Loop Copy

(set: $count to 1)The morning sun creeps across your eyelashes like a gentle (link:"sigh.")[sigh— one that you'd prefer it choked on.] Your pupils constrict lethargically to the brightness as soon as you open them and your throat works its way around a dry taste clinging to its inner column. The diluted 'smack' of barely moistened skin separating from itself disperses in a (link:"half-pleasant")[(text-style:"italic")[half-disgusting]] murmur on your lips as the watercolors of sleep dribble down the back of your subconscious. Your room is a [[mess.]]

To be fair, it's not exactly a room so much as it's a— how you say... nest? Your mouth purses vaguely at your own description: it's not necessarily innaccurate, though perhaps a bit too metaphorical for the early hour. It's a room— of course it's a room, but you like the sound of 'nest' better; it's softer and makes the distinct lack of order more forgiveable. A bird is still particular about its materials after all, still weaves them together, still makes it soft and strong enough to sleep in even if it doesn't (text-style:"italic")[look] very pretty. If anything, you're probably a [[crow.]]

Your mom is the one who likened you to the beast because crows like shiny things. They like colors and objects that glitter magnificently in the sun, pulsating with warmth. They adore their treasures regardless of their actual value because they love the smolder, the buzzing hum of contentment it brings to some instinctive, primal part of their beings. You like things that sparkle... You used to be sparkle more, come to think of it, but now's not the time for that. Now it's time to [[get up]].

(if: $count is 1)[Your room (click-replace:"room")[(text-style: "italic")[nest]] is a conglomeration of trinkets you've gathered over the years, some you know you should get rid of or sell, but never seem to find the will to do so, while others are a staple you're not likely to part with.](if: $count is 2)[You wonder if you should clean up your nest a little today. Preen your feathers so to speak. Maybe that would help fix your so called rut...(click-append:"rut...")[ You don't like the sound of the word on your mind's tongue and eagerly reconcern yourself with the state of your nest.(click-append:"nest.")[ (text-style:"italic")[(It's a much prettier sound.)]]]] (if:$count is 3)[Your shoulders feel stiff this morning and you don't remember your dreams. That's been happening a lot lately, but you try not to linger on it. Perhaps it's a good thing... maybe you're healing.] Amongst the clutter is your work desk where your [[laptop]] is stationed, a pile of notebooks from current and past semesters littering the space around it from yesterday's homework. (if:$count is 2)[There's a sheet of looseleaf with your [[schedule]] jotted down on it.] Your [[phone|phone 2]], silent as usual, is plugged in next to your bed alongside two familiar [[orange bottles]]. Your [[sketchbook]] is still sitting on your chair... (if:$pills is 0)[Did you take your pills yet?](if: $pills is 1)[[Go through your day]]

(if:$count is 1)[You sigh softly: your battery should be charged by now. Your computer is getting old— much like you, you joke to yourself, because it's just morbid enough to earn a chuckle. You were working on a paper yesterday and the Word document is still pulled up. You find yourself squinting faintly at it to see where you left off, but you don't think you've made that much more progress on it. [[Explore documents]] [[Look around|get up]]]{ }(if:$count is 2)[Your fingers glide over the keyboard. You really do need more memory for this old gal— that place took up so much of it. Your face softens at the double-meaning of your words. You wish you hadn't wasted so much time there, but there's nothing that can be done about the past. Art is one thing, but when it started taking away your writing, it felt like too much. [[Explore documents|documents 2]] [[Look around|get up]]]{ }(if: $count is 3)[You spend a few minutes checking over your paper, making minor corrections to it even though your punctuation is nagging you. You have forgotten a few of the rules and that irks you a little: you are supposed to get better over time, not worse. You bite your tongue and tell yourself not to be so dramatic about it. [[Explore documents|documents 3]] [[Look around|get up]]]

(if: $pills is 0)[You need to take your meds before you do anything else. [[Take pills]] [[Look around more|get up]]]{ }(else:)[You've already taken your pills for the day. [[Look around more|get up]]]

