"Psychedelic Exposure"

Sorry if this is too angst-y, depressing, whiny or whatever. I don't like this piece of work either.

What's in a name?
- William Shakespeare

All truth passes through three different stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.
- Arthur Schopenhauer

Psychedelic Exposure

I wanted to kiss the skies below me.
I wanted to touch them.
I wanted to hold them close to my heart.
I wanted to fly.
I jumped. Why didn’t I.....?
Is it the end?

My soul is like a well, an anchor is my love. Tears are wells of despair in my own well of soul. These wells tear; they shed, yet stay in place. There are so many reasons in the world - yes, excuses - patching only a shed out of my inner well. An anchor is this reason of mine, you see.

I lost my opportunity, I was too reasonable, too logical, too unrealistic for myself to hold everything in, close to my heart, and yet do nothing with it.

I spent it - my patience, my opportunity, like peach soap is dispensed when washing my hands, and then draining it away, pointlessly and uselessly disintegrating the effort into thin air.

I was in a hospital, in a city I never have been before. I did not want to be. I was dying on the inside, not on the outside.

The cold light of morning indifferently sparked everything with a calm and stationary aspect. I was crying once again, whilst training my will to control my noisy whining. I was just like a fish, gripping air into my lungs, so definitely, oh so deliriously, unable to stop, make my life commonplace - refined, pure, organized, just like the light. This light was a preacher, silently absorbing everything I did and was expected to do in the future, without judging me. It was I who judged the light, oh so caressing to me from the beginning, so soft and caring before.

Crispy bed with metal upbringing, linoleum floor with specks of darkened over time gum and sand, white walls watching me. It’s just amazing how silent and ignorant can they be towards me.

“Why are you crying? Don’t worry, everything will be alright, you know. Like, I just enrolled here, like two weeks ago. I also cried, I thought I was gonna die too. Now I’m all dandy, my friends come visit me, now it’s just like a regular routine, you know. No hard feelings, just therapy.”

Damn. How dare she generalize everything that I feel right now? She doesn’t even know anything about me. She is so surfaced, yeah, sure, a routine. Ha!

I still need to answer her. Good thing I’m a hypocrite, a clown to hide my tears away from everyone else. Not in this case, but in any other - you’ll just have to see.

“Oh. Well.... It’s just that I didn’t want to leave that ship, I was on a cruise, you know. It was too good to me. And the cruise was sheer beauty. But then.... oh well, it doesn’t matter anymore. The thing is that the doctor, on the ship, you know, was drunk again, just right after another of his hangovers. Oh, I love such people, you know. Such an interesting mentality, simple and identified. And I had to go here, he couldn’t examine me, so they insisted to have me here. I haven’t been to this city before, isn’t Yaroslavl’? Do you, like, live here, or something? I’m gonna be alright, I know. It’s just that, you know.... oh, never mind. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. All over.”

It was everything for me, this matter of things, it honestly was. My voice held only a little shadow to show my utmost concern, this longing, sorrow. My circumstances were too unique, too sacred for anyone to acknowledge. Except for two people I admired the most. Only them. Only they would be able to understand me. One of them was dead, another unexpectedly separated from me. Balthazar and Astrea. Astrea dead, Balthazar left on the ship.

This ship symbolized everything that could be unfolded into a happy ending, and yet I left it. My sanctuary, bleached tree trunk color of head, blue seas instead of inner light.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh.... I’m fourteen, my name is Anastice. Greek for resurrection, something that I need most right now. What about you? What do you like to do?”

She didn’t catch that I was not listening to her. Damn, so carefree.

“I’m Eugenia, and I like to listen to music and dance.”

“Awesome. I also like music. Mostly Elton John, “The Beatles”, and “Placebo”. And then, Robbie Williams. Couldn’t go anywhere without him.”

Diary Entry (excerpt)

What the heck am I supposed to do? I’m supposed to make new friends, meet new people, and then what? Enjoy my stay in Thailand for the rest of my life? What about Luxembourg, what about these people? Damn, I’m so lost. I need someone to lend me a hand, someone whom I can trust, someone who will make my life more arranged. Or maybe, look - an even better idea. The seas this summer, especially at night, are sensed welcoming and darkening, untamable and dangerous.
I intended that once I was lured into depression, and its natural attachment of pessimism, someone would most certainly understand me, thus, saving me, and becoming my friend. Apparently, that is not so. You need to shove evidence right in front of people’s eyes for them to see you through a different lens, and they still ignore all of this symbolism dear to me.
The most saddening thing for me is that no one will or has heard me cry, talking with a variety of characters, whilst producing insight and my loneliness. It’s never going to be noticed, and my life is going to be lost, both phenomenally and noumenally.
Just look at me right now - self - pity is something I will never get rid off. I’m too sensitive, too rigid, and to let you know, I am drunk - crying right now, once again. A natural side effect to all of these things happening to me. This is what I am right now, you know. Just look at me - I am unsatisfactory at my own core right now. Just shoot me.

