Just Words

Painted minds.

2012-01-04T11:25:00.001-08:00

What choice of words?

2011-06-07T05:12:00.000-07:00

TV on the Radio- "Will Do"

Very beautiful. Easy evening, drinking oolong tea, reminiscent of the rainy mountains in Taiwan, mist drifting softly in the space shared contentedly with friends. Cup by cup, drifting. Editing pictures from the weekend, cloudy early morning pictures of mountain peaks, rocky island shores as we pass on the sunny deck of a ferry boat.

Tired. Quiet time in the office, scratching notes after my evening classes have ended, I can envision a lifetime of this.

Press repeat. Listen again.

Sip of tea. Sift through pictures. Warm the water again, seep in loose oolong leaves, sip, pause, sip.

Content.

Any time will do, my love. Any time will do.

I wish I was a photograph.

2011-04-11T20:17:00.000-07:00

Andrea Gibson is an incredible poet and activist.

I cannot tell you enough how much I admire everything she writes, and the passion with which she speaks. She is incredible.

Nobody Ever Dies.

2011-04-06T23:25:00.000-07:00

"Then, in the dark on the bed, holding himself carefully, his eyes closed, their lips against each other, the happiness there with no pain, the being home suddenly there with no pain, the being alive returning and no pain, the comfort of being loved and still no pain; so there was a hollowness of loving, now no longer hollow, and the two sets of lips in the dark, pressing so that they were happily and kindly, darkly and warmly at home and without pain in the darkness, there came the siren cutting, suddenly, to rise like all the pain in the world. It was the real siren, not the one of the radio. It was not one siren. It was two. They were coming both ways up the street.

He turned his head and then stood up. He thought that coming home had not lasted very long. "

Ernest Hemingway, from the short story "Nobody Ever Dies." published posthumously.

Truth.

2011-03-20T21:27:00.000-07:00

Incredible song. Echoes of our souls, we share together.

"If you can't stand to feel the pain then you are senseless
Sense this:
I've grown up some, different kind of fire
And when the darkness comes, let it beside you.
Your darkness is shining,
My darkness is shining,
Have faith in myself:

Truth."

New solo released by Alex Ebert of Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros.

We don't fear death, and neither should you.

2010-11-06T04:51:00.000-07:00

"But the last thing I want to do tonight is depress you. So I have thought of something we can all do tonight which will be definitely upbeat. I think we can come up with a statement on which all Americans, Republican or Democrat, rich or poor, straight or gay, can agree, despite our country's being so tragically and ferociously divided.

The first universal American sentiment I came up with was "Sugar is sweet."

And there is certainly nothing new about a tragically and ferociously divided United States of America, and especially here in my native state of Indiana. When I was a kid here, this state had within its borders the national headquarters of the Ku Klux Klan, and the site of the last lynching of an African- American citizen north of the Mason-Dixon Line, Marion, I think.

[.....]

I asked Mark a while back what life was all about, since I didn't have a clue. He said, "Dad, we are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is." Whatever it is.

"Whatever it is." Not bad. That one could be a keeper.

And how should we behave during this Apocalypse? We should be unusually kind to one another, certainly. But we should also stop being so serious. Jokes help a lot. And get a dog, if you don't already have one.

I myself just got a dog, and it's a new crossbreed. It's half French poodle and half Chinese shih tzu.

It's a shit-poo.

And I thank you for your attention, and I'm out of here."

--Kurt Vonnegut from his last speech, written for delivery at Clowes Hall, Indianapolis, April 27, 2007

sitting in the present.

2009-08-02T10:40:00.001-07:00

Peaceful thoughts, slow breathing.

A calm breeze drifts through the windows. A summer smell greets me; lemon, a hint of paint, a subtle remnant of blueberry pancakes, freshly brewed coffee. Little versions of home, sunshine on the floor to light up the room. Love in the living room, solitude in the kitchen.

Order, cleanliness and order without regiment, home.

Memories, bent over laughing near the stove, meal after meal, cup after cup of coffee, tea, warming our hands and growing apart, wrapped in blankets, summer dresses and a pile of beer caps, a bowl of spaghetti and a bag of chocolate.

A vase of dead flowers, the petals strewn about and it is poetry, withered and beautiful. I cannot bring myself to throw them away so I clean around them, a friendship preserved in petals.

Time pauses before swirling around my head, the room explodes in light and for once, the past is quiet.

these endless numbered days.

2009-02-10T08:59:00.000-08:00

Winter is running away through the gutters, melting off the streets and running to the sea.

Faster and faster, don't stop walking. Sunshine in my eyes, skipping class to find an answer to the question I cannot form. Lost in a sea of words and I forget, hiding within myself and losing focus in the blur. One idea stacked atop another, the pile so high it blocks the sun and slowly, the ideas melt into each other and drip into the carpet, lost in the grain.

Step by step and my eyes are caught in the scenery, strangled in the tangled knot of bushes as my feet force me along, a parabola of pain. Fascinated by details and blurring over the ideas. Silent, don't make me speak.

Oblivion in spurts, dissecting my oblivion.

fallen time.

2008-10-26T12:54:00.001-07:00

Slowly, do not rush.

The blackness of night. Silence fills your lungs as you silently step your path home. A quiet melody drifts from her lips, double step and the crunch of a leaf. Colors tossed and woven together, a smile graces her face and a tear weaves its gentle way. The crisp air fills my lungs and my soul sighs in relief.