(if: $count is 1)[You pick up your phone and turn it back to vibrate, absentmindedly checking to see if you have any new text messages since last night. Sometimes people have a habit of sending you them when you're asleep. '0'(click:"0")[ You remember when you used to be glued to that number, when seeing it would have made your stomach ache and your head hurt, but that was awhile ago and now the number feels blessedly neutral to your sanity. It's okay. [[You are okay|get up]]]]{ }(if:$count is 2)[You check your phone out of habit, making sure to switch it from silent to vibrate lest someone nags you about it again. '1'(click:"1")[ You tap the message and see it's from your sister, which makes you smile. You [[miss her]]. She's going to come pick you up in 2 days so you can both drive to your parent's house for the upcoming long weekend. [[Look around|get up]]]]{ }(if: $count is 3)[You flip your phone to vibrate as you rub the sleep from your eyes. '0'(click:"0")[ Your sister will be here the day after tomorrow. You'll need to think of what to pack. [[Look around|get up]]]]

(set:$pills to 1) You turn your head in the direction of the pills, a piece of your mind greeting them like they are simply another (link:"member of your family..")[(link:"friend from school..")[(link:"thing you have to deal with every morning..")[thing you have to deal with every morning.. They're not troublesome, just there. You pop off the lids, sprinkle one of each onto your palm, and swallow them.]]] [[Look around|get up]]

(if:$count is 1)[You get up, get dressed, and eat just like you do every morning. It's around 10 AM when your finish your routine. Your fingers itch a bit, that familiar ache in your chest that you wish you could indulge but don't have the time or material to fuel resurfacing periodically. The rest of the day feels odd, empty. You try to think of new ideas, but the space where they used to lay seems hallow at the moment. Perhaps it will feel better tomorrow. [[Sleep]]]{ }(if: $count is 2)[You get up, get dressed, and eat just like you do every morning. It's around 10 AM when your finish your routine. Your mind stirs with faint sparks of color, wisps that weave through your fingers and across the backs of your eyelids; they're blissful, but brief... cold. Your chest pulses like it misses something, like someone stepped on it. You consider writing something down, to humour yourself, but then you remember and you stop. You don't want to go back to that darkness. Maybe tomorrow... [[Sleep|sleep2]]]{ }(if: $count is 3)[You get up, get dressed, and eat just like you do every morning. It's around 10 AM when your finish your routine. Your mind stirs unpleasantly and you try not to think about how empty your head feels. Your pencil presses into the callus of your ring finger like a knife, murmuring your thoughts into the void of your notebooks that have grown bare. Your lines weave across your wrists and the words curl beneath your tongue, licking at the edges of your voice that remains silent. Remnant thoughts pulse in your throat and yet you don't know what to write... You don't know what to say... You can't do anything. It hasn't gotten better. [[Sleep|sleep3]]]

(if:$count is 1)[Your fingers gingerly caress the front cover of the worn pad, not quite lifting it. Do you dare? Your sketchbook has been an object of uncertainty, envy, and grief for the past few weeks.(click-replace: "few weeks")[(text-style:"italic")[year]] It's because of (text-style:"italic")[that place] you're pretty sure. Even if it's been almost a year, you can't help but feel the sting of it in your bones still. [[You don't want to think about it anymore|get up]]]{ }(if:$count is 2)[You tug at a strand of hair that's caught in the spirals. It's been so long since you were able to really touch its pages. You miss the feeling... the sensation of fullness and joy it used to bring. Your mind stings with words though, with innacurate proportions that you've desperately tried to scratch out because it hurts to (link:"think")[(text-style:"bold")[know]] that you (text-style:"italic")[can't] anymore. You lift the front cover somewhat, enough to see a pristine section of lineart that serves to torment your broken heart. You hate that place... You hate (text-style:"italic")[this feeling...] You hate— ! [[You're spiraling again|get up]]]{ }(if:$count is 3)[You take a deep breath when you walk up to the book, but it doesn't alleviate the burn. The last time you tried to draw you got angry and regretted it. You had the images, but not the technique, not the inspiration, and it showed in your work. You bitterly crossed the image out, furiously noting how the shape of the head kept getting skewed, how many times you were using an eraser, how scared you were. The eyes were too close together, you couldn't get the shoulders right, you wished that you could just burn that fucking school to the ground with everyone [[inside.]]]