I got a telephone call a couple of days ago. Since then, I was in stupor. I wouldn’t think, I wouldn’t live, I couldn’t die, and yet I was inexistent. Someone who I thought was able to help me at all times, support me, was dead. Astrea committed suicide. As I painfully came to know, sometimes people see me a different way than I see myself. And then, I learned that memories not only create what I am, they also anchor me down to avoid what I can be - my potential, my best, to live my life as if I truly existed. I couldn’t feel my existence right now.

I could have accepted Astrea to be pregnant at this age. I would still accept her, that is why friends are there for each other. I knew that, I knew I would accept her. We were closest, we had more of a sisterhood, rather than a friendship. At least, from my perspective.

Life was such a bore for me. I silently picked-up a fragment of some kind of stone, seemingly sharp and yet clean. I would not want to get infected if only I would be able to break through the armor of my skin. Blood can refurnish this unmistaken experience into a disease. I am too careful to let myself suffer and yet not die.

I know I am a yuppie, I don’t even know why I try to cut myself. I guess, the prose of life brings me to it. Some optimists will say that’s only my fault that I am doing such things to myself - basically, complaining - and that I can only be happy if only I believed in myself, and did something sane about all this. The problem is that I am an empiricist - I have faith in pessimism as to examine and analyze my life with a cold mind, with bias, of course. I guess I enjoy torturing myself with my low self-esteem because I feel so unsatisfactory about my screwed-up life in the first place.

Hell, did I want to die? I don’t know. I didn’t want to let others feel what I have felt throughout my reincarnation after Astrea’s death. I guess I’m not such an egoist as I thought before.

However, I did everything I could - I tried to show people in Thailand what it feels like to be me - but no, they had to do it their way. I took risks, I took chances, and yet others did not allow me to rip it through. Is ignorance bliss? Only for some, in my opinion, who are surfaced, just like Eugenia.

Why was I ever there, in Thailand? I want to live in a place where I can flourish, not break in and establish myself over the course of five years. I know who I am. I can identify myself. I am a philosopher, an empiricist, a pessimist, an artist for creating depressing tones in my diary, a sentimentalist, and a dilettante at life. A beautiful collection of attributes, wouldn’t you agree? People embrace my personality, and consider it a given as to which qualities I own.

Do you want to try understanding me? It’s quite simple, really. Get this though: I don’t have many friends.

I have a different attitude towards people in Thailand than in Luxembourg. It’s natural, this change, I feel as if I belong here, amongst these people, because it is my homeland. Thailand had taken so much away from me: now I need to relearn French because I was not able to study it as my native language in Thailand. Dancing and singing are some of the things I had given up. My literal and vivid dreams of getting to know my grandfather before he died at the age of 66, who could have taught me all of the things I am fascinated to learn in my science class in Thailand. I could have helped him pull through this as well. His death wish was to see my mother and me after three years of missing us in Thailand.

I cannot make long-term friends neither in Luxembourg nor in Thailand because I travel so much between the two. I got separated with all of my friends, for the first time I moved to Thailand for over three years. I got only two letters back from them.

Now, Balthazar. His sanctity, this balsam, was perfect for me. I could have been happy.

I picked-up the rock. The minerals flowed through it, easily picturing layers of one’s life without transition. I wiped my face, abruptly, being concentrated on what I was about to do. I stroke the rock with my left hand. With back of it, I pressed my tender skin against the smooth surface, edgy and ticklish when the fractious cliff happened to form. I began rubbing, steadily, creating a fired sensation in my skin. I tried to embrace the pain.

I couldn’t do it.

I saved the rock in the pocket of my jacket I was wearing, which I also zipped to satisfy my sentimentality wherever and whenever.

I finally noticed that the public bus I rode from school was dodging in front of me, patiently waiting for my undivided attention. I stood up. Is it the end? Do I know myself? Who am I?

Diary Entry (excerpt)

Do you know what is the second to best feelings ever? I bet you can’t tell.

It is when you are on the swings, in an abandoned park, you are flying up, strong spring rain beats up on you, and you are listening to a #4 song of Elton John’s published disk “Songs from West Coast”, song being “American Triangle”.