Love is a force. I see it in your eyes as your heart is breaking, I feel it in your words as the coffee weaves our time together. Every step is carried in love, and the etch of lines that branch from your eyes when you laugh is the most beautiful thing you have given me. I am captivated, my feet dance on the fallen leaves. I am alive, my heart is broken. I can breathe.

So much clutter and I am trapped, desperate for escape. Steaming water, let the day melt away. The heat seeps into my fingers, stop fighting. Quiet breaths and the scratch of a pen, lingering eyes before you look away. I fall on the floor and you are lost in your own self, slamming drawers as I cover my face. Love is heavy, my eyelids droop.

Every day is a promise, and the wind whips across my face as I laugh in my tears.

nothing much at all.

2008-10-13T19:28:00.000-07:00

Black ink on the crisp white paper.

Empty your mind through the tip of the pen, frantic and weaving. Chaos and order, the yellow leaves spin from the sky and I slowly walk through my day. The trees lose their cover and show their secrets to the world, but the busy people bustle along too quickly to see. Heavy heat on a cloudy day. The haze settles in my mind, my motions are slow.

A stranger's eyes and a slight smile on his face.

A man with no shoes is perched on the curb, his body curled around the sketch his fingers deftly create. Sticks of color that shed their light, a flurry of motion and an image emerges. I lose myself for a moment and as I look up, he bikes away.

If you found the answer, could you code it into words?

Life goes on.

2008-09-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

The floor is worn, the paint is chipped.

Double spin, turn and face your life. Pieces chipped and worn, where have you been? Faces blur the scene as you spin, mouths partially open while their eyes stare into your soul. Piercing with questions, eyes digging for answers you hesitate to give.

You spin into a field, yellow daisies filling your heart. The petals drip into the brown of the earth, the brown of your eyes drips into the palm of your hand. Everything blurs and you spin again, faster and faster and never stop.

Double step, a smile on your face while questions burden your heart. Life is never what it seems, double step. Pour a cup of comfort and sip it slowly, set it down and watch your feet carry you through your day, watch them dance. Double step and you can't look back, whisper quietly to yourself, sip and step.

Life is beautiful you say, sip and step, double step.

Double glance, everything repeats. Everyone struggles the same, it's silent in your eyes. Lower your face, plug in and get lost in a world your own. Shuffle the pieces together, hold them close. Love is quiet, whisper to yourself. Sunshine falls from the trees and lines the path we walk, have you forgotten? Simple, the questions themselves are simple.

The coffee is cold, the room is warm.

the infinite abyss.

2008-06-22T10:27:00.000-07:00

A break from silence.

All words are washed into a white oblivion, all thoughts and feelings and sense of being washed away in a tide of white capped waves of time. Each wave carries the face of a stranger, each new reflection of light flits on the shadows that dim my eyes, and ever so slowly I am carried away from the shadows into an existence where the light dances off the whites of their eyes and I am blinded, lost from the solidity of the past into the waves of a future washed out in light.

Picture this.

I stand in the center of a city, surrounded on all sides by steel and glass buildings, my feet centered in a white marble square. In my stillness, the crowd that flows around me becomes a blur, and as my eyes become unfocused the blur speeds up and washes around me, a pebble in the middle of the sea. The sunlight flashes off the windows and my unfocused eyes are blinded with light and I step away, but my marble square is surrounded on all sides by eight more white squares, and as I step away the squares extend outward, and each step pushes the buildings away as I am surrounded by an endless wash of white: the sunlight from above is blinding as the whiteness from below is burning.

All of existence is washed in white, our souls bound to a pair of feet and a set of eyes, and no matter how we run it stretches out in every direction, bright and blinding and inescapable. Each day is surrounded on all sides by an infinite number of days and even as we run we are bound to nothing but a blinding eternity of white and an existence of running forever in a sightless search for more.

My feet are weary and my eyes are sore and on I run, forgetting all those I am loosely tied to as I push further into a sea of white, lost in the brightness of the future and the whiteness of my present.

We are bound to a life that forces us to grow older, tied to a society that discourages clinging to our youth. Grow old and grow up and wash yourself in white, forget the shadows that blur all the colors together and fill your eyes with an absence of color, a white and infinite blur.

Silence fills my heart as I stare into the infinite and blinding abyss.

how it has come to be.

2008-03-10T22:36:00.000-07:00

A thin trail of words falls from your mouth as I trace my finger in a pattern across my knee, over and over. The repetition is calming, for the continual lines drain the weight from your words and as my vision blurs, the meaning quietly seeps away.

My mind drifts to the faces of those I miss, laughing, always laughing.

I turn the kaleidoscope and the world explodes in color, endless patterns that whisper a love no one can see. Always expressive but never the same. This version of me is jutted throughout time, cut into shapes where my shadow shatters the light. What you see is delicate, a careful framing of light on my careless features.

What is seen is not what I can see.

One and the same but never in line, for my version encompasses all of time, all of me crushed into one moment.

All that is seen is the present, a glimpse of time that is frozen in motion.

The tires strike the pavement and time stops, and suddenly time speeds on and the water splashes over my rainboots and leaks through the hole in the toe. I stand alone, one toe soaked, mesmerized by something I cannot see. Mental shots speeding and slowing, and the music dictates my steps and I carry on.

Crunching the snow piles, splashing the puddles, letting go of it all.

What became of my fears, now so filled with a frustration of technicalities?

Age creeps slowly, realizations of frugality and worthlessness fill my vision and I stray away, to be on my own, away from it all. Aloneness is comforting, quiet and peaceful, away from your words and your version of me.

Not all aloneness is loneliness.

Not all words are truth.

a quiet settling into home.

