- Uncategorized
- 30 Apr 18
A 17 year old who tries to paint all the world's different faces, no matter how dark or bright, through words, Dualtagh McDonnell's favourite colour is pink. He says he "would rather be punched in the face than follow the crowd". Favourite writers include Gabriel García Márquez, William Faulkner, Plath and Eliot. You'll usually find him drifting through space towards some violent fire, and he'll still be smiling.
And now for Dualtagh's WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW entry ...
We Are The Misfits
We are a generation lost. We hide our sinking feelings behind pointless abbreviations. We are at war with strangers, thieves that try to steal any confidence we may have left and push us into the compressors of their mop buckets to drain our beautiful juices.
Resting on a limestone hill in the guilty seabed of a holiday is a small city of kitchen, creamy grease floating on the sad worktops, the taps eternally running. Panting at the summit, stands a boy trapped between the border of art and reality with social media’s faint ‘love’ pouring down from the sky in a worthless glamour. This is me, this is you, this is us. He walks over toward one of the many mirrors, he stares mise en abyme and captures his fading reflection, a black hole into the flames.
Out of his pocket, he takes a sparkling, silky silver and cool blade. Something that could let him weep his blood and slip into a lifeless lull. He slides the blade across his left wrist, a warm ribbon of red trickles, patiently down his arm, forms a drop at his elbow and paints his bare foot. Fortunately, the knife was as blunt as a brick and that dribble was destined to be its only fruit, he had a few seconds to rethink and that was all he needed, he didn’t want to go. Most of us don’t get those seconds and realise too late. Society needs to change and maybe then we can start counting sheep to get sleep instead of more sinister points that play on the ceiling.
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Because this is the age of the fleeting moment and the kids definitely aren’t alright. We are tumbling furies, quickly drifting and blowing in the wind. And as we reach a peak in self-exploration, the abyss of virtual existence swallow us whole. We constantly pray for the present time to end yet, paradoxically, pray for it to never end or to never have even begun. We are the misfits, the maniacs, the lost souls, all desperately searching for one bright spark in the swamps of identical beige nothingness.
This is me, this is new, this is us and remember ily2.
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