Sometimes they laugh because they do not see what is so beautiful about clinging on to candlelit dreams at the edges of your hair; they have not a prayer of comprehending the peace that floods into your skin like fresh air upon holding fireflies in your fingers.
Sometimes they laugh because they read the words scribbled but not the soft laughter that lies between them they will never have the simple pleasure of knowing what music does to your soul when your body has forgotten how to listen.
Sometimes they laugh because they think they know you because they have memorized every inch of your face, and every unsteady step of your feet but they never have and never will know the white hot flame of your shadow nor the red mist that is the cornerstone of your heart.
Was she then capable of murder? Not the hot blooded kind, done with a weapon of proximity. But one months in the making, with painstaking plans and simple alibis.
She didn't do it, even though there were times when she wanted nothing more than to strangle Frankie with her bare hands. But someone had. Someone had killed him, and suddenly all her secrets were safe.
Will Ferguson's voice seemed to come out of the mist, she could see his lips moving, but the words were whispers, and all she could hear was the rain bucketing down.
"So, as I was sayin' Frankie bet on the Germany Brazil match in the 2014 World Cup. The odds were impossible. 4000 to 1 for a 7-1 Germany win, and yet on the 8th of July, the impossible did in fact, happen."
Suddenly, the full impact of what Will was telling her hit her, with a visceral force.
"But.. but Frankie died on the 14th. Six days later."
"He won five thousand quid in that match. The money was supposed to be sent by the 15th. And he was dead by then. Too much of a coincidence, aye?"
She repeated, almost to herself. "Too much of a coincidence."
The money had come, in fact. And she and Finn had managed to pay off a mortgage, and life had gone on. Until Will Ferguson came, and started asking questions of the most uncomfortable kind.
She had never truly thought it was true, but now she was forced to confront a distinctly distasteful possibility.
Was Finn capable of murder? The cold blooded kind?
I am trying To come to Terms with the Fact that it's Okay if all My carefully chalked Out plans end Up going haywire That I don't Need to go From point A To point B In a certain Amount of time That if my Heart tells me That I should Stop and sit Under the shade Of the eucalyptus That's what I Should be doing Rather than running Under the sun Until the bones Beneath my skin Turn to dust.
I am trying To come to Terms with the Fact that it's Okay to give Up on dreams That were fanciful In the extreme To begin with That it's okay If I don't Spend my entire Life chasing shadows That will lead Me to nothing But dead ends That if I Want, I could Spend an entire Night simply gazing Up at the Stars without a Lingering thought at The back of My mind that I might be Wasting my time.
I am trying To come to Terms with the Fact that life Doesn't have to Be perfect, it Simply has to Be lived, and You don't need To be running Races you never Wanted to win That there is No need to "Compare your normal Moments with someone Else's highlights reel" There is nothing Wrong with trying To measure your Happiness by the Number of minutes You laughed with An unbridled joy Rather than by Counting the pennies Left in your Bank's savings account.
Lines between " "- read somewhere, cannot remember at the moment
Of course I do. How could I not? But what I really like, is the idea of writing. The whole concept writing represents. Abstract letters one after the other, and they end up evoking these bipolar feelings of love and lust, kindness and jealousy. You get the drift, yeah?
I like the theory that words hide behind a curtain, a screen, watching you, learning your movements, memorizing your routine. (Is that what stalkers do?) When they do appear, it is invariably out of thin air, like suspended disbelief, like lightning in a bottle, waiting to catch fire.
They say you must write a thousand terrible words. You must write all these words with askew grammar and childlike innocence before they drill into you the basics of writing, where the verb goes, why adjectives are best avoided.
They say you must write a thousand terrible words before the gods take mercy upon you and you write a good one. They also say 80% of statistics are made up on the spot, so you must choose what to believe.
I don't think you have written a terrible word in your life, but maybe that's just me. For all I know, I could be an echo chamber which drowns out all your flaws. Perfection, just like beauty, lies in the eyes of the beholder.
There isn't really anything such as poor writing. I don't think you can quantify the abstract. There are stories that have lost their way, and stories that haven't seen the light of day. But in the end, there are no dull stories, only dull storytellers.
(The hill I am willing to die on) If you don't know the meaning, Google it.