2008-02-25T15:09:00.000-08:00

A small group of girls stands excitedly on the corner; their matching bags and giddy smiles stick absurdly out from the drudgery of their surroundings.

It is a chilly, grey day: college students pass in flocks, heads down as they trudge their familiar paths in search of knowledge. This cluster of strangers is an irregularity, a blemish on these streets of habit. They clutter the pathways and gape at the masses of students that pervade the streets. I pass quietly, take note of this irregularity and continue on my route.

My coat flaps loosely in the wind.

I look in the eyes of the passing assemblage of faces, and they are familiar and quietly comforting. Even as unsettled as my mind remains, my path is ingrained with memories. Past events and words quietly whisper to me from the landscape that surrounds me. A wisp of hair blows across my face, and all of a sudden,

I realize.

No matter how restless my footsteps, this is my path.

Silently and without effort, I watch myself fade through the scene.

a moment's pause.

2008-01-31T23:48:00.000-08:00

She sat silent, alone.

Some days, the thoughts in her head were mirrored by the expressions on the faces of those that passed her, as though each of them were part of this nameless, faceless revolution of societal thought that raced toward some strange and fatiguable future. In their faces lay echoes of passions long forgotten, even while the shadows of their figures marched endlessly on.

The weather was dreary that day, and perhaps was the cause of the melancholy pallor that lay projected upon the darkened faces of those aimless wanderers. A sudden movement distracted the lull, and a man in a finely buttoned peacoat marched determinedly forward, his presence washing through the crowd in much the same way a tidal wave would impress itself upon the everlasting land.

Sometimes, she thought of her loneliness as a deep and unrequited attribute of her individuality. As though by nursing this bittersweet feeling, she could achieve some means of comfort or purpose from its tasteless juices. As though this one thing could separate her from a crowd of faceless souls and save her from unforgivable mindlessness.

At times the loneliness would so consume her, the only solace to be found was in a morbid projection of her feelings to her surroundings; one lone mitten, hanging drenched from the grate of a rain gutter, dejected and abandoned. Or in the afternoon, a consoling image of three leftover cheerios clinging to the side of a cereal bowl, shriveled and disregarded by a morning rush.

It seemed almost vulgar, exploiting the depths of her emotions on inanimate objects, these things whose essence was defined merely by their size or shape, color or flavor, and which were completely incapable of anything besides the stimulation of emotion for an external force.

As the clouds shifted and exposed gentle brushes of light through the branches onto the frozen ground, her thoughts eased their way out of the shadows and she disappeared into the ceaseless current of the crowd.

my drunken, homeless angel.

2007-12-10T17:25:00.000-08:00

Superman, they call him.

And his eyes misted over as he stared intensely into the wall, a smile playing on his features while he rambled to me about the past. A modern day Bonnie and Clyde, raising hell and falling more and more in love as they challenged the boundaries of the life that lay before them.

Alcohol poisoning, he said. And now he wakes up every day and faces life without her. Six years, he told me. Six years and all he does is get older without her. How do you move on? Everyone tells me to move on. His gaze penetrated me and I could feel my heart reach out to him as tears threatened my own eyes.

Some mornings the music would come on and you just make gestures, he said. Anything to make her laugh. How do you move on when you know you'll never find another like her? Nobody else makes you feel like that.

I sat by the lake the other day, wondering why it had to be that she couldn't see the beauty with me. It's my birthday today, you know. It's just that it hurts. You have to wonder why it hurts so bad. But I listen, every day. Just listen.

I stopped doing games at the carnival, he told me. Used to do that with my wife. But now I just do rides. I'm homeless, you know.

And the kindest eyes I've ever seen stared deep in my soul, and neither of us knows the answers.

He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to me. A gift from someone who has nothing, and the warmth of this moment means everything. Peace and love, that's what we need.

His eyes smiled into mine through the tears.

You just gotta learn to love everyone.

And my heart hurts, and life is such a tragedy.

show me something no one else can Feel.

2007-11-10T22:25:00.000-08:00

Absolute silence.

Not the kind that envelopes your senses and deafens you, but the kind that, upon removal of some distraction, clears your senses and suddenly everything around you is still, and silent, and in absolute peace.

This is my favorite sound: a snapshot of silence. A bridge into an entirely different world. A moment that stands alone, apart from the rest that busily pile atop one another in a flurry of time and space. A peaceful emptiness that is stumbled upon and treasured for just a moment, before it vanishes in the sound of a voice calling my name.

There is so much beauty in this world. In every detail, in every blur. It surrounds me and isolates me, beckoning to me, begging that I sit in silence to find it. Words twist around me, emotions edge in the colors and outlines, and faces... faces are the most beautiful of all. Eyes that beg for understanding, that stare into mine with such truthfulness, and my heart aches.

Row after row of books, and I run through them, and the music pounds in my ears and the colors of the bindings blur together, faster and faster, words and colors chopping and blending together and time stops, and I can feel the passion of the books: years and years of toil, each word painstakingly and deliberately placed on the page, thousands upon thousands of authors and ideas and as my fingertips brush across the bindings,

I can feel it all, and my soul tingles in excitement.

Life is beautiful.

set Fire to the Clutter in My Mind.

2007-10-09T15:13:00.001-07:00

Unexpected news, and I am suddenly snatched from this reality to find myself clutching my knees, those foreign objects that present an illusion of comfort, alone in my room wondering what controls this chaos. Reality shapes itself into whatever occupies us at the moment, whether it be a continuum of books and strangers and tests, or a realization that everyone you love is too far away.