Do you know the first best feeling ever?

It is the butter between two crunchy, crumbly bread toasts.

Diary Entry (excerpt)

Do you know what irony is?

Irony is when I am given a bottle of water to recycle, when it was never opened.

I was assured that I did not want that to occur with my life. I needed to change. I must change in order to exist, and not be tossed away into a garbage can. Life, unfortunately, is given to you only once in your lifetime; you can rethink it, alter it, do whatever you would like with it, except for wasting it away.

I looked at him
Trying to not stare at him
For a long time; I guess
That’s why I hurried to
Tell him what I needed to;
Not what I wanted to. I guess
I would have told him that I love him.
A harsh word.

Just remember. There’s always a reason why people do things to each other, and to themselves.

Who am I? Am I alive?

Hi there!

Okay, first off, I think I found something in your writing which I am very proud of in my own, which is being unafraid to give in completely and wallow in the emotion of certain words and people and places. Not a lot of people are so brave. But when we do stuff like this, sort of burrow deeply into the mind of a sad, lonely person, it's easy to just report what you find there. It's poetic, yes; it's honest, yes; but it's not interesting. So I discovered that here the age-old writerly saying of Show, Don't Tell helps us poetry-as-prose types to really evoke in the reader the same feeling we, the writer feel. I don't know what to tell you beyond that, because they're your emotions on the page, but one thing I will say is that the reader doesn't know anything about this girl's personality other than the fact that she's depressed. Show her interacting with the ones she loves. Do you really know who this girl is? When I know I'm submerging myself in a great big wallow of a story, I spent at least a week and ten pages on character development, on the character's family, friends, home life and school life. That way you can show your character at school, home, alone, with friends; you can show her anxious, exhausted, angry and helpless. You know how she responds to all sorts of situations. Because the great thing about a story like this is, when you really have a fully fledged person, not just a cardboard cutout depressed teenager, everybody (everybody) can find part of themselves in her. Bravo, and keep working. PM me with any questions.

Thanks for your tip, you've helped me realize a great deal! When I first presented this story, nobody gave me any suggestions on how this story was seen according to their perspective, and I was kind of lost on what was wrong with it. So, I take it that I need to work on showing my audience how the protagonist communicates with other persona in numerous places, as to determine the character's stance and credibility in this story.

P.S. I'm glad we share something in common.

[quote="FlyingInEbony
My soul is like a well, an anchor is my love. Tears are wells of despair in my own well of soul. This line confuses me! These wells tear; they shed, yet stay in place. There are so many reasons in the world - yes, excuses - patching only a shed out of my inner well. And so soon, I'm confused again. An anchor is this reason of mine, you see.

I lost my opportunity, I was too reasonable, too logical, too unrealistic for myself to hold everything in, close to my heart, and yet do nothing with it.

I spent it - my patience, my opportunity, like peach soap is dispensed when washing my hands, and then draining it away, pointlessly and uselessly disintegrating the effort into thin air. This is a beautiful metaphor. But! I'm STILL confused. Occasionally I love a good confusing line as an introduction, it makes me keep reading for the answers, But this is too much in my opinion.

I was in a hospital, in a city I never have been in before. I did not want to be here? in? this sentence seems incomplete. I was dying on the inside, not on the outside.

The cold light of morning indifferently sparked everything with a calm and stationary aspect. I was crying once again, whilst training my will to control my noisy whining. I was just like a fish, gripping air into my lungs, so definitely, oh so deliriously, unable to stop, make my life commonplace - refined, pure, organized, just like the light. This light was a preacher, silently absorbing everything I did and was expected to do in the future, without judging me. It was I who judged the light, oh so caressing to me from the beginning, so soft and caring before. More confusing metaphors! they're powerful and full of emotion, but they need more sensory detail between them. What does the hospital look like? Smell like? Who's with (or not with) him/her? Maybe a dramatic flash back about what happened to get them in the hospital. The paragraph below is only two sentences, and not enough description compared to the amount of emotional splurging that leads up to it.

Crispy bed with metal upbringing, linoleum floor with specks of darkened over time gum and sand, white walls watching me. It’s just amazing how silent and ignorant can they be towards me.

“Why are you crying? Don’t worry, everything will be alright, you know. Like, I just enrolled here, like two weeks ago. I also cried, I thought I was gonna die too. Now I’m all dandy, my friends come visit me, now it’s just like a regular routine, you know. No hard feelings, just therapy.” Who says this? What does she look like? Where is she?