On a whim, you minimize the file and glance over whatever else you had pulled up on your screen. You grimace instantly, a quiet, hushed sense of longing filling your chest when you realize there is a half-drawn image on the Photoshop document staring back at you. It's older... Too old for you to feel confident enough to touch it again. Your fingers twitch in your imagination; your brain traces the countours of the digital lineart rhythmically, but it just makes that emptiness hurt more in your chest. It's a pull, a tug, a tear in the front of your skull, and you thoughtlessly switch to your Internet browser instead. [[It hurts today|get up]]

(text-style:"italic")[The sky is an oceanic abyss. The refracting blues seem to stretch into infinity and yet your feet are weighted. Your back hurts and so does your chest... (live: 6s)[(color: blue)+(text-style: "smear")["Where are your wings, little bird?"]] (live: 9s)[(color: blue)+(text-style:"smear")["Why don't you fly?"]] (live: 12s)[Stretching your wings hurts... You're too heavy... There are feathers on the ground. Your fingers feel (color:red)+(text-style:"bold")+(text-style:"smear")[[wet.]]]]

(set: $count to it + 1) (goto: "get up") (set: $pills to 0) (if:$count is 4)[(goto

(set:$pills to 0) (goto:"count")

(text-style:"italic")[The sky is gorgeous and the air feels so brisk to your lungs...(click:"lungs")[ [Your back is aching terribly and your hands are slipping against the floor. You look down at the blood coating your fingers, at the downy fluff sticking to your chewed nails.]] (click:"nails.")[(color:red)+(text-style:"shadow")[ They clipped your wings... They tore at them and now flying hurts.]] (click:"hurts.")[The mangled limbs twitch against your spine, a feeble attempt to soothe a distant ache. They're bloody and you feel [[grounded.]]]]

A distinctly masochistic or perhaps hopeful side of you stokes the urge to pull up your Pages document. This is your work computer, not where your stories usually go, but you broke that rule at some point and turned it into a dumpsite for your urge to write when you couldn't get away. Time twists your interpretation of how things looked... You skim over some excerpt of fantasy. [[It's lovely...]]

Against your better judgement, you flip through your documents. Part of you likes to look through your artwork and your writing, to immerse yourself in proof of your success and talent, but sometimes it turns to ashes in your mouth because you realize that you can't repeat it. You feel like an athlete with a torn ACL looking at their past trophies and that feels wrong. People say that (link:"it's just a block.")[(link:"it's life.")[(link:"it's fine.")[it's fine. But it doesn't feel fine to you. It feels like some part of you is missing. It feels like you have to dig for something that used to be part of you and that makes you want to curl up and [[die]] somedays.]]]

What if you just can't? (live: 3s)[What if you're broken?] (live:6s)[What if the 'you' from yesterday doesn't come back again?] (live: 9s)[What if? (text-style:"italic")[What if?] (text-style:"bold")[What if!?] (text-style:"italic")[What if this is something you don't get over?]] (live:14s)[There's a phantom ache in your spine that pulsates when you think about it too much— like someone severed a limb that used to be there, but you can still [[feel it.]]]

(Probably this one will be something to do with a door--sets up the choice the player will get the day after this one.) -the 4th day will intro that your sister is coming and you need to think of the things you are going to pack to bring with you. -You will then have to go to your sketchbook and decide whether or not to bring it with you (taking it with will probably lead you to the ending that you're going to try again- flight feathers grow back.) (if they choose not to take it with, you will get the option to sleep again i think and be faced with the door again? or something. You get the choice to open it or not. If you pick open it then you probably get like a middle ending of you take the sketchbook with you, but don't know what's going to happen or you leave it, but choose not to give up on it) (leaving it locked is probably the bad ending where you're still too damaged and can't create)

(color:white)+(text-style: "italic")[The sky has grown dark and you want to vomit for some reason when you notice it. Your ribcage feels like it's been snapped open and your skin feels rubbed raw— pulsating as if your whole body is one big open wound. You want to scream, but you (link:"can't.")[can't. The air is thin and you can see colors fluttering toward the sky: the beautiful inspiration you used to curl around evading your grasp. You choke on your voice when you try to touch them because your wings throb in protest and keep you in [[place.]]]]

