Nov. 5th, 2018 11:18 pm
lostfiles: (How long was I gone)
WERE | That I loved you, you became my definition of beauty. You were so self-conscious, so insecure in your appearance; you feared a mirror but even more you feared my eyes. It tortured me that I had failed you so, failed to make you understand that you were my ideal. I could not see perfection in a cheek that did not have the scar that yours did, in a physique that was not in exactness to your own. The most lauded unobtainable models had nothing in my eyes to you. I judged everyone else by you and they all fell short.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:17 pm
lostfiles: (Default)
UNDERSTAND | She looked up at him, through straggled hair that fell across her face and the similar array across his own. “I think truth must always be poetic when turned into words. Truth is something bigger. Bigger than language, bigger than there are words to describe it with and so, of course, you must work on combinations of words to express what you mean, paragraphs, essays. You could write a whole book trying to explain a truth and still not have the reader understand what it was you meant.” She paused, looking down at her hands. “Don’t you find that sad?”


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:16 pm
lostfiles: (Default)
COLD | Warmth, it felt… comfortable. He felt the pressure and in his mind he understood that it ought to hurt. It ought, in point of fact, to be killing him, to be draining the very life from his body as an ancient practitioner drained fever with the steady flow of blood from a wound. He was not cold, his body heat was precisely as it always had been: warm. The water as it evaporated from his blood soaked chest was warm, the force that was reaching in, extracting him from this body… was warm. This killing blow; it had saved him.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:15 pm
lostfiles: (Stoic last stand)
ENDANGER | A balloon covered in paper and glue. It is a mask. An animal that has long been endangered and is now extinct though the history books do not know this yet. Indeed it will not be documented for another decade. Cutting the balloon in half is the tricky part and he needs a parent to help him do it. His mother holds the craft knife, he the balloon. Her hands are cold. The legacy is in bickering. When the mask is complete he sticks his lines on the inside so in class, when he stands to recite, he can cheat.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:14 pm
lostfiles: (We set out so long ago)
UNESSENTIAL | “Unessential? How can you claim anything, ever, to be unessential? One man’s unessential could be another’s integral and if not for the mystery of all things unexplainable where would be the enchantment of living?” Above all things he yearned to learn more. His memory was not something that could keep up with his curiosity and as much as he found out he soon forgot. “What would I do if you picked up from the beach a stone, polished and smooth and placed it in my hand?” he said to his friend, and answered, “treasure it, despite its inherent unessential nature.”


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:11 pm
lostfiles: (Not good enough)
FEELING | In the early morning sun, before the world en mass awakes, she lays her three white roses on the earth in front of the stone, steps back, and closes her eyes. Behind shuttered lids she sees dead men playing tag in their cemetery. They never know who is caught because they can’t feel the touch. She opens her eyes, picks up a pebble and places it on the plainly carved grave. For a moment she imagines the pebble falling clean through stone, down and down, through earth, through coffin, through skeletal corpse, wood again and earth. Stopping for nothing, feeling… nothing.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:10 pm
lostfiles: (Nobody knows how the story ends)
NOTHING | Nothingness has a secret and its secret is potential. It can turn into anything. An empty page could be the first of a novel; an unknown path could lead to Elysium. The silence of a summer night was haunted by a familiar sound: a mosquito. He rose from his restless attempt at sleep, picked up from his bedside table a newspaper, and rolled it into a ready made swatter. He stood on his bed motionless, waiting, waiting for something but hearing nothing, doubting himself again, this time over something so trivial. He had heard a sound that was not there.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:08 pm
lostfiles: (Might never make it out)
VANITY | One line for age, one for temper, three more for temperament, he sighs. Is a mirror truth or merely will? Everything is backwards, opposite, distorted, unreal, image or imaginary? the vitals or something virtual? A reflection of the face of a man, two eyes see two eyes. He painted a line on the mirror, curling at the end, painted another, a black moustache and there it was on his face. Raised the hand to his lip and the lines are on his fingers now instead, a tattooed swirl of hidden mystical meaning, in vanity he smiles to see his face.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:08 pm
lostfiles: (Find out for what)
MAN | The vanity of that man is not also mine, she denies, laughing, and kisses her anyway. She reaches a hand to take one that is not her own but that is hers, or so she believes. If only she knew, if only there was nothing to know, if only the hand had never been hers, if only it would always be. Do you love me? she asks. Do you love autumn when the leaves fall in anticipation of being replaced? Do you love the moon when it leaves the sky because it loves its earth to be bathed in light?


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:06 pm
lostfiles: (Enduring pain for someone you care about)
FLY | Colossal cheers as the keeper caught the quaffle too late and from the wrong side of the hoop. He threw it away in aggravation, rain soaked and dripping, cold, too tired to fly and now ten points down. The wind whipped up a swirl of rain and the far end goal disappeared from view. From the man in the stand’s cry the snitch had been spotted but not soon enough; not before bludger instead of quaffle came hurtling towards him. They lost the game; a keeper down, too many goals later the rain stopped for the snitch to be caught.


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:04 pm
lostfiles: (Not good enough)
FIRE | The gorse crackled, one moment it was dry the next saturated in heat burning blue the water of the air. A nesting adder, its scales rubbed raw in its panic stricken flee, is not fast enough. A flightless pheasant met the same fate, its dawdling mate caught in the fire too. The camera pans to an half-smoked butt, more orange than white, more deadly than drought, the circling manic crows that fly above wonder: why? Why is my nest scorched falling to the ground, why are the century old trees crumbling, why does the adder not make greater its haste?


Nov. 5th, 2018 11:02 pm
lostfiles: (Stoic last stand)
FAIR | Pale of complexion, pale of passion, he is pale when all else stand strong. He wavers like his curly hair, he simpers; the sincerity of his smile is weak, an uncertain touch could wipe it away. Standing on the block he cowers and lies, back steps, side steps, gives in, gives up and discards all sense of honour. No fire burns within his heart, within those delicate eyes, that fair face and lauded prosperity. His idea is fickle, his ambition ever crumbling. He will not stand up for his friend. He will not defend what he believes to be right.


Nov. 5th, 2018 10:58 pm
lostfiles: (Default)
DEAD | When the kettle on the stove boiled and the steam rose up he ran a hand through the vapours. It did not burn; his move was not slow to draw out pain and scold, nor was it fast, unfeeling and absent. He felt it as warmth. It tingled as droplets condensed on his skin and became dampness. I think that this is what it feels like to be a ghost and pass fair well through the wall, he thought, not a cold death, not frozen and inanimate: warm, moving. He touched the wall but his hand did not go through.


Nov. 4th, 2018 09:12 pm
lostfiles: (Default)
Dagen er søndag, fjerde november og jeg har en norsk eksamen om fire uker.

...så jeg skal øve her.

I dag var jeg lat.

Jeg satt på soffaen og jeg leste historier om Mycroft Holmes og Harry Potter. Jeg så på en episode av Outlander på Netflix. Jeg spiste en lentil burger med frites. Jeg ønsket å skrive om meg. Jeg ønsket å svare mange spørsmål om meg. Jeg skrivt en stil som min famile for hjemmelekser.

Jeg er glad å har startet denne skrivingen. Jeg skal brukte tid hver dag mellom nå og eksamenen å skrive noen setninger om dagen min.
lostfiles: (Long way from home)
Make a handmade gift
Make a christmas decoration
Fill one sketchbook page
Paint a shell or a rock
Use a quote in a piece of art
Knit a sock
Blow glass
Compose a piece of music
Design a tattoo
Whittle a bird



lostfiles: (Default)
The Lost Files

November 2018

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