Damn. How dare she generalize everything that I feel right now? She doesn’t even know anything about me. She is so surfaced, yeah, sure, a routine. Ha!

I still need to answer her. Good thing I’m a hypocrite, a clown to hide my tears away from everyone else. Not in this case, but in any other - you’ll just have to see.

“Oh. Well.... It’s just that I didn’t want to leave that ship, I was on a cruise, you know. It was too good to me. And the cruise was sheer beauty. But then.... oh well, it doesn’t matter anymore. The thing is that the doctor, on the ship, you know, was drunk again, just right after another of his hangovers. Oh, I love such people, you know. Such an interesting mentality, simple and identified. And I had to go here, he couldn’t examine me, so they insisted to have me here. I haven’t been to this city before, isn’t Yaroslavl’? Do you, like, live here, or something? I’m gonna be alright, I know. It’s just that, you know.... oh, never mind. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. All over.”

It was everything for me, this matter of things, it honestly was. What is 'it'? The lie? My voice held only a little shadow to show my utmost concern, this longing, sorrow. My circumstances were too unique, too sacred for anyone to acknowledge. Except for two people I admired the most. Only them. Only they would be able to understand me. One of them was dead, another unexpectedly separated from me. Balthazar and Astrea. Astrea dead, Balthazar left on the ship.

This ship symbolized everything that could be unfolded into a happy ending, and yet I left it. My sanctuary, bleached tree trunk color of head, blue seas instead of inner light.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh.... I’m fourteen, my name is Anastice. Greek for resurrection, something that I need most right now. What about you? What do you like to do?”

She didn’t catch that I was not listening to her. Damn, so carefree.

“I’m Eugenia, and I like to listen to music and dance.”

“Awesome. I also like music. Mostly Elton John, “The Beatles”, and “Placebo”. And then, Robbie Williams. Couldn’t go anywhere without him.”

Diary Entry (excerpt)

What the heck am I supposed to do? I’m supposed to make new friends, meet new people, and then what? Enjoy my stay in Thailand for the rest of my life? What about Luxembourg, what about these people? Damn, I’m so lost. I need someone to lend me a hand, someone whom I can trust, someone who will make my life more arranged. Or maybe, look - an even better idea. The seas this summer, especially at night, are sensed welcoming and darkening, untamable and dangerous.
I intended that once I was lured into depression, and its natural attachment of pessimism, someone would most certainly understand me, thus, saving me, and becoming my friend. Apparently, that is not so. You need to shove evidence right in front of people’s eyes for them to see you through a different lens, and they still ignore all of this symbolism dear to me.
The most saddening thing for me is that no one will or has heard me cry, talking with a variety of characters, whilst producing insight and my loneliness. It’s never going to be noticed, and my life is going to be lost, both phenomenally and noumenally.
Just look at me right now - self - pity is something I will never get rid off. I’m too sensitive, too rigid, and to let you know, I am drunk - crying right now, once again. A natural side effect to all of these things happening to me. This is what I am right now, you know. Just look at me - I am unsatisfactory at my own core right now. Just shoot me.


I got a telephone call a couple of days ago. Since then, I was in stupor. I wouldn’t think, I wouldn’t live, I couldn’t die, and yet I was inexistent. Someone who I thought was able to help me at all times, support me, was dead. Astrea committed suicide. As I painfully came to know, sometimes people see me a different way than I see myself. And then, I learned that memories not only create what I am, they also anchor me down to avoid what I can be - my potential, my best, to live my life as if I truly existed. I couldn’t feel my existence right now.

I could have accepted Astrea to be pregnant at this age. I would still accept her, that is why friends are there for each other. I knew that, I knew I would accept her. We were closest, we had more of a sisterhood, rather than a friendship. At least, from my perspective.

Where did this pregnant thing come from? I read like a champ, and I've never been so confused with a story. I think there's probably a better way to build up to this news. Your metaphors, and language in general, are so colorful! I can tell your a good writer, but this whole piece needs a new composition before it will come to life.

Life was such a bore for me. I silently picked-up a fragment of some kind of stone, seemingly sharp and yet clean. I would not want to get infected if only I would be able to break through the armor of my skin. Blood can refurnish this unmistaken experience into a disease. I am too careful to let myself suffer and yet not die.

