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...And when she spoke the world shrunk down and became simpler, softer, a better imitation of itself that held no possible pain. Like a dollhouse with its utopian storyline that was, by nature, created by those with young and innocent lives. Somehow she touched that world with her voice, despite how often it fled her grasp.

"I ignored it for years, which is a good thing I suppose. But now I'm unsure where it started, where it truly began, because I spent so long pretending that it wasn't there. That I was normal, like the others. Not normal, but...equal to them? Not broken in any way."

She paused as her words caught in her throat, some squeezing through strangled and malformed-- a discarded thought in process. This was one of the many symptoms I had seen in her, a gross reality composed of many images, many small horrors that no professionally removed medical manual could possibly prepare me for.

"I didn't know what it was called. I wish I had at least known its name back then. A name makes something real, gives it a body that will conform around the sound of the word. My mother once told me that if people weren't given names we would all be shapeless, and we would die after long because every one of us needs a name to shape our soul."

Her hands, her hands often shook like late autumn leaves in the wind despite all manner of things she tried to calm them; to catch them from some breeze that she alone felt. Occasionally they would hide, rattling against her collarbone, nestling temporarily in the hollow there before spreading open at her neck. They threatened to flatten by will of the wind and choke the last true part of herself out. But anxiety isn't known for its bravery, and she would take hold of them, again hugging them around her chest in an attempt to hide the tremors.

"Anxiety. One of those words that would sound pretty to a child, an innocent who hasn't connected it to its meaning and history. The name is so prickly that it perfectly embodies the panic, the raincloud that hovers overheard and threatens to overcome us all with downpour. The water gets so heavy... its in my clothes, my hair, everywhere, cold and slimy beneath my skin. It's hard to stand underneath its weight."

Sometimes she descended into a type of trance when surrounded, when the faces pressed close and became little more than blurs in the confusion of the adrenaline. She would then press close and whisper what she saw, hiding beneath clouded thoughts-- a panic attack could not strike what it cannot find, she reassured me while she described the dissociation. Her perspective was from above, she said-- as removed from the situation as the sailors that slept while one of their crew floated in the waters, long ago flung overboard.

"I still try to explain it to others, to my inner self. My inner self is about as removed from my whole self as the others are. It doubts that anxiety is real and suggests its just a fad, an excuse; but I know what it is really is, I know now.

"At the time my inner voice was strongest, I was sitting on the edge of my pool, hidden away in the back yard, trying to ignore the feeling that people were watching me from the chinks in the fence and the airplanes that dove for the runway somewhere on the horizon. But then I became fully conscious of my thoughts, and it made my inner voice hide away. Social anxiety, something like that couldn't be anything else but anxiety. My legs had swirled in the water idly as I thought, but for a moment I let them hang. The water sucked at them, made them float and, if I weren't sitting on the ladder, and the water wasn't constrained by the boundaries of the pool, I would be submitted to its mercy...

"....And ever since then I've thought of anxiety like an ocean. Endless, all-encompassing, something you can't defeat but only live alongside.

"And I think of that poem, that famous poem. 'Till human voices wake us and we drown' the ending line goes. Like I'm barely floating across this dark ocean, and sometimes I may actually lift out of it into safety and comfort in the air, in the clouds, but then..'here sounds a foreign voice', and I choke on that anxiety again."

Sweaty hands, pruned skin both sweating and absorbing the waves.
Sometimes her whole body is submerged, sometimes she is under for hours, struggling against the sheer power of water. How does she draw the line? What separates a man from his disease?

Her eyes focused on something just beyond my shoulder, some object of comfort. And for a moment, I've disappeared from her view entirely.

"You know what takes me up into those clouds? Stories, stories of people. Knowing that their lives are varied, that there's such variety that people of every kind exist, and within those are people like me. People I can help, whose situation I understand. There's thousands of choices, millions of potential backgrounds and bodies that a person can have...and yet, somehow, I can still connect with many. I can help them with the varied problems of participation within the human experience. It seems meaningless to many, but it fuels me, gives me life."

