steveurkel1018

1nd2rd3st:

lifting-ink:

My daughter has been doing this for like 5 min straight now. Just trying to grab my tattoos

everyone needs to see this

I don’t really see anyone around me write anymore. People talk all the time about this and that, but never put anything down on a page. And so much is lost. With all the sleepless nights and the busy workdays, that amazing idea gets lost somewhere and forgotten. Deleted to make room for something more important. I think that is why people become less creative as they age. All the ideas we have just keep getting replaced with more and more paperwork. It’s such a tragically common occurrence. 

When I get home from work, I am so desperate to escape this world that I throw myself into either a bed, or a game. It’s hard to live in this reality all the time. All of it is so overwhelming for one person to handle on their own. Yet I see every person around me trying to drag themselves up a muddy hill with weights shackled to their ankles. Each of them acting like one day they will end up at the top. None of us really having any clue what’s at the top. We imagine it’s a paradise, with all that we will ever need and more. But what we don’t often think about is that there are people already at the top pouring buckets of sewage over their walls, down the hill. Even when it isn’t raining there is always something making our feet slip. 

Even knowing this, we keep climbing. We keep pushing. Just hoping, wishing one day we’ll make it, and we can finally wash all the filth off our bodies and live an easy life. Every odd stacked against us, and every person out for themselves, we keep going. Why? Why would we participate in such a futile way of life? Well what other options do we have?

I hear it all the time, “if you aren’t happy, why don’t you just change it.” Oh, yes, because it is that easy. I would love if I could just change the fact that I’m broke and have been since the day I was born. It would be so fucking fantastic to just change that no matter what I accomplish or who I’m with I feel an eternal emptiness within my chest. That would be so great. I like to imagine that somewhere there is a place I can get to where I feel content, but I’m slowly realizing that that place doesn’t exist.

I’m standing on that muddy hill, and I have my hand on this wall protruding from the muck. I’m watching the people around me fight and struggle just to get a foot hold. I look up the hill. I can’t even see the top, it’s clouded in mist. From here I can barely make out a patch of green and some white picket fences. Just below that is just dirt. And just passed that and what seems like miles and miles, is mud. I look down the hill. Not to far from where I am is a cliff. The drop stretches for miles and it falls into the deepest, darkest pit I have ever seen. Just at the edge I see someone I know. Excitedly I reach out for his hand. He looks up at me. Nods. Then looks down and continues crawling through the mud. With every movement his slips further and further toward the edge. Inch by inch losing ground. I call out for him, again reaching. This time he doesn’t acknowledge me. His feet are now dangling over the cliff. He keeps pushing, but still he is loosing ground. He is at a point I can barely reach him. I’m now screaming at him telling him to grab my hand. Desperately I try to grab him, but I miss. His knees are now at the edge and he is completely out of reach. He raises his body and opens his arms. Mud completely cakes his body and the wind flows through his hair. He has given up. 

I jump out and meet him just above the edge. I dig my feet into the mud and grab him by his shirt just as he falls. His yanks me toward the edge, but I keep my footing. I grit my teeth and pull with everything that I have. And I move inch by inch back toward the wall. I’ve got him off the ledge now, his collar stretched and tearing from the weight. I keep pressing upward. Taking a familiar path I finally reach the wall. Just as I get him on his feet I see a girl falling. She is laying belly down in the mud, grabbing for anything she can get a hold of, but finding nothing. I leap for her and grab her arm, but I’m now laying face down in the mud and we are both slipping. I feel a tug on my leg. I look back and see a smiling face pulling me back toward the wall. We pull ourselves up and hug the wall. The girl grabs my hand. A part of me fills with a sense of accomplishment. The hole in me that has been holding me back is gone. I begin climbing the wall.

To be continued…

inkbomber

consulting-cannibal:

…It is clearly a radio studio, but the walls are covered in blood, and instead of dials and buttons on the soundboard, there is just animal viscera, glistening under the green LED lights. I hope this microphone works. Am I in hell?….There is so much blood, it is seeping into my shoes! There are — oh, masters of us all, no! — teeth scattered across the floor. The window into the control booth is shattered and there is a swath of skin and a fistful of long clumping hair hanging from a sharp glass point! I do not know if this is even Night Vale…There is a photo, a single photo of a man on the desk here. He is wearing a tie. He is not tall or short, not thin or fat. His hair and nose are like mine, but his eyes…his eyes are black as obsidian and his smile—

No. It is not a smile!

He must be wicked, this man!

I did a couple of interpretive curves, but everyone was very interested in seeing more visions of the Desert Bluffs studio. Look how cozy!!