HOME | DD

Description
The air was cool and damp, the pressure somehow intense, though weather people always called it a 'low pressure' system. 'Perfect time to write' I thought. The only thing I could really derive power from now was writing, feeling my fingers fly over the keys as I continued to look at the screen, watching the innards of my brain appear as I listened to music that might fit, might not; all the while my muses were either arguing with each other or watching me intently.

Three Doors Down resounded in my head as I tried to think of something strong, someone this song would apply to. There were many people I could think of, but somehow- someone ripped the ear-buds right out of my ears, much to my chagrin. The feeling I had was intense. I glared up at the perpetrator. Envy. As per usual. I was stuck with him haunting me forever more, since I wasn't into FMA anymore, and he'd died.

"Give those back." I demanded.

"I will if you'll tell me what you're writing." He said with a grin, dangling my ear-buds in my face, "It had better be something FMA-related, otherwise I-"

"Now. Give them back NOW. Don't make me call Annie." I said. I was aiming for deadly. He just laughed, letting the ear-buds fall down on the keyboard, leaving an 'arfc' in the middle of the sentence.

"It's fun to pick on you, you know. I'm not leaving any time soon." He said in a sing-song way, lifting my face up by my chin as I jammed my ear-buds back in my ears.

"I don't care. Now go the hell away. I mean it. I will call Annie."

Annie from 'being human' had to be one of my favorite characters of all time. The BBC version, though. She was so human, so grounded, especially for a ghost. And powerful to boot. Teleportation with several people seemed to be one of her specialties. At least around me. She knew how I hated the over-reacting muses. She'd take them away temporarily, sending them usually out of the house and locking them out. I promised her that I'd draw her in return.

"Fine, you win this time, Kitty-Cat." He hummed, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

I grumbled something about that damn palm-tree head and continued to labor on whatever it was I was working on. The playlist switched and a new song left its echoes in my thoughts. Simple Plan, Take my Hand. The words 'don't let me go' filled my head to the brim, letting everything else slip away but the image of two beings reaching for each other.

I was thinking, or rather I thought, describing things like that were always horribly done, since I believe no one could describe something like that, however they always come out paralyzingly good but sometimes ghastly when thought about. Fingers flew over the keyboard again. I may not be able to master the piano, but I prefer these keys. I tossed my hair over my shoulder as I continued. The way my thoughts were running, you'd assume I'd been running. I checked over and redid my fingering missteps, leading to spelling errors being fixed up and grammar thrown to the wind.

This was my domain, my writing, my art, my music. I drowned in them daily, and that was my one, true, guiltless pleasure high. I closed my eyes, drinking in the sound and the images that my head had decided to play out. My new fascination and new muses now took the stage, since they were all I could think about now. The song switched again, one that I didn't recognize. It was beautiful. The message hit me like a brick wall, cued with the crack of thunder that occurred somewhere on the horizon.

Those feelings… Maybe I didn't understand them. Maybe I did. I've been on both ends of the spectrum. If I went by the standards of the song, maybe I'd saved someone already. Maybe the ones I offer my shoulder to cry on might have lost it so long ago… Maybe it really is those little things that let people keep going. Ah. Maybe that's how I haven't tried to pass that blade over my wrist to see just what color the blood pulsing through my veins was out of curiosity.

All of the things that I put up with, I've heard it over and over again. I belittle how I feel. I feel between the muses and my friends, I don't have a right to feel like that. But it isn't true, now is it? If words move you, or pain gets to you one day, it's alright to cry, right? I don't like that feeling, but I use it so much in my words, in my passion. When will all of that shit stop, though? Why won't we fix one goddamn problem? Respect others and not try and make yourself feel better by belittling someone else? But not everyone could feel this way, the way I do. But I have to remind myself that others feel the way I do. I just wish that more people would… would reach out. Both Heaven and Hell know I would reach out to anyone who needed it.

I smiled at those thoughts, shutting my eyes tight and hiding my face. I will not cry, I will not cry. Repeat that phrase endlessly in my head, and I can beat it back. I snapped back to reality as I felt a tap on my shoulder. I muted the playlist and turned my head, pulling the ear-buds out of my ears. I felt very, very silly. I hadn't realize that my most trusted muse had been looking over my shoulder, sitting with me as I poured out every emotion I felt in these words of mine.

"Are you okay?" Allen asked, eyes filled with worry. I hadn't cried in a while, and here I almost did. I laughed.

"I'm fine." I said, smiling, "Just a part of being a writer. Being moved and connecting with something. Wanna read what I wrote?"

"I have been," he said, "It's beautiful."

I struggled to put on a smile through my quivering lips as I tried to think of something else, trying to fight tears again. His arm wrapped around my shoulders and I leaned my head on his. By my definition, he's a hero too.

