Promising Young Man
A lot of potential but a lot more to go.
Reader response from Tear Drop.
“This one almost made me emotional. Lot of old friends are like strangers now, gets sad man remembering how things used to be.”
- Andrew N in [redacted], Maryland
Andrew. It is sad! But the game isn’t over. No black pills here. There’s always a better horizon. It’s up to us, you, to usher in those attitudes you remember. Don’t let the world steal their light.
Come closer and see
See into the dark
Just follow your eyes
Just follow your eyes
A young man ran up to me
In his eyes were a wild, untamed fire, a look of madness that, if not careful, one could get drawn into such as falling over the edge of the mouth of a volcano.
His words like cyclones.
He had a tense energy. He acted as if the law, bounty hunters, or ghoulish figures of a supernatural nightmare were hot on his trail.
His hair was disheveled. Whipping left and right. Permanent bed head and he didn’t much mind. His jagged curls matched his eyes and there was a consistency throughout everything about him that said:
Danger. Youthful danger.
The kind of young man that the law, the world hadn’t yet torn to shreds but the kind that knew that type of ‘cutting down’ wasn’t far from happening to him.
His hands were gripped tight. Clutching something, hiding it, almost, from the outside eyes that his paranoid senses had convinced him were all around.
He confided in me.
He said he saw a similar vein in me.
He said he didn’t trust anyone, especially me, but that was why he had chosen me.
I had an open attitude -
a Misfit understanding that this was a young man who had, also, made a Monster of himself.
So I listened. But I didn’t identify with him.
He’s not like me, but he could be one day.
“I want to give you this.” He opens his hand a crushed piece of notebook paper begins to unfold, “Please read it and don’t show anyone else.”
He shoves it forward towards my body, a body that hasn’t yet cared to bother sticking its hand out but this didn’t deter him as he starts pushing it towards my chest and his whole attitude, tense and nervous begins to increase.
“Ok, okay.”
“Thank you.”
I turn to open it and the writing is small, tiny font, the type that makes you think the writer is afraid of wasting time - to act, write, as if dragging the letters to far up and down, increasing their size would take up too much of a currency he wouldn’t get back.
I look to the top left and begin,
“I feel like I’m running out of time. Town. Both. I’m running out of both. One I’m leaving because the other is closing in. At night I feel more anxious than sunset and at sunrise I feel more depressed than at night. This trickles into my relationships. Why, of all the people in the world, would someone lend and ear to me. My parents both seem like they care. Strangers listening to me makes me seem like they’re bored. You. Why are you reading this?”
I look up, wearing an expressionless face and see his mask is the exact opposite. Lurching forward, on the balls of his feet, anticipating validation, hoping for something to understand, or just desperately waiting for my response; my take on his madness.
“You aren’t writing with enough emotion. The look I see in your eyes isn’t being put on paper the right way. You’re leaving too much in your head.”
And during the last sentence I do much like he did before, push the paper towards his body - towards his chest as he has no hands stretched out to receive.
“But, what do you mean? That’s real” and he emphasizes this. “Very real.”
My lips grab each other, “no it’s not. Look at your face, feel your tension, you aren’t pouring it all out. You’re holding on too tight.”
And I must go now. My friends pulling at my shoulder but the young mans look stays the same; waiting and hopeful with a hint of disappointment.
“I can help you, but not now, you have to learn how to be honest with yourself first.”
And that’s the last I saw of him. Those wild eyes, twisted eyebrows. I hope I run into him once more, when he’s understood how to be more honest.
I could teach him. But he didn’t chase after me. A sign he doesn’t, yet, want to know how to grab at the tombs of his truths.
Breaking character; the fourth wall:
Every day I receive, on average, 3 - 5 pieces of writing from twitter, instagram, substack followers.
So I’ve created a Writing Coaching Plan.
It won’t be your professors writing class. Find that from any loser on social media ‘writing’. These are my personal approaches, tricks, habits to pull out what really matters. The emotional, real material.
This will be Me & You. Daily edits and multiple calls a week. There are 3 tiers based on your skill level and level of dedication. It will be published sometime this week.
The highest tier, 3, will be for anyone that wants to write their first Novel.
All novels written will have the opportunity to be featured, permanently, on Souledidea.com
Because of the level of dedication the disciple will receive; it’s a first come first serve program.
I will never have more than 3 writers I’m working with.
Look out for the release to guarantee a spot.
I can’t wait to work with you.
WITH PASSION,
WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
THE LION’S TOOTH
MIDNIGHT SWASHBUCKLER
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