She stopped, and the fog cleared. I was struck by the sheer volume of sharp realities strewn across our world, the painful scenery I'm usually relieved of with her presence, beginning with her own gauntlet--

but the slow, sublime movement of her lips began again, and I joined her in this song of exposing, confessing, dismembering ourselves. She and I drifted, falling back into that suspended world, that temporary asylum from the world's woes that some of us are only given once in a lifetime.
Our Ritual Dismemberments
My entry for mental-health's A Candle in the Darkness contest.

My darkness: severe social anxiety. My candle: helping others. I've had SA since I was young, and it's always been a humongous part of me.

Meaning of the title: dismemberments are necessary for when we build up scar tissue, when we bunch up and coil into ourselves from the pain of dealing with the world. She's dismembering herself here, shedding that built up scar tissue and exposing herself to lift the burden of having to live with her anxiety. She: a better version of myself. The listener: no one in particular.

Exactly 1000 words.

Thoughts? Critiques?
And when the robin eggs fell with the nest, the mottled
half-formed liquids almost resembled a galaxy in distant
space-- a place you, nor your great grand kids, had ever dreamed of. But one day we'll fly
past it
like a bee in pursuit of a particular flower, a home suitable for us,
with oceans resembling those same
remains of robin eggs from
far, far away.

Perhaps we shall be there to catch them
next time. We watch them dull
as they decompose. Next time...

"So," she said, "where do you see
your tomorrows?" And I pointed to the sky, in the direction
I often imagined I could

nebulas stretched open, reaching, like
a flower blossoming for its sun, like the
robin stretching from wingtip to wingtip (still yet recovering
from the loss of its eggs?) Its body
composed of those tiny, intrinsic muscles
that help the world turn as they
drag them across the sky, claws that dip
and reach for that particular bit of shivering,
that hides the immaterial, but omnipresent
of the cosmos.
"We laid beneath the stars, and
as time passed us by we could almost feel
the night seeping into us. Its cold hue
was brightened by our presence, and we
were not changed."


The first thing that comes to mind when you see a particular vivid shade of blue is to compare it to robin's eggs. I thought I'd do something a bit different.

The correct plural of nebula is "nebulae" but it didn't seem appropriate here.

Probably could do some better spacing. I'll work on it later.

I promised a less sad color poem, but it didn't turn out that way...Have you ever written something accidentally? Because that's what happened. I wrote down a stanza while I was working on another poem in the series, did a similar thing during another break, then I added a few lines and bam it was complete. Odd.

Last entry, Lissomer.

Series complete! Other entries:Aura White, Rarified Air, and Hinting Blue.
When the sky first fell we called it glorious, called it
a new god, but in the face of our eternal misgivings
we were forced to become little more
than disillusioned children (minds reeling,
splotches of that empty space invading
our vision) and face this new clarity, the opportunity
for once in our lifetime to see the bared light
for what it is, the qualities it contains,
and not what we attempt
to paint upon it.

exposure is not inherent purity,
obscurity is not given corruption-- but
there are exceptions, as with all things.

Up high, the sky is tainted-- the atmosphere
corrupts, makes what was once light and easy
now come fighting.

it lazes-- it pulls through us, making
our lungs work all the harder
to consume.

We know this best-- we
who live in breathless days where
the need for it burns, chokes, where

the clouds c u r l and dip, sinking
their almost-transparent claws
every sliver
of your vision,
then the sky tips and

pales, threatening
to fall again.
Rarified Air
"Our breaths, fogged silvery uncolor-- more like
the absence of the sky than the presence of clouds--
drift up and join, mingle
with the others that
make up We."


Are you tired of receiving entries from me yet, Lissomer? I swear they get less understandable as I go along. It started out relating mostly to color, but then I figured I might as well try something more abstract. I'm not even sure what this is about now (at least it has a theme) but, main inspirations: ghosts and Mt. Everest.

There was some struggle to get it down to 30 lines here. The flow was better, more powerful, before I had to shrink it down.

One of my four entries of her contest, the others being: Hinting Blue, Cosmos, and Aura White

Thoughts, once again? Critiques?
My wedding dress, left on the side of the bed, flooded
by morning sun rays as the rest of the world struggles to wake but I,
I have woken before the light.