Funny that my strange obsession with pinning a definition on love has excluded that love which always has been there. Some intense and profound feeling of attachment to strangers who love us. Blood that binds and allows some feeling of understanding between people you barely know, whether that be because we are too young, or we don't have enough time, or perhaps because we take these people and their love for granted. It's always been there, and it's not dizzying, or dreadfully exciting, or something we have to search for. It's just there, it just is.

And when it is suddenly taken away, it hurts.

And this fairy tale perspective that shapes the world I love is crumbling, replaced with logic and numbers and blaring inequities, forcing me to place my heart on a dissection board and designate long, difficult names and definitions to all the mysteries afore shrouded in mist.

And when everything is illuminated in much too harsh of a light,

I feel old.

Textbooks and Novels

2007-09-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

Words, everywhere.

A black and white picture; a woman, distraught, dripping in diamonds. An elegant ballroom gown in a large empty room, her presence radiant and gloweringly beautiful. She stands alone, one hand draped along her side.

A small, crude sketch of an elephant, void tail.

Poetry. Simple quotes. My own nondescript words.

The stillness of the weekend provokes an inclination for loneliness, and I am drawn into a state where music alone captures my attention. I have plastered the walls with comfort; colors, smiles and clips of beautiful things.

What is it about the chords, dancing through my small lime green earbuds, that allows such a blissful absence of thought? Another's exploitation of emotion, an expression that allows the listener to feel close to an absolute stranger. I find myself deeply and emotionally tied to these strangers, yet completely ignorant of those who walk through my daily life. Instead of truly learning about people, the same questions [and answers] are repeated daily. Monotonous details of the events of the day completely overshadow actual emotions, and more often than not a 'good' escapes, even when I am far from it.

How are you?

Good.

And you?

Good.

Yet, through music, another's words become my own. Another's emotions shape my own. Risk is absent, and understanding is met immediately rather than developed through a time- devouring struggle. Connections. Life thrives on those tiny connections.

Textbooks and novels: the battle for both.

in the Moonlight i Drive, and Summer Ends.

2007-08-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

There is some indescribable freedom and pleasure in driving alone, windows down and music shading in the fullness of the scene. A cool night breeze whips across my face and a shiver trickles down my spine, my hair flying loose from its tight, tied cage. I love to drive alone, plodding slowly into the morning hours as the tantalizing smell of night immerses me in its secrets, whispering to me. I silently smile to myself in the illusion that I have found something no other can find.

The childhood taunt: I know something you don't know. It kills us all.

Other people's words filter through my head, and the clarity of my vision is blurred. It's amazing how sudden change is, wrapping itself around and around you, causing words to become drops of shadows against the whiteboard of the past. Are actions chosen based more on the words I find drowning my thoughts, or the emotions which give my thoughts form?

How funny that one can find reassurance in the absence of normalcy. Nothing stays the same, nor can anything be returned to the way it was. I foolishly find myself wishing for that very thing: that in some form or another, things will return to the way they were. But once words have fallen, they cannot be picked up. Their imprints cannot be ignored. The effects we have are powerful and irreversible; we are foolish to believe that anything we do has no impact. We can only gather that which remains and attempt to salvage it into something more beautiful and meaningful than before. Our dreams turn from that which we had, to that which we may have.

My visions for the future are beautiful; they are filled with a soft light, secret smiles and strange faces that fill my days with laughter. I envision contentedness. I feel I can barely taste the beauty which is to fall, whether it land gracefully or harshly on my days. Everything is beautiful, for whatever happens leaves the change up to us: For we will be altered, but the manner in which we are is left to us. Ultimately, don't we decide how we are affected? Change falls quietly, powerfully. The most drastic changes are made in the quiet moments, the ticking details, the still, personal decisions.

Ultimately, we are alone. In all we do.

A sudden loneliness suffocates me as I become immersed in headlights on all sides, caught in a glaring river of light in the absolute blackness of my night.

Summer Sighs

2007-07-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

I sit quietly at my computer, brushing clothes off my chair before collapsing into it. I am surrounded by piles of unfinished projects, scraps of ideas sketched out on paper, useless doodles begging me to bring them to life. Dirty coffee cups grace the desktop, no long useful in the combination of their grime and my lack of time. Mountains of clothes surround me, books with pages marked halfway through, accusing me with their unfinished plotlines. Ideas bubble through my mind and, nearly as quickly as they come, tiredness shuts them out.

Sadly enough, I feel myself slipping into a sense of abandoned chaos, in much the same way as these momentos of myself. My days have fallen into a routine that is draining my mind as well as my energy. Feelings have become as numb as my feet at the end of the day, aching for attention yet always finding me negligent and reluctant to find reprieve. Instead, I find myself collapsing into bed as the comfort ebbs through my veins and slowly carries me into my dreams.

Though I have not run out of time to dream, my ideas are reduced from reality to small scraps of paper, for I find I cannot allow them room to breathe. Days are slipping out of my control, no longer mine to dictate. Even as I assure myself it is just a phase, I am afraid this time is not something which I should allow myself to lose, let alone lose myself in.

Life is different now, more a stranger to me than it has ever been.

Cursive Emboldened Thoughts

2007-05-30T11:27:00.000-07:00

The world is changing at such an alarming rate, I fear that one day I shall wake up and look out my window to find that the world which I love --the world of my childhood-- will have

vanished.

and in it's stead will lay
a far colder and evidently more harsh world that
no longer steals my breath with
its intricate and simplistic beauty
((bathed in its delicate details.))

it is evident, and it is terrifying.