(align:"=><=")[(live:1s)[[(text-style:"smear")+(color:red)[You're bloody.]]]]{ } (align:"=><=")[(live:4s)[[(text-style:"smear")+(color:red)[You're (text-style:"italic")[pathetic.]]]]]{ } (align:"=><=")[[(color:red)+(text-style:"smear")+(text-style:"expand")+(text-style:"bold")[(live:7s)[You.] (live:9s)[ Will.] (live:11s)[ Never.] (live:13s)[ Fly.]]]] (live:17s)[(goto:"Day4")]

(text-style:"italic")[The sky is gorgeous and the air feels so brisk to your lungs... (live: 5s)[Your back is aching terribly and your hands are slipping against the floor. You look down at the blood coating your fingers, at the downy fluff sticking to your chewed nails.(live:13s)[(color:red)[(text-style:"smear")[ They clipped your wings..they tore at them and now flying hurts.]]] (live:18s)[The mangled limbs twitch against your spine, a feeble attempt to soothe a distant ache. They're bloody and you feel grounded. (align:"=><=")[[[[They ate your dreams... They took them all.|?]]]] like there was a limb there once that was severed, but you can still feel it.

(align:"=><=")[(text-style:"smear")+(color: #CC0033)[[From the Ashes]]] (align:"=><=")[[[Burn|Untitled Passage 1]]]

Granted, you don't miss her like you used to. You don't miss anyone like you did before because now you're safe. You're not desperate for shreds and scraps of human contact; you don't send out dozens of text messages because you can't handle the dread of being alone. You can breathe now, and the tautness, the prickling sensation in your limbs, has settled after months away from that place. [[Return to text|phone 2]]

You wake up. Your body aches a bit and you have a feeling that you didn't sleep well last night for some reason. Then again, you've been going through a combination of writer's block and artistic constipation for the last few weeks and it always makes you think too much about your insecurities, so you wouldn't be surprised if it's affecting your dreams. [[Go through your day|go through your day2]]

(align:"=><=")[[(text-style:"bold")+(text-style:"smear")+(color:red)+(text-style:"expand")[They ate your dreams... They took them [[all.|?]]]]]

(align:"=><=")[[(color:red)+(text-style:"bold")+(text-style:"expand")+(text-style:"smear")[Why[[?]]]]]

You're a little slower as you go about your morning routine: random muscles are sore and you're not very hungry, but sometimes that happens to you. Your sister is coming to pick you up tomorrow and you find yourself tidying up your room in preparation for her arrival. As you go, you start to pack up things you will bring with you. You grab your phone charger, your computer and its cord, your pills, your toiletries, and one of your video games. You pause when you find yourself staring down at your [[sketchbook|the choice]].

Your expression softens diffidently, creasing just so as your inner turmoil swells to the forefront of your brain. Should you bring it with you? Is it even worth it anymore? [[Take it with]] [[Don't take it]]

Your fingers itch in a fashion you've grown to associate with longing, and something vaguely warm enters your thoughts. You lean forward and pick up the half-full sketchbook, cradling it with a hesitant delicacy as you open the pages and allow yourself to finally look at your work. Some of the sketches are crossed out, but there are others that make you smile fondly; you still love them... The lines and the words still linger on your tongue and your entire body suddenly feels vaguely lighter than before as colors consume your [[thoughts.]]

You frown darkly. You...(click-append:"...")[ (text-style:"shadow")+(color:red)+(text-style:"italic")[You're pathetic. You're broken.]] You just can't. It still hurts. It hurts so much to be so afraid of what you love, but there's nothing you can do about it. Your brain has been a barren wasteland of ideas and inspiration, so taking it with you would just be pointless, right? (link:"It still burns.")[(link:"You can't.")[You're tired.]] (click:"You're tired.")[ [[Just go to sleep]]]

You'll take it with you and you'll try again because it's what you love. No matter how much it hurts when you can't, you're not broken. (live: 6s)[Flight feathers grow back.] (live:10s)[But your wings are not pristine... they are no longer white.] (live:14s)[(color:orange)[They are made of [[fire.]]]]

(align:"=><=")[[[[You are a phoenix and you will rise from the ashes.|history]]]]

(text-style:"italic")+(color: white)+(text-style:"smear")[It's dark... You can't see the sky. There's nothing but a door in front of you and you feel numb all over. ] [[Door?]] [[Open the door]] [[Don't open the door]]

(text-style:"italic")+(color: white)+(text-style:"smear")[The door calls to you, but your back aches when you try to stand up.] [[Your white wings are small and bruised.]]

