This week I decided to take a break from my drawing and graphic art and instead focused on some more creative writing. I’ve always been interested in the writing style of prose which I found the time to experiment with in the attached text below:

This was always a constant motion. Sort of like sitting on the kitchen floor watching the tumbling of a blurry laundry cycle that’s been stuck on rinse for far too long. It reminds me of that shitty house party on New Year’s Eve where we sat in the basement hoping it would all wear off soon enough to understand what was even going on. We laughed so hard at that one kid who bragged about being trashed from a few shots and a couple hits because he had no idea what an unruly mess we were slipping into.

The tacky golden decorations stuck to the walls with cheap tape reminded me of why I always hated the sound of church bells that rung on the hour. And everyone checking their phones for the time as if it were a system they were foreign to their whole life made me realize I always wanted just a little bit longer. The thing was I never liked the pressure of time and you found clocks too exhausting. To us numbers were just another part of this crazy illusion caused by people who feared exactly what we had felt, inconsistency.

But waking up and going downstairs to get you a glass of water was me finally realizing that you can have right moments in the wrong time. That wholeness is rather a luxurious idea and it’s the halves that half us in half. When lighting candles we only smelt the scent and not the burning. And pretending like the leaks in the basement weren’t there didn’t fill the holes but eventually flooded the entire house. Just like flat sound found a way of flowing out of the computer speakers even though it was on loud and sitting on warm cement only made you colder. Forget it, this is just everything hitting me at once.

So we managed to find a ride home right before the ball dropped. As I walked through the door the timer for the wash finally went off and I wondered what was even in there in the first place. It didn’t matter, I was sure the stains were still sunken deep into the fabric. But I stuck around, took the clothes out and hung them to dry. I thought to myself that maybe I’ll try harder again next year, but for now the faint red and blue lights from a small town telephone pole decoration through the window of first street was enough to make me stay.