Hi! This is the blog formerly known as imlesliemonster (now imlesliemonster2). I was kind of an idiot when I first made this blog because I used a separate email address. I’ve made a new writing blog, under the same url as the original (http://imlesliemonster.tumblr.com). The only difference is it’s attached (invisibly) to my personal tumblr so it’s easier for me to access it, and write stuff etc.
So yeah, anyone that follows me, I very much appreciate the follow and would love it if you could follow me over there as well! I’m writing loads more now, I just need to type some of it up, so. Yes. Thank you! <3
edit: Although apparently I can’t follow or ask anyone anything from anywhere except my personal blog. Hmph! Oh well. :)
There are wildflowers in my mind’s eye. They are growing everywhere, a weed, infesting every corner they can find. A pestilence, really. They won’t leave. You don’t think I’ve tried chopping them down? I’ve used scissors, I’ve used hedge trimmers, I’ve used a goddamn machete to hack and slash a clear path through my mind. But, in seconds, where one head of the hydra is cut, two grow in its place; and so the flowers grow back.
I’ve sort of learned to accept it now. I have to, or else I won’t be able to function, to survive. They have sort of become part of me. I think I would miss them, if they were gone.
One day, I am being careless. A spark ignites, right in the centre of the meadow which I have grown to love. All my efforts go into stopping it, but - it is too late. A flower has ignited, and in a blazing roar, the meadow ignites. Everything I have ever known. The fire blazes through my mind, relentless, until all that is left is the charred remains of my life.
One day, I am wandering through. Everything that I once loved about myself is gone. It hurts almost more than I can bear, and I collapse to my knees, tears freefalling from my face. But while I am on the floor, I notice something. A speck of green. I stumble towards it on my hands and knees and carefully brush the dust and ashes to the side. A single shoot, with a tiny leaf, gradually stands up, and I smile. New hope, a new beginning.
There are wildflowers in my mind’s eye.
It is late; the sun has only just hidden away, tucked in for the night, but now it is dark. An envelope of night surrounds us as we talk and love and live.
We play into the night, the music filling me with nostalgia and memories of a more innocent time. We cannot remember how to play, but we get by as best we can.
The scent of cake catches us and we take a halt from our strategising to turn our attention to the kitchen. When we are finished there, what can we do but laze around to eat the fruits of our labour? Perhaps there are better ways to spend your first day here than by spending an hour almost entirely silent except for the quiet delusions coming from the television, but I cannot think of anything.
Words freefall from our mouths for hours today. It is eerily silent in the house except for our murmurs, our slightly half-hearted attempts to not get caught by my parents.
It is good.
Life is good.
And we talk all night, and before we know it, we glance outside and the sky is a crisp, clear blue. Unknown to us, the world is waking up.
We eventually succumb to the tide, slumber taking over our bodies, and it is not enough - it is never enough - but oh, what a perfect first night.
everyone is hiding from me
all starlit is their fantasy
AND THE NIGHT FEELS ALIVE
I’ve heard “you look amazing” tonight
more times than I can count
but that can’t be right.
a perfect example of fake
just for fake’s sake, for fuck’s sake
Because, ok, everyone
looks beautiful to someone.
But they don’t all think that about each other.
all of them:
liars in layers.
posers and fakers.
and what about The Case
of the Poor Introvert
whom Everyone Forgot?
Well, she died.
They never found her body.
My poor poor
i want to be here
forever. i want to stay here
And play video games
And wallow in the lost
memories of my childhood
And drown myself in tea
so that it bubbles up (up, up, up)
up to my ears in tea
and maybe, if luck is with me
write something beautiful.
BUT MY POOR hUMAN BODY
cannot take it anymore.
the pressing urgency of the passage of time
has taken its toll on my body
and I am so
It’s just a matter of days, now, and I know it. Days that feel like seconds, like sand slipping through my fingers on a warm day, and by trying to catch it I just make it fall faster.
They always say that these are the best days of your life, and I always think, christ, I hope not. I hope that in my life, I get to experience magical things, wonderful things, places that fill me with joy, and that I have not reached my peak in life already.
I am dying to get out of here. I can feel myself wasting away with each moment that I spend locked up in this nowhere town where no one is anyone and the most exciting event of the season is the release of a new romantic comedy in the cinema. Because I am dying.
Maybe not in the traditional sense of the word. I am not in any kind of immediate danger, but I do have a fatal illness. That illness is simply: life. My prognosis? 70 or so more years. It seems long, but each day that I spend in this place is one less day that I get to enjoy. 69 years, 364 days. Here it comes.
