this account is old and trash and of the work I shared is too. Which is fine, for this, because this is at list something- albeit its not great and I don't take this page/site too seriously but! it is proof, and dated, out in the open
The Creative Process Is a Distant God
Oden lives in a box. All white, flat, smooth walls and no windows. A constant dripping sound though there is no place for water. There is a desk and chair and on the desk there is an open notebook. The pen beside it is fine point; green ink. Oden is a writer. So Oden writes and nothing else. Oden has never been outside the box nor desired to leave; never needed to replace the pen.
I Leave You With This
She was the last thing I clearly thought about before I died. Every detail was precise; creating a phantom of her next to me that I knew I couldn’t actually touch. I couldn’t trace the crescent-like lining of her vitiligo that peaks from above her left ear, trailing towards between her lips to the back of the right side of her jaw, or kiss her after. I couldn’t wipe the tears from her spectral eyes and I couldn’t say goodbye. I knew this was going to happen, that they would kill me, so I planned ahead. She’ll find my letters and she’ll have me in her hands. I rather her treasure me as paper than as a memory of my limp and empty shell. She’ll find my letters.
This Is Not Déjà Vu
My earliest carcass didn’t know of time; in that life, it didn’t matter, didn’t exist. Yet, as what I now know was a bee, I existed. In that life, I didn’t bother to distinguish a difference between real or fake. Everything was real, it just was and so were you. You were a flower with pollen softer than that of any other and with nectar that was more than sweet. I rested within you at the base of your filaments. Too soon after leaving your safety, I was attacked, and as a consequence of defending myself, I died. That life, I learned, was just as fragile as that body.
Thank You Grimmie
All that is born will die and that’s where I chime in. I smile, a warm and welcoming smile, at every passing soul I encounter. And in all my immortal years I have noticed that only humans ask why. Only humans, and they always expect an answer, which I deny them. Not because I don’t know, but because they don’t need to know. A true magician never reveals their tricks. I think that’s why they think I’m so cruel and evil. Because they hate not knowing. They hate feeling so small and stupid. And of course, only humans are the assholes that spread foul-mouthed rumors about me like I’m not right there. Telling each other that I am that cause of pain and/or misery. But I know those two sadistic little shits personally. They work for me, so you people aren’t completely wrong, but you still aren’t right. What you guys are and have been way off about is what I look like.