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Excerpt From a book that Im almost done writing

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Hello all,


As mentioned in the poetry thread, I'm working on a book thats nearing completion. I've already gotten some interest from some publishers which is pretty cool. Here is an excerpt that is essentially from the first chapter.


The book is about a bunch of different themes, namely the pressures put on society by society itself, suicide as murder by life, etc.


?I want you to see this the way I see it. Crimson red, dark shadows, curves and spins leading to green snares of regret and hopelessness and flirtations with destiny, lying there on a cold, white, unforgiving, and yet comfortingly consistent concrete bed of a doorstep. The perfect picture of something that everyone recognizes but never really sees for what it is.

I think part of me knows that she will love them and giggle the way we always want them to. Something about giving gifts caters to the deepest part of your soul, even though sometimes giving is the most selfish thing one could possibly do. Her eyes will light up, and for a fraction of a second nothing and no one else will exist except for the world that worships her. A queen, a princess, the rise and fall of an empire before she can blink. Those little pockets of pure joy that seem to appear every once and a while and remind you that you?re alive and beautiful, and then suddenly vanish into the background again. We live for those moments in life that barely exist and disappear so quickly that we can only remember them, the times that fill us so rapidly and so fully that we don?t recognized its happened until we overflow.

The question of whether or not to leave a name always presents itself. The fear, of course, is that if left without a label, a bastard bouquet will be adopted by some unknowing suitor in her mind, most likely someone other than me. Someone somewhere will become Prince Charming, the blind, deaf and dumb inheritor of a kingdom that I?ve dreamt of for so long. Unfortunately, my greatest fear has always been that if I sign my soul to these flowers, suddenly her surprise may become a burden, a responsibility, the undertow catching her feet and pulling her under. The bouquet becomes an unwanted gesture, a mistake, destined for a vase without water behind a curtain. The child claimed by a father and suddenly unwanted by a mother.

So I settle for notes, handwritten, signed with a whisper of identity. Words and phrases that struggle so desperately to put on paper what surrounds and drowns me daily. Enough to clarify who it isn?t and let her imagine who it is. Maybe initials, maybe a self-serving description, maybe just a word of closure like ?Sincerely? or ?Yours? or even ?Love.? It takes so much to describe how you feel without revealing yourself in this world, and we do it every day. We ask for things without exposing how deep our desire is, and society has the answers for the questions we?re afraid to ask; fast food restaurants are a method of denial, a way of feeding our hunger so we aren?t forced to crawl and prey and attack to quench one of our most primal desires. We cry and pine to the people we love and hold close but never reveal the things that keep us shivering and sobbing at night, the things that we feel in the deepest parts of our souls. All anyone ever really wants is someone else to connect with, somebody to erase all the things that weigh us down and keep us from looking up. But then we make the mistake of presenting ourselves on golden plates with diamond insets and silk napkins, deceptions intended to further distract from who we really are. The worst heartbreak you ever feel is the day you realize that you?ve been lying to yourself. But until that day comes, you pretend its not there, like writing a letter but avoiding signing it.

Walking down these steps is tragic in its own way. Every day, I approach the door, telling myself that somehow or another the skies will fall, the door will swing open, and I will be forced to describe the sun, moon, and stars to her, and how they all pale in comparison to the effect her mere presence has on me. She spins, jumps, sways, or otherwise simply runs into my arms and begins to perform the dream that I?ve had written for so long. Of course, I know its not going to happen. So do you. So does she, I think. Fate, destiny, a master plan, all of those irrefutable pathways through life we?re taught in our earliest moments, they whisper and demand and scream in my ear at all the wrong moments. I want so badly for this to be meant, to be ordained so I can chase it and make it true. But instead I?m building my hopes on a foundation made to collapse. Walking down these steps reminds me how truly fruitless all of this is.

And yet, here I am.?

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