...and so,
perhaps the only thing left for me to do
[in the mild, saddened acceptance of a warrior, the morning before battle]
is to breathe in the beauty
and bathe in peaceful and innocent thoughts
in the sunlight of my youth,
and to appreciate and capture this world
and its delicate moments in the depths of my mind
((encapsulated as they are in wonder))
to pass on as I may, to those I love
and to those on whom my future is built.

[[Words have become my art of late, twisting and twirling across the pages, rising and falling in girth and boldness, cursive and lettering, twisting through the page as though they were my thoughts twisting through my mind. Each word after another in an endless chase, relentless until the definitive period marks the end, time cutting my thoughts short. They take no strict form, laws of English tossed aside as I attempt to mount the language barrier that restricts my shadowy thoughts from taking form. In this manner I have found shelter for my thoughts, page after page in my beaten, well loved, twenty- seven cent notebook. Though this excerpt is rather cheapened without the boldness of ink, here lies, now published, the quiet thoughts of my mind of late.]]

An Hour Glass Wrapped in Paper

2007-04-08T15:32:00.000-07:00

Some days it is as though repetition and mediocrity fill my days; running through wheel after wheel, I cannot help but to feel the tiredness seep into my pores. Reality swirls through words and actions, rationality mixing with memories (emotional at the core) and even when I pause for a deep breath, I become a small speck of confusion, lost in the waves.

People like to tell me this is the prime of my life; these are the best years, the years I used to look forward to and the ones I'll nostalgically look back on someday.

Perhaps I am naïve, but I prefer to believe that life grows continually more beautiful, and to refer a certain cluster of years as the 'best' is foolish. As one big gift, we work at the wrapping paper edges and rip off the bow and slowly, ever so slowly, realize how beautiful life is. Some days we can't get the package open and despair; others the radiance of the gift inside blows us away. Perhaps we won't realize its true beauty until we are on the edge of life, teetering on the brink of an imminent unknown.

I am in awe of how easily hearts are broken. Words and clips of phrases echo in time, at times skewing the day with a surreal haze of the past intwined with present hopes. No matter how deeply your hopes are rooted, no matter how increasingly impossible it is believe, the past has passed. And still, the heart refuses to believe all that reality unveils. We have become an army, each soldier pushing forward into the endless future, waves upon waves of generations tearing up the paths we're given to walk.

How do we break this endless journey we're given? Where do the rays of sunlight break the tedious crawl, where do we pause time with just enough confidence to allow ourselves to fall in love, to jump in puddles and neglect our duties, to sing a song and swing on the neglected playset we've forgotten?

And it's then I think that perhaps the best years of my life are not now, for my present is plagued with thoughts and worries and doubts. Perhaps the best years are the beginning and the end; from the swing set to the creaky and well loved rocking chair. From the purest of innocence to a sea of infinite wisdom; and someday I shall contentedly sit aside, old and grey, able to reflect upon all of life and worry of nothing but the gentle creak of my favorite rocker, comforted in my knowledge that my life was seeped in love.

But for now, solitude and peaceful silence are timeless; hidden coves in a reckless sea of time. A gentle breeze softly sweeps across my cheek and for a moment, my worries have melted away with the snow.

The Ageless, Unrefined

2007-03-24T22:14:00.001-07:00

And every night she sits alone
The flickering candles whisper she's home
the gentle music softens her brow
and slowly she paints,
shyly, slowly she smiles
silver highlights in her hair and her hot pink fingernails.

nothing like her, yet no one sees
beauty at eighty is on its knees
oh there's nothing like her, yet no one sees
how pink is her promise,
her calm in the seas.

And every stroke she tenderly paints
The oils soft glimmer in candlelight tones
the ticking clock is silenced somehow
and slowly she listens,
softly, slowly she smiles
silver highlights in her hair and her hot pink fingernails.

Conscious Existence

2007-02-16T13:59:00.000-08:00

Time is tricky, swirling and spinning through my consciousness.

As time passes, we forge new relationships and wear them as our shields, proudly displaying the new swirls and patterns that time helps us to place on these newfound friendships. Each bonding moment becomes a new sparkle in the design, each laugh another detail in the decor. Their beauty is short lived and, like anything built for design, these shields don't fit perfectly. As a result they create annoying blisters that causes us to drop them in the corner, abandoned without attachment.

Loneliness is the time between shields, longing to place the old battered and tarnished shields back on, cursing the distance that holds you back. Each crack on the old shields become more valuable with time, each memory cherished in fear it will become lost.

The beauty of the unattainable is almost unbearable, for it grows in splendor as the distance lengthens.

Life is amazing, and some days the beauty of it all wells up inside of me so powerfully I feel as though I may explode: every fiber of my being pulls away from me, each chiming in a beautiful symphony that screams of life, and it is then that the sunlight overwhelms my vision and fills me with hope. I stand alone, arms outstretched in awe of everything that is encompassed in this one moment in time.

New shields cannot hold me back, for they compliment my present and then fall aside, building confidence in the future and drawing me closer to my past.

Love is simply passion, evident in every beautiful thing.

Brazen Drops

2007-01-10T19:48:00.000-08:00

Sparkle is temporary and perfection is only a temporary state of contentment.

Home is perfection coated in love, a place surrounded with warmth, where fighting stubbornly persists and emotions are easily jarred and just as quickly forgiven. Justification is not needed, explanations are cast aside. Despite what happens, love acts as a reassurance that all will be well.

Yet loneliness lies in a layer beneath everything, waiting to burst out when the ones you love have left you, no matter the time or distance. It eats away at your stomach and burns away your reasoning until all you're left with are tiny drops of emotion that drain from your eyes.

