November 9th, 2016

I sat on the rickety, college-funded bus, head blaring, rain pouring on the window, listening to the woman behind me talk on the phone. As we passed soaking wet orange leaves, sadly drooping down from the trees, as the ground below sped by in a haze, I could only just sadly stare off as she spoke.

“I just can’t be around white people today.”

Continue reading “November 9th, 2016”

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Unfolded

I was sitting in economics class. It was boring as fuck. My seat was right by the door, next to the trash can and recycling bin. I held my head up with a hand, staring at the blue tub. It was one of those moments when I felt like thinking of something super philosophical, real poetic and nuanced. I was just paper to be recycled. No. Everyone was just scraps of paper, waiting to be changed into something new. Cliche. I couldn’t really think of anything new. I couldn’t really think of anything. I mean, it was an old, faded recycling bin. I was staring into space, trying to find the meaning of my life within a paper metaphor. My thoughts were folded origami. I could unfold every crease, just without surety of being able to reform that paper bird.

I zoned out. Hunched over in my seat, I felt an empty feeling that accompanies unfolded paper. I felt beige and spacey. Sometimes, when I fall deep in thought, my mind gets loud and unfocused. I find it troublesome to think of one thing at a time, or have one philosophy or sense of purpose at a time. A rope is tied at each arm, pulling me apart. But that day, as I stared at the recycling bin, my teacher humming on in the distance, I thought of nothing in particular. My mind sat stark, a desert. And that paired feeling, that beige feeling, flooded in.

I can’t really describe the feeling other than nothingness. But it isn’t a lacking in feeling, it’s a feeling of nothingness. There’s no pain, there isn’t a sadness involved at all. It’s just a starchy stretch of non-being.

I went home and tried to forget being this way. I tried washing it out of my mind, cleaning up the beige waters. Maybe being away from school, from the boring as fuck classes and boring as fuck people would make me feel better. I distracted myself, tried folding my thoughts back into their previous shapes. It wasn’t purposeful distraction. I had no intentions of recognizing neither the feeling nor the repressions of the feeling; my empty mind just found the room to do so.

Re-creasing the edges is difficult, sometimes. Especially if the paper is folded the other way. Sometimes it can be easy to make a new crease by accident. Sometimes new thoughts emerge out of the coursing river, toes skimming the desert below in a struggle to swim. While I sat at home, knee bouncing up and down, I skipped the whole thinking process and came to a decision. It’s incredibly impulsive to do that, to have decisions as thoughts. To skip the careful folding, the refolding, the reevaluation, and just crumple the sheet entirely.

I went into my bedroom and sighed. I wasn’t acting impulsively; I was mindlessly doing some repetitive task, walking through sand, swimming through feeling. I got out a sheet of lined paper. I held the pen in my hand, tapping it against the desk. I was so submerged in the feelings of nothingness, I had nothing poetic to say. I had only the practicalities and simplicities of the moment. The pen had a Christmas ribbon tied round the cap. I looked at the red dots, shaped like hearts. And then wrote two sentences and signed my name.

The white water of feeling washed over me, cooling me, keeping me calm. I also felt dragged down, away from myself and from everything around me. I was just doing some task. There was no weight to anything, really. My legs floated in the waves and the crumpled paper got soft and clumpy. Everything I did from then on was through the constant nullity of thought.

//

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Read longer stories on the short stories page. Since summer is finally here, hopefully I’ll be writing and posting more frequently. -Kylie Eileen

Beige

I’m starting to feel sick again.

It isn’t the gooey darkness in my heart, no, now

It is beige like a balance beam.

I’m teetering on the edge of the cliff, this time

I’m close to falling, unlikely to fully regain stability.

It’s just who I am; been this way awhile now.

It’s just something I deal with, once in a while

I’m within the inebriated beigeness so I sit and ponder some.

I’m lost in the swirling complexities that could be.

It’s without reason that I drown in sand, breath in water, and

It’s without reason I respire, only half alive.

I’m alive, my heart beats with every unfair rhythm, and

I’m breathing, just under the pressure of the sand.

It’s with thoughts that I find small treatment, only treatment, as

It’s far from being a curable ailment.

I’m on a balance beam, and this time, it is foggy, this time,

I’m not sure I’ll stay beige.

Everything is bland, unflavored. Everything is beige and feels like sandpaper. I’m not here… I am floating somewhere else, somewhere dark and beige and lifeless. I don’t like it here. It hurts my chest.

-Excerpt from Solomon, a novel by Kylie Eileen

You can read Solomon here

Wayward Wind

White listlessness upon the leather bound spine gathers up with the wind, creasing the air with every weathered page’s sound, life itself not sturdy enough as print to stop the incessant drain of words that have leaked out of the blank spaces of the mind. The mind, of course, being a representative for actual life. For actual words.

Wind as sweet as the trees which drive it carry the dead, thin passages through the dimensions. The wind’s howl, though soft, rustles the layers of death and leaves the carcass standing still, for it does not have the strength to ruin everything, to affect everything in it’s way. The structure is surely gone, as the black liquid has already vanished, a varnish not suitable for the droplets of purity, for the cleansing it rightly deserves. However the skeleton stands, upright in comparison to what structure actually is, deep and saturated in color, unlike it’s dead predecessor of winding, crinkling, white lies. Lies, if not true, can also be washed and forgotten. A secret, in a way, is an empty surface where the death used to stand.

When the wind seems to stop, and the hollow structure is indeed not hollow, but rather just empty, the print does not feel inclined to find it’s way back. The telling way in which the cream is left pure, or broken if the wind proves stronger than usual, directly showcases the life which has been forgotten. The air, though crisp, is deep and changing. It is symbolic in the sense that to allow such to occur, forgottenness would have already taken place, and the blank mind would have already been formed. (Of course in an extent all minds are deemed blank). And the structure would have been appealing still, have not the judgement been blank in its measures as well. Hollowness, fondly found in a tree, ironically, may not be as apparent as in the dead coffin. For there to be blankness, there must be something to be blank, even if words reappear, though unlikely.

Wayward wind picks up again, fluttering the life, manipulating the death, whiteness aghast at what insolvable misery has become of the darkness that once left. The spine, of course, stays, supporting nothing, supporting everything. The mind, lesser than the spine in a sense, has become aware of it’s fate. Knowledge not meant to jest, the wind does not hold the fate. For, eventually, each white, listless, blank, empty slice of life, will be overturned, will be evaluated for no purpose. Each will have it’s light, it’s darkness. But the mind will stay in place, the spine will not move. Fate is not determined by the wind, as soft and sweet as so. Even a harsh wind will not change the binding; not really.

Winding up in a pattern, an unforgiving combination of wind and misery, each white layer of life will still be blank. For the strongest wind cannot change the fact that all death has left. That the black lettering will not return, even if so replaced, will not give meaning to blankness. The wind carries the ideas around, not very far, for the binding still acts as a skeleton for the mind, still encompasses every blank thought. The wind, then, perhaps stands as a sweet relief, a realization that all of it would have been for nothing. Unless, of course, the absent print means something else entirely. However so, the pattern continues, the white listlessness upon the leather bound spine gathers up with the wind, creasing the air with every weathered page’s sound.

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