Other images of that spring flee my grasp. Did my skin truly
once gleam like porcelain-- unchipped, uncracked, as perfect and spotless as
the sun, a rival in its luminosity if ever exposed to its light? Did he once say
that I soaked up its rays without really absorbing them, that
every drop somehow removed color and left me paler than I was before?
Was my hair once sunlight upon the fragile
surface of water, the gleam of a wave cresting
before it crashes and is smoothed
into perfect inactivity?
Did he once say that I was a
different kind
of bright?
My memories have faded, mine no longer. I have faded them, I
have washed out their contents with the light
that blinds after a great period of darkness.
I attempt to remember that spring again, for him. Spring, always
with its effusion of newborn babies, every one
luminous, their skin glowing no matter the color. Just like
our babies, babies-to-be that lived more in dreams
than reality, drifting upon clouds eternally because the risk was
too high. He saw it as merely an obstacle, a challenge. But, did I dare
face the pearly gates for a child? But, could he possibly go without?...

After all this time, and all the effort I have put in
to forget, all I can remember with any semblance of clarity
is that same light within the angels
that took him away
just hours before our wedding.
Aura White
"I have recognized the light of the
angels countless times over in
strangers I have met, in the sun
at those odd times of day, but none
came close to his."


Another entry for Lissomer's contest. Other entries: Hinting Blue, Cosmos, and Rarified Air.

A little less sure about this one, but that always happens. Any hiccups spotted? Anything that could be improved?
Swathes of an empty flavor at sunset, peeking
from beneath clouds that crisscrossed, somehow mimicking
the stitching, the texture of the blanket your grandmother
made as she was decomposing, the one that
for some reason
you've held onto ever since her death.

The perfume in every inch smells of her (but you still keep it),
as does that rare rain she loved to watch (you can't escape it)
that somehow falls from clear skies, indistinct skies
just like the one you see before you now that's
splintered into tiny
pieces, waiting to let fall those raindrops
that are impossibly

They were clear, but luminescent. As if they all hid a
part of the world (along with the sky) within their
traveling globes that eternally
float down windowpanes  
and disappear
into oblivion below.

I struggled to see if the images they carried were of a different world
or ours, but
they were all coated with that sheen-that-isn't,
sheen-that-could-be. It always threatened to expose what lay
behind it, but never failed to simply
reflect the sky-- like glass, or puddles,
(which are the same thing when left stilled,
the wise, like grandnanny, would know why)--  
by choice of the wind, the sky
of that same empty flavor.
Hinting Blue
"And with each raindrop contributing, sacrificing
itself to the myriad of puddles so that
its kin may remain in the clouds above, her image
came all the clearer.


Entry for Lissomer's contest. The first of four, followed by Cosmos, Aura White, and Rarified Air. Probably the most deviations I've submitted at once ever.

Some background:
My father is a painter, among many things, and one tool he's always had in great stock were those color tiles that you contrast and compare to find just the right shade. When I was young, I saved a whole binder full of them from the trash after finding them potentially inspiring. I dug it out for this contest and I was drawn to the blues-- especially the ones that it must have took ages for them to decide a name on, such as the barely-a-color of Aura White, the remains of blue in Rarified Air, the almost-sunset sky color of Hinting Blue, and the flushed apex of the sky in Cosmos.



EvelynTaliette's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
A quiet girl with stars blooming in the black holes of her eyes.

Literature tag: property and creation of dim-baida. Full image here:
Avatar made by the lovely Penny-Dragon
Profile picture copyright Brandon Boyd

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the-solimnludic Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2015  Student Traditional Artist
Happy birthday, Evelyn!!! Haven't talked to you in a while but I hope you're doing well and that you have a fantastic day!!! :hug:
Danijel-Knez Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the watch!
grabraeuber68 Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2014
thank you very much for the fav...a long time ago..;)
Sherjaxon Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the FAVE!!
introverted-ghost Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2014   Writer
Thank you ever so much for the watch, dear. :heart:
My-Sword-is-Bigger Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist








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Contradictory55 Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the favoruite!
weaknesses Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2014
thank you for the watch :)
GDeyke Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2014   Writer
Thank you so much for the favorite! :heart:
richardcgreen Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the Watch and the Fave, Eve.
You picked one of my favorites!
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