Kasia Supertramp

I have a presentation tomorrow about a guy who lived in a fictional reality inspired by literature. He lived in myth, fought for ideals and died for dreams. He is tragic.


"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop..."
-Jack Kerouac

Pieces

I'm so retardedly busy right now and really don't feel like posting something new, but it's about time that I posted something soI thought I might put up an excerpt of a piece I am writing just because I am too lazy to supply you with anything original. Here it is:


That morning, I was putting a bowl into the dishwasher when it shattered to pieces in my hands. Hundreds of tiny, jagged glass fragments scattered the floor and littered the inside of the machine. I didn’t have time to pick out all the shards, so I left them there. It’s often easier to leave the pieces where they lay instead of picking them up in a hurry. It’s the same feeling I get when I am awakened in the middle of the night by her screaming. I am too lazy get out of my warm bed to go pick up the pieces, to mop up the mess. When I do, she often mumbles something incoherent because her medication inhibits her motor functions. I never know whether I have woken her or whether she is still sleeping lest the screaming begins again. When I get back to bed, and settle into the comfort of my covers, my body shakes so hard it feels like its going to shatter into a thousand pieces. It’s hard to keep it together when you know someone you love is falling apart in the room next to yours.