I know I am a yuppie, I don’t even know why I try to cut myself. I guess, the prose of life brings me to it. This sentence reads awkwardly. Maybe it should just be 'bring' rather than 'brings' Some optimists will say that’s only my fault that I am doing such things to myself - basically, complaining - and that I can only be happy if only I believed in myself, and did something sane about all this. The problem is that I am an empiricist - I have faith in pessimism as to examine and analyze my life with a cold mind, with bias, of course. I guess I enjoy torturing myself with my low self-esteem because I feel so unsatisfactory about my screwed-up life in the first place. How about: because I'm so unsatisfied with my screw-up life in the first place

Hell, did I want to die? I don’t know. I didn’t want to let others feel what I have felt throughout my reincarnation after Astrea’s death. I guess I’m not such an egoist as I thought before.

However, I did everything I could - I tried to show people in Thailand what it feels like to be me - but no, they had to do it their way. I took risks, I took chances, and yet others did not allow me to rip it through rip it through what?. Is ignorance bliss? Only for some, in my opinion, who are surfaced, just like Eugenia.

Why was I ever there, in Thailand? I want to live in a place where I can flourish, not break in and establish myself over the course of five years. I know who I am. I can identify myself. I am a philosopher, an empiricist, a pessimist, an artist for creating depressing tones in my diary, a sentimentalist, and a dilettante at life. A beautiful collection of attributes, wouldn’t you agree? People embrace my personality, and consider it a given as to which qualities I own.

Do you want to try understanding me? It’s quite simple, really. Get this though: I don’t have many friends.

So! The character is committing self injury because their friend committed suicide and that causes them to have a depressant episode. But now they're droning on about themselves, and how no one understands them. It's almost like this doesn't even belong in this piece. I feel like you should be showing me who the character is by displaying their reaction to the crisis, not by providing a psychoanalysis. I still haven't figured out whether the character is male or female.

I have a different attitude towards people in Thailand than in Luxembourg. It’s natural, this change, I feel as if I belong here, amongst these people, because it is my homeland. Thailand had taken so much away from me: now I need to relearn French because I was not able to study it as my native language in Thailand. Dancing and singing are some of the things I had given up. My literal and vivid dreams of getting to know my grandfather before he died at the age of 66, who could have taught me all of the things I am fascinated to learn in my science class in Thailand. This sentence does not flow smoothly I could have helped him pull through this as well. His death wish was to see my mother and me after three years of missing us in Thailand.

I cannot make long-term friends neither in Luxembourg nor in Thailand because I travel so much between the two. I got separated with all of my friends, for the first time I moved to Thailand for over three years. I got only two letters back from them.

Now, Balthazar. His sanctity, this balsam, was perfect for me. I could have been happy.

I picked-up the rock. The minerals flowed through it, easily picturing layers of one’s life without transition. I wiped my face, abruptly, being concentrated on what I was about to do. I stroke the rock with my left hand. With back of it, I pressed my tender skin against the smooth surface, edgy and ticklish when the fractious cliff happened to form. I began rubbing, steadily, creating a fired sensation in my skin. I tried to embrace the pain.

I couldn’t do it.

I saved the rock in the pocket of my jacket I was wearing, which I also zipped to satisfy my sentimentality wherever and whenever.

I finally noticed that the public bus I rode from school was dodging in front of me, patiently waiting for my undivided attention. I stood up. Is it the end? Do I know myself? Who am I? This is what I'm looking for! Now you just need more of it


Diary Entry (excerpt)

Do you know what is the second to best feelings ever? I bet you can’t tell.

It is when you are on the swings, in an abandoned park, you are flying up, strong spring rain beats up on you, and you are listening to a #4 song of Elton John’s published disk “Songs from West Coast”, song being “American Triangle”. This would read more smoothly if it was just 'and you are listening to Elton John's "American Triangle"'

Do you know the first best feeling ever?

It is the butter between two crunchy, crumbly bread toasts.

Diary Entry (excerpt)

Do you know what irony is?

Irony is when I am given a bottle of water to recycle, when it was never opened.

I was assured that I did not want that to occur with my life. I needed to change. I must change in order to exist, and not be tossed away into a garbage can. Life, unfortunately, is given to you only once in your lifetime; you can rethink it, alter it, do whatever you would like with it, except for wasting it away.

I looked at him
Trying to not stare at him
For a long time; I guess
That’s why I hurried to
Tell him what I needed to;
Not what I wanted to. I guess
I would have told him that I love him.
A harsh word.

Just remember. There’s always a reason why people do things to each other, and to themselves.

Who am I? Am I alive?[/quote]

You're writing is so creative! But this piece needs a lot of composition work. I think it needs editing: some things need cut, somethings need added, and somethings need moved. Good luck with it! And I'd love to read it again for you after you edit if you want!

Alright-y, I'll start working on this piece right away! Thank you, Carly! Your reviews are always so... substantial. Just sayin'...