The bull was in the morning_A Life Dreaming_Moral of The Story_Whenever This Happens It'll Be Ef
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The bull was in the morning
Cold. Wet. Cold and wet. That’s all I feel. And a sudden urge to breathe. Air, I need air. My lungs are burning. They are screaming for air. I open my eyes. They sting. I try to scream but I can’t. Water fills my mouth and I feel like choking. I am underwater. I start waving my arms around trying to get my head above. I can’t. My heart is pounding and my lungs are endlessly screaming. I hear drums. The kind of rhythm, African tribes perform in rituals. And they get louder. Louder and louder soon my entire skull is vibrating. I try to scream one more time. Only air bubbles come out. I desperate...
A Life Dreaming
You find yourself in a bright room, surrounded by giants. You are wet, and it is cold. You miss the warmth you’ve always known. You don’t know what it is to be cold or warm, only that this is cold and before the thundering sounds and celestial lights, you were warm. You squirm in discomfort, vocalizing your displeasure. “It’s a girl!” You don’t know what these words mean. You feel hands on your body, the chill of the air. You can’t tell what sounds you are making and what sounds the giants are making. You are frightened. Your fear dissipates as you feel the embrace of that warmth you once kne...
Moral of The Story
One day the sun rose in the west and set in the east. I got used to it. There wasn't any fear anymore. No desire to run from whatever crept around the corner. Some things you can't change, no matter how hard you try. My twin sister and I learned that from the moment we discovered what we were.www.onedoor.cc It didn't make us any less human. Instead, it taught us the definition of being human is specific. A brain, heart, lungs. But what about the soul? Did that define a human? We couldn't see it, touch it, or feel it. But it made us what we are. It gave us our personality. Every living thing had one. At ...
Whenever This Happens It'll Be Effortless
Karina bleeds in scribbles, her quick strokes clawing out the song-like scritch of pen on paper. It’s a desperate tune, for she writes to forget that her room has only three walls. The missing wall, the one that vanished, now leaks incessant nothingness. Facing away from it, Karina’s head throbs at the sound of black echoes. She should not know about this. She knows that she should not know about this. With a whisper of a prayer, she writes on, hoping that her room can become complete again, and that she can meet her deadline. She freezes. Deadline? She never had a deadline. She was just ...