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Writing

The Last Say

Posted in Writing
on August 23, 2017
(unedited. little writings and scribbles I needed to get out) 



Dear Reader (or perhaps dear you),

There’s many things I’ve wanted to say. I just didn’t know how. I’ve fantasised giving you a verbal takedown. I even rehearsed my lines, writing them word for word in a dusty old notebook. It made my mind as ease to know what I wanted to say, the things hidden in the depths of my soul. Violent things like the stab, stab, stab of my heart.  But also the things I didn’t want to admit myself, the things I couldn’t.

I’d make you feel how I felt. Hurt. Pain. Heartbreak.

I did all those things, so many times, in my head. The scenarios, talks with myself and the questions asked.

‘He wasn’t right for me,’ I’d say, knowingly. ‘He didn’t get me,’ I’d say, unknowingly. 

Then I’d see you at the bar, looking happy, unfazed…changed.  And add ‘I didn’t mean much then, he’s the same boy who tore me down and built me up to only tear me down even more.

  All I ever was to him was a toy in a constant state of broken.’ 

I love who I am now. I’m no longer a toy, but me. An introvert. A writer. A traveler. I’m happy because I know me, the real me. The one that was lost of a time.  But you have a part of me. A part that’s still missing. A part that will always be yours.

I see you clearly for what you are now- you’re no longer a blur but perfectly clear. A clear mess of confusion.

Of loneliness and regret.

Of whiskey kisses and starlit wanderings.

Of whispered secrets and unmade sheets.

 

 

A lost soul,

 

an unclear path.

 

 

 

 

 

But, you hurt me. Twice.

Yet…

That pain is gone.

I forgave.

It disappeared a while ago.

I know longer feel hurt by you and I no longer feel pain. Like the extraordinarity of a monsoon in summer, I’m refreshed. I’m soothed. I’m the North Star in the sky of a thousand glinting stars, giving direction, yet being it.

Instead, I want all your dreams to come true, I want you to be as happy as I.  And more than anything, I hope you’re becoming you (the real one) 

Love,

http___signatures.mylivesignature.com_54494_205_B1C5F95CB5513F37F2A78683336BFAB7

 

 

 


If you have any questions or would like to contact me please email me at imogen.thompson96@gmail.com or leave a comment below.

Pen and Paper: A Short Story

Posted in Writing
on August 31, 2016

Dear Reader, 

I wrote this short story a long time ago and it was inspired by the book ‘Stoner’ by John Williams. I really hope you like it and I’d love some feedback. I’m hoping to get back into writing more so I thought starting with a (very) short story would be a great idea. So here it is: 

She pondered the words that the teacher spoke in the class, their flat and monotone vibrations, just reaching the back of the classroom to the uncomfortable desk at which she was sat.  The words were being toyed and played with, in her mind as if plucking the right one would eventually lead her onto something better, something with significance. It was then that the room’s familiar walls soon became a confinement in which all of the young persons within the room were imprisoned by, but it was just her who noticed it. The echoes of a lecture on Chaucer reached her as she began to think and they were ignored.  Partly due to her already knowing what the teacher was discussing and there was a niggling in the depths of her brain to write.

 

The pen was put to paper.

 

She immersed herself in documenting her previous decisions within her life. It was decided that there was not many that went well.  The glare from the sun danced around her and the millions of refractions only added to the amount of mistakes she had made. She forgot the things that make you human, that make you feel.  The classroom became dark and scary but the pen in her hand flickered in the sunlight and lit the page upon which she was writing.

 

No sooner had she begun to write the bell rang. Bags were quickly packed and feet were shuffled into the direction of the corridor. But all she could do was stare outside towards trees which reached to the sky. She noticed that the long and spindly indexes of the trees were reaching up. Reaching up past the suburban havoc, past the houses stacked upon each other, past the chattering of finches and towards the sky. They were moving away from the things that trapped him and towards something new. Something fresh. In that moment she too followed the rest of the class but unlike them she had a purpose. A dart-like thought which had already seeded itself.

 

The familiar path was taken, but this was not the path home. It was to her secret place. A secret place in which none else would ever know about and nor would she tell them. It was full of life. The birds chattered and the rustling of leaves added to a chorus which only her toke notice of. The depths of a small forest near home was her place. It was far enough away from everything to pretend she was somewhere else. It gave comfort and strength.

Within the bower of a huge tree held a pen and paper and it was with this is wanted to write. Breathlessness had overtaken the other senses as she reached this tree. Her hands spread across the rough bark as she caught breath. She smiled at the adrenaline of the run and the feeling that nobody knew where she was. She was completely alone. This saddened the smile causing her feel slightly more alive.

 

That was when the paper was reached for and the pen began to write again.

 

This act for writing went on for hours. As soon as dusk came the feelings of love, anger, and despair were gone and a consuming sadness has replaced it now. It swallowed her whole like a tidal wave until she forgot to breathe and by that time the hot tears were streaming down her face. She had written out her story, the one so far. Everyone has a story you see. They make us tumble, fall and climb the paths upon which our lives were made. Everyone also has a path such as the golden path that Dorothy followed to the path that Hansel and Gretel had tried to make, some of us just don’t see it. This path was not yet completed for her and she doubted that it ever would be. The only thing that held any power over her existence was the brown leather journal on which she had written down everything and her familiar compass which is kept around her pale neck.

 

The pen on the paper scratching faintly and the ominous compass shifting every so often was the only noise within the dark forest that a human could hear. The pivots around this girl’s existence were turning, in small flashes. As she knew she was doing something right for a change. Her mind was infinitely different yet trapped in a world in which no one understood it.

 

And so she wrote.

 

Hope you liked it! I’d really appreciate feedback as it’s the first time I’ve put any of my writing online. 

Love, 

http___signatures.mylivesignature.com_54494_205_B1C5F95CB5513F37F2A78683336BFAB7