Hourglass

I am feeling quiet inside today.

As if a peacefulness has unrolled its yoga mat inside me and got to work.

It’s a calmness.

A beauty.

 

It is also quite strange.

For me, you see.

 

It allows me to remember all the sweetness, while acknowledging the scars.

Just because there is darkness in here, doesn’t mean it’s all I have to offer.

 

There’s also a pain in my chest.

It keeps speaking up.

I’m okay with that too.

That isn’t all there is.

 

By Daphne Shadows

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Scavenger

I saw a movie recently. I’m not going to tell you which movie, as that has nothing to do with this post. What does have something to do with this post, is that the main character was a scavenger and every time someone commented on that, they used the word ‘scavenger’ as if it were dirty (the despicable kind of dirty). As if she went about eating people’s unborn babies, ripping them right out of pregnant ladies’ wombs.

This struck me as odd as I sat there in the dark and watched the movie. (and stuffed my face full of nachos)

Yes, there are bad scavengers. But just like everything else on planet earth, I think there are good scavengers.

I think, as usual, we only see it in a gross light.

I have a healthy respect for some sorts of scavengers. I see them in a different light. I suppose I see the word as defined differently too then.

 

Sometimes scavengers are the only ones who survived the abuse, the chaos, the pain, the wars. Plucking almost rotted food and lost hopes from the fingers of corpses as they make their way down the deserted roads, cloaked in darkness of night and certainty that something, somewhere, at some time is going to turn their life around. Or rather, they’re going to be there at the right time and change their lives themselves.

I see scavengers as sometimes empty and simply trying to survive.

I see creatures that feed off dried blood and who have ebony wings and pluck at dead people’s eyes before flying off, cawing at whoever gets close.

 

I am a horror and fantasy writer.

And I live in a different world than a lot of others around me, I’m finding.

It gives me something a little darker and something a little brighter. And that has nothing to do with being a writer.

 

I see a scavenger as the forgotten, the lost, those who walk along the rims of awareness, barely there to most. They live in fear of death, they live in fear of life.

Someone left to themselves, fumbling in the dark with no memory, tugging at the strands of fate, begging their own soul to shake lose something of use.

I feel like a scavenger. Picking at the pieces of a life I could have but hold myself back from.

Because…

Because it takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the light after you’ve lived in darkness.

 

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Mirrors

Do you ever feel like you’ve walked into a room filled with mirrors, from ceiling to floor, wall to wall?

It’s dark, nothing else is visible.

Like a dream.

Fog, mist… its crawling through the room in a muted charade. Keeping you ever in the dark. The very room you’re standing in, feet from the wall, close enough to touch, and yet you can’t see what’s there.

Only the  mirrors.

Just the mirrors.

Always the mirrors.

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Why a Writer? Daphne through the Shadows

 

My friend recently asked me how I decided to become a writer.

I’ve had different answers for that at different times. All of which are true, still.

 

The first thing I thought of was this post, which I wrote two years ago:

Why I Write

 

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It amazes me how much I’ve changed. That post was messy in so many ways. But the basis of the post – those three reasons – hold true. So if you want the answer (or for this post to make sense), go read it. Don’t worry, its short. And if you want to scroll down and just read the three reasons, that’s all you need.

But there’s more to it than that. It’s deeper. Even messier – just, in a different way. More complicated.

If there’s one thing therapy is showing me, it’s how I’ve hidden myself… from myself. It’s kind of like waking up. I’m finding out more about myself moment to moment.

One of the things I’ve learned is how I belittle and cheapen myself to keep truth from feeling so real. I laughed and used humor and made sure nothing really reached my heart – or anyone else’s.

Causes me to come off as air-headed and clueless. Basically, superficial and naive.

It’s a misrepresentation of who I am. For one, I’m a lot darker than I let on. Yes, I’m also the opposite – I watch Scooby-Doo reruns and get giddy over donuts. 😉

I’m happy but I struggle with depression. No one exists in singularity.

My tendency to gloss things over is fake. Happiness and strangeness is not. So that part’s not been fake, I assure you. I just don’t show the darkness or ugliness.

And let’s get something straight. Darkness and depression are two different things. I suppose I’ve been hiding both.

Darkness is balanced by light, and when I stop trying to suppress a certain part of myself, I remember that.

It’s strange to be around so many people and to feel unknown. Stranger yet to feel unknown by myself.

But I’m working on it. I’m finding the more I find, the more joy creeps into my life. Being whole tends to do that.

Any who – back to the question.

 

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How did I decide to be a writer?

I don’t really have a precise answer. I remember being upset and watching the roof of the car, the stars of the early morning sky, and curling up on my side, wishing I was somewhere else. I’d detach and *poof* I’d imagine the most ridiculously amazing things. I was always in my head, somewhere existing beyond reason and rules.

I painted reality with my own overlay of life and vibrancy, beauty and thrills.

I grew up this way. I got upset, felt uncomfortable, got bored, wanted more – I went somewhere else in my head. As a result, I don’t ever remember actually being bored.

I think it simply grew within me as I grew. I remember wanting to be a writer in kindergarten. I don’t really remember much before then at all, except for times I’d imagine myself away.

So it makes the most sense to me, for me to say, I decided to become a writer before I even knew I’d decided. I was really young. That’s all I know. There wasn’t a precise day where I said, “I want to be a writer” and the decision was made and my life was forever changed. No one person or situation inspired me. Nothing suddenly triggered it.

Instead, it just always was. I don’t think I ever really stopped and went, ‘huh, I want to be a writer’.

I just knew I did and I wrote.

 

 

When did you become aware of who you were and what you wanted to become?

Do you hide parts of who you are from yourself or others?

 

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