Tears are fascinating things, reason lost in a sea of despair. They set in when a storm of words and emotions overwhelm the senses and leave one with nothing but an overpowering loss of control. The greater in numbers they fall, the greater the calm after the storm.

Hauntingly beautiful and freakishly powerful, nothing else compares to this complete breeching of defenses.

Melting Ice

2006-12-19T14:50:00.000-08:00

An alternate route, a change of scenery.

Beautiful weather graced the day, enhancing the deep and beautiful blue hues of the lake. Stealing time from my insane schedule, I sat on the cool shore to watch the dark shadows dance over the thin layers of ice as they brushed against the shore. The ice was broken into shards, pressed together like scales on a beast, calmly clamoring for the shore as they rhythmically danced on the surface of the waves. Their gentle brush against each other created a peaceful, idle sound, forming some simple symphony as the gentle breeze brushed against my face.

The murmur of whispering ice is a beautiful sound, barely noticeable until one sits aside to listen. Peals of laughter and clips of conversation added their elegance to the symphony, rising from the occasional passerby on the path above.

While walking back home, some secret pushed at the corners of my mouth, leaving trace of some mysterious and bubbling happiness.

Contentment is a beautiful thing.

Stillness at Dusk

2006-12-14T14:37:00.000-08:00

The rose tipped waves danced away into the horizon, leaving me to bid adieu to the day as the pearly tips of sunlight shifted quietly into a steely blue. Lost in a silent reverie, I suddenly found myself standing alone on the blackened horizon; it was in this solitary state that I was consumed by a deep and empty loneliness, all golden hues cast far from my sight.

Sometimes the night is the most difficult to endure, for the whisper of daylight is so near you can nearly feel the warmth of the sun's golden rays: yet in the moment you truly begin to believe the warmth is real, reality mercilessly whips you back to the bitter, chilly night you are so desperately longing to leave.

Time whips us round as rag dolls, delaying the coming of that for which we so desperately seek. And yet even in the darkest of nights, we may be surprised at what quiet dream may unexpectedly pierce our fears and gently lead us on; dreams that fill my heart with a strange mixture of hope for the future and a bittersweet longing for that which has passed.

I lie in wait for that blanket of love which my heart so desperately misses.

These Scribbled Paths

2006-11-20T16:49:00.000-08:00

As I sit and slowly sprawl my belongings out beside me, my mind strays between specifics and intensities, skirting the vague line of what is real and what is not.

It is as though life consists of millions of lines, crossing and spinning, twirling things out of proportion and cutting things up. Some days the lines are clear cut and easy to follow, while other days the path is twisted and complicated, causing you to lose your footing and stumble, to slowly become lost in the tedious scribbles. The end of the road is impossible to envision, clouded over by vague thoughts and ambitions and tainted by memories of past dreams.

Some things in life aren't meant to be forgotten. And yet, even after everything has changed, that which was unspoken remains true. Quiet glances and tear stained words often pass by unexplained and overlooked, and yet those words that remained silent are often the hardest to forget. They take root in our mind and grow and twist until the line between reality and fantasy is lost somewhere in a mess of memories, distorting our hopes for the future.

Perhaps that which was left behind to be forgotten will never truly disappear, for we are always lost between the tangled lines of past and future, unsure of the definition between reality and the cloudy haze of our perceptions.

The Softest of Colors

2006-10-16T11:41:00.000-07:00

As the months fly by, memories begin to blur around the edges; events slowly fade away, becoming memorable only through the blurry emotions with which they are so fondly remembered. Time slowly ebbs away at the intensity of specifics, gradually pulling away the pain and easing us to face our fears and carry on. Perhaps growing up isn't so much a recovery from our past as it is an ability to gather up what matters most, holding it close even as we plod further and further away. And while the body can easily pass through time, the mind cannot help but to miss the comfort of old things; the ease with which time flows with old friends, the comfort of a blanket of silence, the unprovoked laughter, the quiet smiles.

As I slowly move forward, I cannot help but realize that while I am filled with purpose, it is not solely my aspirations that push me on. For some reason, I cannot survive in this life without a cushion of comfort: a quiet exchange of smiles with a stranger, short clips of beautiful conversations and the amazing realization that life will go on if I simply find the courage to take a chance.

Perhaps life is nothing more than a watercolor, awash with newer memories atop the old, faces blending together in a quiet peaceful beauty that leads softly into the horizon.

And so, here I sit, looking at an array of past and future: the breathtaking colors of my life.

My Life Anew

2006-10-02T17:31:00.000-07:00

The leaves fall golden around my feet, and it is though this beautiful death spiral I now feel my breath catch in my throat. How strange that this decay is so enchanting, that the golden bliss of summer should now fall around my feet, crunching with every one of my burdened steps. The crisp air clears my head and with a deep sigh I lift my head; the intensity of the deep and peaceful sky swallows my feeble thoughts and leaves me with a strange sense of comfort.

So much has changed, so many strange thoughts now consume my mind.

Love eats away at my mind; I am devoured by an intense desire to know and understand the meaning behind something so irrational and strangely beautiful. There lies a quiet mystery beneath all of life: some meaning that drives every passion, a secret behind every wind and a purpose behind every smile. The days melt softly into each other, blending quietly and peacefully into the wisps of white, across an intense blue sky that knows no end. This form of life is foreign to me, for there is some quiet enjoyment and purpose that fringes the edges of my days. I fear I may be holding far too tightly to those I love, but they are irreplaceable and nothing shall empty them of my thoughts.