I look on my ceiling. Where once I could soothe my restless mind by counting the dots, they are now hidden by dozens of notecards, each covered in helpful hints or study material for exams, and it is this which reminds me of what I hate.
How, then, can people claim that I will miss my time here?
The quad is silent as the grave, and as I walk through it, the wind begins to pick up, as if it knows. All around me, I can see through windows into classes, classes of people who have no idea; people who are so set on doing this for the rest of their lives, that will become doctors and lawyers and will go through their entire life never knowing what it is to be living. As I think these things, I half expect an orchestra to begin to play, and the people in the classrooms to stand up, to smash the windows, to start dancing for simply no reason, to do something to show that they are people.
But my life is not a movie, it does not have a soundtrack, and no one knows that I am walking through, pitying them all; pitying myself. Life goes on.
I have 69 years and 363 days left, if I’m lucky, and I know that if I have any sense, I should want to spend as few of them as possible in this place. The more time spent here, the less out in the world, being an actual human being.
And yet, I feel lonesome as I walk through the abandoned quad, ordinarily full of students milling around. I walk into one of several cafeterias, and it is simply… empty. It feels strange. Wrong, somehow.
I leave, because I can’t stand the feeling of such a familiar place being so incorrect.
I can see into classrooms as I walk past. Perhaps my earlier assessment was wrong. Perhaps there is some life to this place after all. I see people laughing, passing notes, taking off their shoes, social etiquette be damned. I see people being human.
I should be in there.
69 years, 362 days, if I’m lucky. The vast majority of those will be spent in places that I don’t know, and that don’t know me. Places that are scary, and distant, and some of them won’t work out.
What’s another couple of weeks in a prison, if that prison is safe and familiar?
I need to be here. I don’t want to go. Christ.
I don’t want to leave.
In all his life, he has never needed anyone. And he still doesn’t. It has been a year, and he has been trying to distance himself from it by distancing himself from all that he has known, and never staying in one place. Like dust on a windy road, he floats through, never settling.
Until now, that is. All of a sudden, it rains, and the dust sticks where it lands. And then he meets her.
He packs up his things slowly, far slower than upon his arrival. He has been here for several weeks, and it is finally time to leave; this is the longest he’s stayed in one place for an entire year. Ordinarily, at this point he would be all packed up and at the airport already, itching to leave. But there is something stopping him.
He isn’t quite able to recognise what it is, though.
Finally, he is unable to drag out the packing any longer. There is nothing left in his room, so all he can do is take his suitcase to the taxi waiting outside, and leave. The ache in his chest begins to grow, expanding uncomfortably, and he is sure that there is something physically wrong with him, so he calls the one person that he trusts.
"Hello?" he says.
"Hey," and he can hear her smile over the phone.
"How are you?" he asks, and his pain is forgotten. For some time, they talk, as if they have been best friends for years. But that is what happens when water meets dust. It kind of forces you to stick together.
And then when the water dries, there is nothing to stop the dust from flying away once again. Not unless there is some external factor stopping him.
A thought dawns upon him. It’s her. The reason that he can’t leave with a clean conscience; it’s her. He needs her, and she needs him. The feeling is so foreign to him that he is unsure what to do. This feeling of intense need scares him, and he longs for familiar territory.
So he leaves. That is all he can do.
what're you up to?
i miss you too.
god, I really needed you today
just y'know those days
when everything just starts piling up and one thing becomes another
and it just snowballs into a huge pile of undesirable shit
is there any other kind?
no, it's totally fine
that was the first time i managed to laugh all day
I know what you mean though.
ugh there is literally nothing I want more than to be able to drive over to your house right now
and throw rocks at your window so you know I'm there
and I'd have a Friends dvd and a bucket of ice cream and we'd just sit and eat and talk
I would give up everything to do that
you know when you're here and I'm not?
like, you're just talking, and then I come back and read the messages
or vice versa
well isn't it weird
just fucking crazy
that we say "I'm here"?
so if you say "I'm here" and I say "I'm here too", but we're not actually in the same place, so what the hell does 'here' mean?
pretty fucking crazy
i think there's a separate place between us, and it's just our own
so when I come there on my own, I leave a note
and when you come back
i read the note and leave you one too
you read the note
can you do me a favour? can you just... sit in this room that we have, with me, for a while? and just enjoy being human with me
just share that experience
of hanging out at 3am
of course. I wish I could be there for reals though, but I can't really justify leaving, y'know
my job, and everything, y'know...
but god, nate, you have to know, I love you
and it's tearing me apart that I can't be there with you.
i just booked plane tickets
i will be there in 24 hours
i love you too.