(text-style:"italic")+(color: white)+(text-style:"smear")[The door is locked. You don't remember where the key is... the latch is rusted shut. You can't breathe. The hinges groan as the ground starts to fracture. Suddenly, your back feels warm and wet, and when you lift your hands up to your face all you see is] (color:red)+(text-style:"smear")+(text-style:"italic")[red.] [[Red blood and black feathers.]]

(align:"=><=")[(text-style:"smear")+(color:red)[[["I'm broken."|history]]]]

Your eyes open slowly as the sunlight spills across your face, coaxing your consciousness into full focus. Your body feels tired, but lighter than it has in days. You pick your head up and find your eyes drawn to the chair where you left your sketchbook last night... Your brow creases gently, but the tight knot in your throat unravels like a loose seam. There's an idea lingering in your head: heavy and half-formed, just beginning to curl from the shadows. [[You exhale.]]

(align:"=><=")[[[Your nest is still a beautiful place.|history]]]

(reload:)

That (text-style:"bold")[stings]. These words were your friends once, they loved you like you loved them; they came happily to you and your fingers before, but now they evade you like you were too rough with them— they taunt you. It's part of the vicious cycle you keep getting trapped in. You want to write, you want to draw, you want to feel, but somehow you're still not fully healed from the trauma of that isolation. [[You hope this doesn't last forever|get up]]

You wish that you could just make (text-style:"italic")[something.] (text-style:"bold")[Anything.] One measly sketch would be enough for you. Hell, (text-style:"italic")[one sentence.] You want to (link:"draw right now...")[(link:"write.")[(text-style:"italic")[(link:"paint.")[(text-style:"italic")[(link:"edit.")[(text-style:"bold")[think.]]]]]]] You want to use your emotions even if they're frustrated and sad, but you know better. It will end badly, like it always does, so you need to find something else to do or just swallow those pains until they disappear. [[How much longer will it last?|get up]]

(color:red)+(text-style:"italic")[You hate them.] (color:white)+(text-style:"italic")[They took your voice from you, they stole your heart, they snapped your spine in half, kissed your lips, and sucked the air from your [[lungs.]]]

Art school had been a mistake and you know that now. They ruined you... They broke you... They chewed on your soul and then spit it out without a care in the world. Your hand subconsciously molds to your shoulder at that and you dig your nails into unsuspecting fabric. You feel cold when you think of a windowless room, of isolation, of the abyss that your mind became when they had sucked your imagination dry. [[You're so tired...|get up]]

It still hurts and you're still afraid. Failure and regret are common bedfellows and it's almost too easy to slip beneath their sheets in times like these. It would be safer to give up, tear off your wings, and walk like everyone else.(click-append:"everyone else.")[ Only you're a crow.] You won't take the book with you, but you won't abandon it either. You'll let yourself heal and hope its pages wait for you until you return. [[You'll try again.]]

You find yourself glancing over it, absentmindedly making sure that you haven't fallen behind or missed some important deadline for one of your classes, but everything appears to be in order. Your brain seems to stall every so often when you register the month and the date you're staring at [[though.]]

You try not to keep track of it, but the truth is you know it's been over a month since you've written anything new on your phone or your computer. You want to snort: rut... It's a lovely word indeed. It's not like you haven't had trouble writing in the past, because you have, but this... this has been different. Your brain is a desert for inspiration and [[it makes every day feel longer than it really is.]]

You don't like to think about it because the sound of (link:"rut")[(link:"block")[(link:"standstill")[(text-style:"italic")[dead end] makes your heart hurt more than your head already does. [[It's too early for this|get up]]]]]

(text-style:"italic")+(color: white)+(text-style:"smear")[Your thoughts are murky, running through your fingers like loose sand from a shattered hourglass. You don't remember the door or where it goes, but it makes you feel naueseous. You don't know....] [[You don't know.|Just go to sleep]]

(text-style:"italic")+(color: white)+(text-style:"smear")[You hesitate because opening the door will hurt... It will send you plummeting and force you to climb back up. You walk to the opening slowly, ignoring the trail of blood and feathers you leave behind you, and stare at the knob as something glows through the keyhole. It reminds you of sparkles and colors; it feels warm and hums in your ears. You don't know if it will open, but the thought of leaving it closed makes your wings burn.] [["Please..."]]