Posted by
Juané
8:49 AM
Category:
High School
,
Writing
Simkin had been the most beautiful girl in town. About five foot tall. A bit short I agree, but with the bluest eyes, the most tanned skin and the blondest hair. She had been the envy of everyone. Yet also, she had been my closest friend. Whether it had meant spending months apart, we were still close. She wasn't just any friend though. She was the kind that would show up with a bucket of ice-cream and your favourite movies at midnight if she had the tiniest inkling that things weren't all-right. If she had an important meeting, she'd cancel it and much rather stuff her face with copious amounts of food alongside you.
She was my friend, for twelve years, before she met him. Cocaine. Immediately she fell head over her own heels. I can remember him from primary school. He even went to my high school, sang in the choir with me. An interesting bloke, though not my type. See, Cocaine had a reputation, and it was definitely not seeing that he was popular
I began seeing less of Simkin, and on the rare occasions that I did she looked gaunt, decreasing in size. Almost, wasting away. She had lost her spark of energy, her contact with the outside world, she changed. She was no longer Simkin, but now, now she was just like him. Cocaine. The devil.
The next year flew past with the speed of light. Along with her weight, Simkin lost family members. She lost track of time, she lost track of what had previously been the most important things to her. She lost her ability to love, and most of all her ability to live.
On the first day of Autumn, I decided to call on Simkin. The Grim Reaper picking up the receiver on the other side, telling me he took yet another victim for his vengeful vendetta with the world. Cocaine had slaughtered my friend, beaten, battered, bruised and finally killed without mercy, yet again.
©. Juané van Dyk.
Posted by
Juané
9:46 AM
Category:
Writing
Writing?
For what we ask? Some people do it for their love of words. Their love of their language, which-ever one it may be. It brings them happiness and along with it, relaxation at times. It's how they deal with their problems and how they create solutions to these 'said' problems. Others do it to express themselves. To show what is inside of them and how they should be seen from an outside perspective. For writers can bottle themselves up, unlike the rest of the human kind who tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves and take every chance they get to spill their guts on the next passerby. Whether or not they know the person.
Writers take time to create masterpieces. They don't sit and just do it, they think things over. Edit. Overview. Edit. Re-read. Edit. Re-write. They never cease to stop re-thinking on how to change certain things. Once they feel they have reached their masterpiece, they show it to the world. The world then takes it in and spits it back out, mutilated and distraught. This leaves the writer disheartened, yet the writer never gives up. The writer is strong and takes in criticism with a spoon of salt, or sugar. Whichever the writer prefers. The writer is obsessive over spelling and finding the right words. The writer never settles for close to good enough, he reaches out for extra-ordinary. Believe me, the writer then finds it.
Writers are there to write. Don't expect anything else from them.
Writing amuses people.
Writing informs people.
Writing changes people.
Writing inspires people.
Writing becomes people.
Appreciate the writer, for the writer appreciates you....
©. Juané van Dyk.
