《it's archaic》message in a bottle
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☾︎ i spent the night hunting
for stars in the sky,
i spent a day waiting
for steams in my chai,
i spent a week looking
for lost dreams crashed by the shore,
i spent almost a decade looking
for something more.
☾︎ i saw the nightlights
dazzling my city,
i saw the crowd in
it's daily activity,
i saw a message in a
bottle in the iris of your eyes,
i saw waves overflow
each time you cried.
☾︎ i heard the nightfall,
humming with hue,
i heard the moon is
watching in a crescent gloom,
i think it's you they're worried about,
will you follow that dream
or just wander around?
☾︎ if you just sit slowly
and sit still,
i could open that scroll
from the bottle,
and we could sit at marine lines,
to try and speak to the ocean tides,
tell them that you're coming,
it seems,
to prod your footsteps,
to follow your dreams.
—
a/n this is an old poetry of mine, wrote it before i made my wattpad account, in march 2020. i was coming back home from another city i guess (this was before lock down happened) and i remember sitting in the car and watching the skyline lowly glimmer, and i had no idea what i wanted to do with my life and that was when i wrote this piece.
it's bizzare how long ago that seems but it has not even been a whole year yet and i just watched the movie “your name” and it wasn't about dreams, but it was about nostalgia for someone you've never met before and surprisingly, that reminded me of this poetry.
i know it's a bit different from my work now but i still hope you enjoy reading this nonetheless. and thank you for being here, this book just got 2k reads, so thank you :').
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Old Riding Author Lunatic Asylum
Just off the A19, in the dark, incomprehensible lands known as Yorkshire, there lies a town. A town where shadow-silent alleys glint with the secret hunger of knives. Where blood soaks the chipboard window shutters of forsaken terraces stretching off into the night. Where the smog-choked air rattles with the depraved laughter echoing out from clubs that can only generously be described as post-apocalyptic. Well, that’s Middlesbrough. But down the A19 a bit (an impossibly long way down, actually) there lies another town: Raughnen, in the ancient, forgotten Old Riding. It is an equal match in muggery and thuggery alike. It also has magic spells and pointy wizard hats. And now, across the miles and across all sensibilities, a pretty nasty power (a magic one) calls out for its pretty nasty counterpart (a decidedly unmagic one): a proper sound Boro lad. Nothing good can come of it. This is a collection of one novella and four connected short stories: I. A Yorkshire Summoning II. Old Riding Day Trip (the novella) III. Heaven is a Parmo IV. Death on the 66 V. Death on the 257 In total, this comprises 34 chapters totalling around 35,000 words, so try not to worry. It will be over relatively quickly. There are three more short stories with more tenuous links to the core collection: Rush, Paper Round and Scenario 79: Sausage Fingers, all of which can be found in my collection Short Records of Misadventure. Reading these may allow you to make more sense of certain parts of the story, if any sense is to be made at all. NOTE: There are instances of prejudice and discrimination within these stories, including elements of sexism and ageism, which are purely the thoughts and actions of the characters involved and which certainly do not reflect my own views on these matters. ANOTHER NOTE; A WARNING, PERHAPS: This can get a bit weird. In less than 150 pages, we have four viewpoints, first and third person narratives, and a completely disjointed plot with lots of gaps, dead ends and no real resolution. Also ZERO lunatic asylums. It's all a bit odd. If that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea, which it most likely isn't, it might be best to move on now.
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