Candlelit typing; or, how my life is someone else's aesthetic · 4:58am Nov 8th, 2017
Type type type. I'm busy typing away. My parents ask if I'm working on my novel, and I say no, I'm writing more pony fanfiction. They sigh, and walk away. Clearly that isn't as good of a use of my time as banging my head against a wall and seeing what words fall out of it.
I write by candlelight. That sounds romantic, doesn't it? It isn't. I like watching things burn, and candles are the only way I can convince my family I'm not a pyromaniac. My desk is littered with doodles, plushies, medication cases, and teabags. The teabags aren't technically mine, of course. I swipe them from the library when I check out my weekly 9 or 10 books. The librarians don't complain. I suspect they're just thankful that people my age read.
Lemon tea, orange-cranberry candle, books stuffed with poetry. My desk is covered in fairy lights. It's either Christmas-early or Halloween-late, depending on whether or not you'd classify me as forward-thinking or procrastinating.
And here I am, hugging a pillow and snuggled up in a floofy blanket, typing my soul away to a bunch of children cartoon enthusiasts. Will you read this? I don't know. I don't know if it matters. All I know is that my candle is burning low, I'm tired, I'm a mess, and I've quite run out of tea.
Awww... I would offer you a nice cup of tea and snuggles, but alas, I am not there.
4720090
same
I used to write
Cold and miserable
Dried out like old wine skins
Outside the Cups cafe in Oxford, MS
And before that in Clinton
And before and after that
At the same two tables
The same book beneath my mouse
Sometimes coffee, sometimes not
Sometimes spiked with Fireball
Always in a cloud of tobacco smoke which I kept
Nearly around me
Like a blanket
Haggard and freezing, pipe clenched
So tight
So tight that it left marks in all my stems
My fingers lost their feeling
I could have gone in
And sat comfortable in nice chairs
Nice décor nice atmosphere
I liked the indignity of it I think
I liked the agony of it
Seven thousand words in
And you'll start losing the ability to type
Eight and you'll fumble at keys and lighter
Nine and you want to die and it's so cold
But you don't go in
You can't go in you have to work
The work is the thing
The Opus, the Creation
The Subcreative fire which warms
Others but offers us love in tattered rags
The work is the thing
We do not we
Can not
Ask for more than our hands and eyes
Our hearts stout and brave
Our minds sharp our eyes keen
These things only can we ask and even then
We are testing the gods
But that's all we need
"free hearts, free foreheads" and like
Ulysses
We'll reach the shallows at the world's ending
A mug of tea and a page at a time.
Your desk and room sound lovely. This was an excellent and honest blog.