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Dec 13, 20138 min read

Deviation Actions

Published: Dec 13, 2013

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_{Hiiii! Sorry I haven't talked to y'all in forever! I've mostly been on tumblr <.<'}

_{Anyhow, here's a meme because what better way to ease back here than a meme, right?}

_{The Rules:}_{♥ I'll post my three favorite deviations from the first ten people to comment (+1 bonus spot for the tagger!)}_{♥ If you comment, you have to do the same in your journal, putting the tagger (me) and three of my art on the first place.}_{♥ The idea of this is not to get a free feature, it is to spread art around for everyone!}

Popo-Licious
SilverInkblot Seafoam and Ash IIA girl once told me she was conceived by the ocean. "By" not "beside" – her skin was the color of new seafoam and you could follow her green eyes into the deeps and drown there. She had a soft, papery voice that sighed in and out and dark hair that cascaded past her shoulders like dried seaweed.
She was born along the sea strand, where the ocean met solidity and pounded it into tiny grains.  Perhaps she was delivered in a clump of seaweed or crawled her way out of a pink conch shell and learned to swim before learning to walk. She carried an air of calm serenity that rippled around her like an aura wherever she went, content to flow instead of fight.
Her name was Naida.
I met a boy born from the fire tailing comets rushing through the atmosphere. His hair was a shock of red swinging upward and he lit up entire rooms with his presence. He always spoke a little too fast, the words rushing from his mouth like sparks off a firecracker, flickering and dancing.  His SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi Drowning in Reverse II          vii. I still have your phone.
          vi. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The Ferris wheel rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder. I had to look at it every day on the ride to school. But it still hurt a little less than the pitying glances cast my way when no one thought I was looking.
          v. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here. That the hollow thumping in my chest would be solid again. That we could still have a future, a family, a wire terrier puppy with an oversized backyard to play in, that we could have all those things. Together.
   Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2
Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.
The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura of light just made the shadows deeper and I turned it off quickly.
F=force
Black holes are dead stars. Graves. Tombs that bury light, bury it so deep, swallow entire suns, planets, galaxies. Dead stars take all the light with them like rich men spending fortunes on alabaster monuments and marble headstones.
There are four unmarked graves
by-MK <da:thumb id="320922913"/><da:thumb id="275281815"/><da:thumb id="395833874"/>
curlscat Never Bring Something Personal to a WorkshopDon't write about
why nineteen years suddenly feels short, or
why sex isn't enough, or
where your heart wants to go
when it flutters so hard you're
sure it's sprouted bird-wings and wants
to escape your white-painted wire cage of
a chest that you covered with a blanket
made of shirt so it would go to sleep and stop
talking to you.
Write about how
your best friend is your dog because people will always fail you, or
the way you're never sure of, or
breaking up with someone you could have loved if things had gone a little different, maybe
but leave it at home.
Bring to a workshop
a road that twists and turns and the man who can't escape, or
the woman whose carnations keep wiltin You are not a writer, my loveYou were not born with unheard
songs shimmering out
from the centers of your bones,
nor with words coursing
through your bloodstream, attached to red cells
like oxygen.
Other worlds do not threaten to burst
the edges of your dreams
into daylight, demanding
to be called Reality
and your conscious is so firmly rooted in your
own brain that you are not tortured
with the understanding of situations you aren't in.
No, none of this is yours, dearest.
Instead, you have fireworks
in your synapses,
gears pulling your eyes
open to see things not even Dr. Seuss
could imagine.
You breathe numbers from the air and spit
them back out in another form,
stored in a filing cabinet of a hippocampus
with every periodical you've read, dyslexia twisting
them to something
greater than before.
Your reality is layered with
could be-s and will be-s and should be-s
and big Change-The-World
ghosts
of those who haven't been born
yet.
No, you are not a writer--
you're better. Stay Still, Dangit!I
     studied
astronomy

         on      my
           dalmation.
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by-MK

Dec 13, 2013

true, no better way to ease you way back in than a meme ^-^"!
damn't I am so doing this, finally >_<" you worth it.
I hope do alright.

I have been wondering how is it to have a tumblr

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