Each day this life entwines itself with more and more of my surroundings, and it is in the depths of my loneliness where I realize life continues on, whether or not you have time to prepare. Every change is permanent, for time rarely bothers to look back.

With each crisp breath of air I slowly realize how beautiful it is to be alive.

It Begins

2006-08-10T11:53:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how sometimes in life you focus so hard on one thing, you completely forget everything else you care about? And then after that one thing disappears, all of life rushes back at you and you realize everything you missed out on is still there. Yet once your eyes have been opened, it is so hard to recognize what you have when contrasted with that which you have missed...

And all the colors and sounds rush back at you, obliterating reality and stretching it into a wash of desires and regrets, pushing and pulling at every part of you. And while pieces of me long for what I have missed, others see only what lies ahead... and in this strange mix of hopes and wishes, I find myself quite lost.

And in this lost confusion, I find myself wanting to tell those whom I love exactly what they mean to me. To somehow feebly find words to tell them how valuable they are to me, to put words to the sadness I feel and to illustrate to them how beautiful they are in my eyes. Yet I am terrified I will forget, that meetings will be delayed and words forgotten: for time is cruel, delaying when the passage is hard, flying by when it is easy. And for some reason, it is always a shock to look behind your shoulder at what has passed; to realize how far down you sank and how little you realized the difference between truth and blinding emotion.

And so it begins, the sad departure of everything I've come to know and love.

My Melancholy Sadness

2006-08-07T22:57:00.000-07:00

Today while at work, I saw one of the most beautiful fragments of love that exists. A man came in, a ragged, sad look on his face, tiredness worn into his features, and as I made his drink for him we started to talk. His wife is in the hospital, and he has spent the last week sleeping on a cot next to her bed; his every thought resting on the comfort of the one person he loves so dearly. And as he told me the meager details of her illness and his fears, a sketch of this deep love formed its vague outlines in my brain, and I could not erase him and his worried cares from my mind.

Despite the incredible last few days I have had, for some reason tonight I sat apart, silent and alone, neither desiring to speak up nor to be with the crowd in which I sat. Irritation with my own feelings, a certain feeling of frugality and worthlessness hung over my night, shadowing any enjoyment I felt. Perhaps it was the feeling of another wasted day, or perhaps the dreading of the monotony of another week of work.

Whereas my fears before found root in the uncertainty of the future, my mind has replaced this old fear with a fear of losing my dearest memories to the passage of time. Time washes though your memories, leaving the giant boulders smooth and flawless while washing the little details of the memories off the face of the boulders, dragging the tiny surrounding pebbles out to sea. I do not want to lose my pebble memories, and in this quiet fear, I cannot stop the shapes from leaking down my face. These small drops crudely display the excess of emotion and weakness I feel: this feeling of being dragged helplessly through time, unable to fight nor delay the inevitable changes.

Life changes, and despite the stubborn tantrums we humans have, it is a sad truth we can either accept or fight all our lives, filling the spaces with the tears and the dirt of our fruitless labors. Why is it that I find myself fighting so hard to secure my own spot on which to stand?

An Unforgettable Night

2006-07-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

Perhaps what makes it beautiful is the discovery of your own deep emotions in his words, and perhaps it is the way that nothing can crush you after this valuable find: after the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, some other being knows your exact feelings, even without the feeble attempts of your own frivolous words. For while my words crudely attempt to define the shadows of reality, his beautiful melodies bring light and rationality into a raw and indefinable world. And this realization stops time, pauses and holds tight to that pure emotion... and it is this brutal, raw honesty that allows no excuses, no other words.

Before my departure, a friend mentioned that the beauty of a concert is the power it has to remove you from reality; and yet, during the concert I found myself further grounded in my memories, tied even tighter to the times in my life that the same lyric pulled me through, that it had given me the strength to move on in times when movement seemed so futile. For a lyric in itself is nothing but a line of words; but the emotion behind it, the memories and the tantalizing, undefinable hopes it brings to the surface... therein lies the power, therein the beauty and the strength.

And when the music is done and all has become silent, his haunting melodies hang in the air; mere echoes that seem to reverberate in the rafters of my mind.

Feathers in the Wind

2006-07-11T02:40:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile, one simple thing will magnify itself: time will stop and all that matters is the tiny grains, the delicate patterns that define the intricate design of this one simple thing. The simple rhythms that define the moment; whether that be the frail skeleton of a whisper or a loud definite ringing, sure and strong. And at these moments my breath catches in my throat and I can hardly bear to stand so openly face to face with this mystery: the rigid lines of the world around me begin to blur and fade away, and nothing matters but my awe for the beautiful intricacy of something so incredibly simple.

Time loves to play tricks on me, to lull me into a false sense of security before shocking me into reality, pushing and pulling my poor self in a million directions until I can hardly bear it any longer: and after a series of explosions, I find myself dazed and confused, chasing down the tiny pieces that escaped. Yet the pieces stray as feathers in a wind; circling in cruel- humored and vicious cycles around my head, tempting and deceiving. When I find myself lucky enough to have caught a piece, I hold on far too tightly, fearing to let go, lest I lose it once more. For the beauty of a feather in hand is far more cherished than that of a million others floating in the wind, impossibly out of reach.

And all my time seems to be spent searching for the one simple thing that isolates me from the complex world around me, something for which I can honestly proclaim: nothing else matters.

My Patchwork Fears

2006-06-16T01:47:00.000-07:00

A discussion is frozen in my mind, a chance encounter where we stumbled upon some sad truth; that truth which was not fully discovered until I found myself alone, quietly shoved into a reflective state. As fear continues to slowly fray my stubborn invincible youth, I cannot help but to dwell in my thoughts.

