GreyShades

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    14
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About GreyShades

  • Birthday 09/27/1994

Profile Information

  • Gender identity
    Female
  • Membership Type
    Survivor
  • Interests
    Technical Theatre. Stage Management. Lighting Design. Crew. Writing.
  1. We Notice...

    every morning. every day, ever wasted wish every dawn, every dream kissed ...goodbye cries to be heard, to be said to stop the madness, cut the thread ...snip ticks the dongs on the clock, ticks the tolls every minute gone, every second goes ...another soul every morning. ... "Death answers to no man" ... I can't wake up if facing it is all I have left ... "but every man answers to Death." ~ Everything was covered. Coated in fine, white powder; subtley crushed chalk; undetected cocaine; powdered sugar. So dellicate, so beautiful, so addictive. As to be dangerous. The color and shading os a moth's winds smudged onto your finger. The purest off white you've ever known. So dense. Sticking to the air like humiditiy itself, sufforcating. It was as if 16,139,000 moths just lost the right to fly. Their freedom, their independence, their life. As to be gone. It's more humane, right? Of course. That's how this society works. We kill. We kill the humane, silent way. Nothing. No Thing. No, No One. No One thinks to screams. Mute as a moth. That's how this society lives. Thousands of our dead skin cells being rubbed off by some larger monster. But we will be known. Scattered among the grass to be stepped upon, among the clouds to be caught by drifting wings, and clumbed together in rivers to sail rough ocean storms. There is strength in movement. And there is strength in silence. Pairs of shoes will tread through these, our stories and remains and memories, and carry them mile upon mile until someone notices. All the screamless deaths and decaying injustice. You may make up with the subtle ashy burnings of homemade cigerettes, but do not think we are so naive and flimsy. As to not notice? It is our death, after all, our soul, out skin, our stories, our lives. Our demise. And we notice. We may be bound to death but that doesn't make us any less caustious of it. We tend to keep track of when we die. We notice the soft white falling flakes of powder. How could we not? So dense. Suffocating the air with beads of frozen life hung by strings. The purest off white you've ever known. And we notice the purity, the stories, the art. It's art in death. Breathing life. Breathing the moments in Picaso's mind too ellaborate to capture. We notice. **Note: The first intro part is not part of the origional material. I was just kind of playing around as a tester of writing this out. But I figured, why not throw it in there? Please do keep in mind, all this material is rough. I'm not putting out a finished product here, just something I sletched up.
  2. Entry #1

    This entry is mostly a waste of an entry, really. I'm not ready to talk too much about my situation and I hope after a few days here I can be comfortable enough to post my general story. I feel that if I can post it and endure it being out for this community, I'm working in the right direction of telling my parents and seeking professional help. I know it won't be easy, because I've been struggling to confess for years now. I did stumble upon this site partially on accident, but I'm really glad I did. I think it's getting close to time for me to admit it. I'm ready to heal.
  3. A Cup of Bokeh...

    This image doesn't have some type of deep, significant connection to my past or anything. I just rather enjoy it because it's sort of a representation of the results of my venting. See, as much as I know I should, I have never admited to being an abuse victim. I have, rather, turned to writing as a source of venting. But this past year I started to encounter extreme writer's block and I just couldn't cope with any pressure whatsoever. And after about 2 weeks of suffering, I realized that every time I sat down to write I felt suffocated and my house seemed so loud and cluttered. It turned out all I needed was to find a nice coffee house I could walk to where the environment is peaceful. And writing at the coffee shop is like letting this exotic toxin control my hand. I never run out of topics or ideas or inspiration. And this image just seems to capture a little of this magic I seem to have found.