Description: Ok, the hallway represents veins. The color is the passion for life that everyone is physically, emotionally, and mentally equipped with upon birth. The mirror is a blade that she runs through her flesh. The fear of evaporation is the fear of numbness of self. She wants to go on feeling. The anecdotes are recreational chemical uses, which ultimately numb you more and more. The bullet is her final sensation. She doesn't want to just disappear from existence, so she offs herself with a flashy show and a big mess to clean up for her family. The point is, leave self-mutilation to those who actually find some sort of joy in it, and don't do the drugs that will drive you to something like this. If you can't tell which drugs those are, don't do drugs at all unless your doctor tells you to. I digress: self-mutilation puts a scar on other people's hearts no matter what, so if you have no purpose to hurt yourself, DON'T DO IT. You give perversions of nature who find it erotic to be hurt a worse name than they deserve. Of course, anybody else gets their opinion, but that's the emotion behind the writing of this prose.
A gentle reflection down a scarlet hued corridor reflects the life force we cannot see by the mere working of our own eyes. She casts eerie shadows on the walls that seep into her reality, telling her dirty secrets and contaminating her mind with recipes of false anecdotes for the fear with which she is brimming with. The lovely rouge of these walls has been faded by scrubbing down the fear with quick-fixes and lust driven prescription in vain attempts at healing. This life-mirror is her last defense against fading into the omnipresent threat of evaporation. She knows this fortress of reflective hope will not regenerate the luster these walls once had, but she has to try and save herself. Presently, the color returns to its former state of degeneration. A bullet rips through the passageway, shattering the mirror, marring the walls to a point where they themselves cease to exist in any form of order, pattern, or beauty. She has passed.
well even with the description which seemed almost if not more lengthy then the poem which seems more like a really short story it was kind of hard to follow but after re reading it ( Twice) i like it and i get it yeah me i get it Yahoo okay anyways as always your words are hard for me but your writing was in depth it takes time but it really fully gets your main point across it seems you write about suicide and struggling from other peoples perspectives or a perspective of an unseen force i don't really think it's your veiw well i mean it is but it isn't in a form that shows that and since i'm rambling on and confusing even myself i'll just leave keep writing josh love nat
Your description seems, self confident. I admire your work but not the attitude you presented it with. The fact is that when you present a piece of text and you ask someone to read it, the text is in their mind as they read, and out of your hands. This is why i dont really like descriptions because often people read that first and so have preconceptions about the peice before they have read it. I think its important to read something before you pass judgement. You seem a perfctly intelligent and eloquent guy, so i feel that i can be frank with you and you will understand why im saying what im saying. the writing process typically goes writer->text->reader->interpretation
and rarely does the reader ever get back to the original thoughts of the writer, but often this relationship is far more fruitful than that of talking face to face with someone, because it becomes far more intense instantly...anyway, so you clearly have some ideas about what elements of this piece symbolise, which are clever, but not neccesarily what the 33 others got from it, which isnt a bad thing, thats just the way it goes, later ellisa
I've been taken into the hallways of her mind, those shadows turn red and she has an omen of her death, the bullet is no surprise, because the drugs she's on have blown her mind. She tries to project this to others but it doesn't translate, especially through the written word. Each sentence she writes is about sensations, and the ending is always the end. Plausible doesn't seem to get through. Steppenwolf, in the Hermann Hesse novel saw a sign that read, "Magic theatre, the price of admission, your mind"