home, because he didn’t feel like standing up and holding himself together for someone that would cut him apart with soft voices, while it made Peter schizophrenic, even though as far as he knew, he didn’t actually have it. But a quick stop at the old breeding ground couldn’t really hurt, and so he did and ran across a nail in the pavement, placed there especially for him. To stop the break-up with an angel of good luck that tried and tried to throw off all the black paint on his wings, that love has brought. And so Pete cursed the words of time and time again, and begged to be let out of the broken locks and bulletproof windows on wheels, that couldn’t move all the weight he’d gained on his heart as of late. He called the towing company, he called the gun shop, he called his doctor, and really he was calling no one because the ringing phone was actually dead, and the tow-trucks had all been sabotaged, and the gun shop robbed, and his doctor packed up and moved out of the city of the infected and the fake and healthy, but mentally ill. And so Pete was stranded, much like a poet on an island with no pens and no paper, and so he improvised and write in sand with his fingers until the skin had burnt away, and went insane when the tide rose and washed it all away, but could he complain. Now there was just that much more pain to skim away and write about, and drink until the bonfire went out he was never rescued. His corpse was never found.
He called Patrick, with nothing to say but save me, help me please. But their minds wouldn’t connect, and the phone wouldn’t comply, and so he took his hand and whacked the window until all the bone was broken and blood splashed on his face in mere halves of gallons. Still no budge, and then the phone vibrated and his lips served as mouthing the whispers and his ears finally cleared up, because Patrick was coming, because his right hand would maybe be saved, because maybe he’d write the same again.
And it took hours, took weeks on end to drive away his graces with callousness and infidelity to his heart, and when he was finally saved, there was nothing left to save because of what had been allowed to waste away.