Description
The air was cool and damp, the pressure somehow intense, though weather people always called it a 'low pressure' system. 'Perfect time to write' I thought. The only thing I could really derive power from now was writing, feeling my fingers fly over the keys as I continued to look at the screen, watching the innards of my brain appear as I listened to music that might fit, might not; all the while my muses were either arguing with each other or watching me intently.

Three Doors Down resounded in my head as I tried to think of something strong, someone this song would apply to. There were many people I could think of, but somehow- someone ripped the ear-buds right out of my ears, much to my chagrin. The feeling I had was intense. I glared up at the perpetrator. Envy. As per usual. I was stuck with him haunting me forever more, since I wasn't into FMA anymore, and he'd died.

"Give those back." I demanded.

"I will if you'll tell me what you're writing." He said with a grin, dangling my ear-buds in my face, "It had better be something FMA-related, otherwise I-"

"Now. Give them back NOW. Don't make me call Annie." I said. I was aiming for deadly. He just laughed, letting the ear-buds fall down on the keyboard, leaving an 'arfc' in the middle of the sentence.

"It's fun to pick on you, you know. I'm not leaving any time soon." He said in a sing-song way, lifting my face up by my chin as I jammed my ear-buds back in my ears.

"I don't care. Now go the hell away. I mean it. I will call Annie."

Annie from 'being human' had to be one of my favorite characters of all time. The BBC version, though. She was so human, so grounded, especially for a ghost. And powerful to boot. Teleportation with several people seemed to be one of her specialties. At least around me. She knew how I hated the over-reacting muses. She'd take them away temporarily, sending them usually out of the house and locking them out. I promised her that I'd draw her in return.

"Fine, you win this time, Kitty-Cat." He hummed, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

I grumbled something about that damn palm-tree head and continued to labor on whatever it was I was working on. The playlist switched and a new song left its echoes in my thoughts. Simple Plan, Take my Hand. The words 'don't let me go' filled my head to the brim, letting everything else slip away but the image of two beings reaching for each other.

I was thinking, or rather I thought, describing things like that were always horribly done, since I believe no one could describe something like that, however they always come out paralyzingly good but sometimes ghastly when thought about. Fingers flew over the keyboard again. I may not be able to master the piano, but I prefer these keys. I tossed my hair over my shoulder as I continued. The way my thoughts were running, you'd assume I'd been running. I checked over and redid my fingering missteps, leading to spelling errors being fixed up and grammar thrown to the wind.

This was my domain, my writing, my art, my music. I drowned in them daily, and that was my one, true, guiltless pleasure high. I closed my eyes, drinking in the sound and the images that my head had decided to play out. My new fascination and new muses now took the stage, since they were all I could think about now. The song switched again, one that I didn't recognize. It was beautiful. The message hit me like a brick wall, cued with the crack of thunder that occurred somewhere on the horizon.

Those feelings… Maybe I didn't understand them. Maybe I did. I've been on both ends of the spectrum. If I went by the standards of the song, maybe I'd saved someone already. Maybe the ones I offer my shoulder to cry on might have lost it so long ago… Maybe it really is those little things that let people keep going. Ah. Maybe that's how I haven't tried to pass that blade over my wrist to see just what color the blood pulsing through my veins was out of curiosity.

All of the things that I put up with, I've heard it over and over again. I belittle how I feel. I feel between the muses and my friends, I don't have a right to feel like that. But it isn't true, now is it? If words move you, or pain gets to you one day, it's alright to cry, right? I don't like that feeling, but I use it so much in my words, in my passion. When will all of that shit stop, though? Why won't we fix one goddamn problem? Respect others and not try and make yourself feel better by belittling someone else? But not everyone could feel this way, the way I do. But I have to remind myself that others feel the way I do. I just wish that more people would… would reach out. Both Heaven and Hell know I would reach out to anyone who needed it.

I smiled at those thoughts, shutting my eyes tight and hiding my face. I will not cry, I will not cry. Repeat that phrase endlessly in my head, and I can beat it back. I snapped back to reality as I felt a tap on my shoulder. I muted the playlist and turned my head, pulling the ear-buds out of my ears. I felt very, very silly. I hadn't realize that my most trusted muse had been looking over my shoulder, sitting with me as I poured out every emotion I felt in these words of mine.

"Are you okay?" Allen asked, eyes filled with worry. I hadn't cried in a while, and here I almost did. I laughed.

"I'm fine." I said, smiling, "Just a part of being a writer. Being moved and connecting with something. Wanna read what I wrote?"

"I have been," he said, "It's beautiful."

I struggled to put on a smile through my quivering lips as I tried to think of something else, trying to fight tears again. His arm wrapped around my shoulders and I leaned my head on his. By my definition, he's a hero too.