It was a substitute teacher, sadly reflecting on the death of a popular comedian. In some quiet moment she mourned for the loss of his individual humor, in the gifts that he alone could grant to others through laughter. For each person has their own gifts that no other person possesses, and when the black sheet of death stubs those talents, it is only those who loved that remember. No recreation of what was, despite imitations and reminiscing... and it is so finite. So quietly disheartening.

Another day, in the same room. A silent sadness seemed to overtake my heart, yet as the music filtered through the air it penetrated any trace of awkwardness and somehow spun together our silent thoughts. A peaceful patchwork silence: a quiet dance step, a written message filled with meaning and reflection, splattered colors illustrating previous passions and the blurred vision of something beautiful. Even when nothing was said, it was understood.

Supposedly the next few years will define what our life will become: a critical time in which our personalities are formed and our future is shaped. I despise this box they have created: these expectations, the grey lines that promise to outline the path my life will follow. I cannot envision being satisfied with any one thing, for in my inherent indecision, how will I ever choose a path for my life? And despite how juvenile and irrational my fears seem to me, it has always seemed a better alternative to sink rather than to skim the shallow surface.

How strange everything has become, how foreign and lonely it all seems.

A Painful Revision

2006-05-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

Nervous anticipation: it bubbles in the deepest part of myself, eroding my mind and slowly pulling me further and further in. I can hardly speak, for fear that the words leaving my mouth will transform the minute others can see them; slowly turning into another repeated complaint and thus betraying myself. I cannot bear to face the future head on, for fear that the inevitable changes will fully reveal themselves to me, and in that moment of breathtaking clarity I will find myself incapable of enduring the trials I will face. For in the future I will have only myself to carry through, and only my troubled mind on which to lean. Though opening up to others has become an easier task than ever before, I fear that once I have left this comfort zone I've created, the barrier of subtle animosities that accompany new faces will be increasingly painful to overcome; and despite my lonely state, it will become a greater solace to withdraw rather than branch out.

Thoughts can only be revised once, and if the first revision is lost it is nothing short of a painful brunt, for the revision cannot be recreated: each new revision represents what one felt at the minute it was revised...

and through some foolish blunder it was lost.

Golden Memories

2006-04-30T19:35:00.000-07:00

Every day we live is a new chance: a beautiful opportunity to start anew. And the beauty each ray of sunshine spreads across the darkened sky whispers a promise, fringed with the knowledge of what has passed and what is yet to come. The still dawn carries an intangible secret, and the dusk freezes time, holding sacred the precious seconds between light and dark, thus casting life into in an eerie glow.

I cannot accept these tides of change which wash over my sand castle dreams and mold them into worthless, indiscernible piles of nothingness. How is it that everyday we awake a different person, yearning for the days of our youth; and yet each day that we long for is viewed differently than it was the day before? For memories are disintegrated in our feeble minds, and time slowly erases the pain of the memories and fills the gaps in memory with a strengthened memory of happiness. Yet we are ignorant of this mind trick and longingly wish for our past, of the memories which glow with innocent contentment. Did we not experience hardship and disappointment in the days of our youth, perhaps only less painful for our previous ignorance of what real heartbreak is? Our definition of heartbreak changes each day that we live! Our memories are less painful simply because we have grown, and in growing we have learned to harden our hearts...

And yet this knowledge is worthless, for it does little to comfort my heartfelt fears. Perhaps loneliness can be comforting, for it is in a solitary state that the most powerful of lessons are realized.

The Pendulum

2006-04-04T20:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it feels as though dreams are all I have to carry through: these breathtaking aspirations that consume my being and carry me day to day, dream to dream. For where's the beauty in life if you can't see the colors, the magic of the simplest things? And what is hope if we have nothing to look forward to, to devote all our time and energy and love to until we finally feel content? We wish for love, we dream of perfection. The littlest kids seem to understand the beauty of dreams, far better than everyone else. Don't they live every day in a dream, in whatever world they choose be in at the moment?

And you grow: you realize that love is nothing without pain, that life is harder than you could imagine. That expectations are rarely met, disappointment stains hope, heartbreak is everywhere and true love is a dream. Friendship is loneliness and love is a struggle.

But dreams sweep us off our feet and out of that blossoms hope, a strange flickering candle that refuses to die. And then love chases us when we resist the most, even though disappointment and pain blankets our willingness to believe. And somehow, despite the frailty of it all, you know that life goes on.

In Captivity

2006-03-06T14:07:00.000-08:00

More and more lately I find myself sitting apart from the crowd, for I find a certain pleasure in simply watching the passing faces. There is a simple curiosity in catching clips of conversation, in hearing exclamations of joy or giddy surprise. And yet, following these loud gaieties, another face will pass. Reflected in their downcast eyes is a screaming silence in which they have barely found the strength to hold captive their own tears. These faces stand alone, whether or not they be surrounded by others. Perhaps it is their loneliness that prompts a cry within myself, for their solitary, unapproachable state: words are lost. They are the undertow of the social rhythm, the pattern of personalities that form the collage of faces I daily see.

In this place, personalities are formed from awkwardly juxtaposed events, friendship is a necessity and loneliness no stranger. It is here that vibes are taken far too seriously, gossip is inevitable and hurt feelings overlooked. I find myself longing to leave this place, for my heart yearns to escape this numbing environment. The faces become blurred, no longer intriguing. I have slowly grown numb to this place.

The future is inevitable and looming: its shadow shades my hope and heightens my fear.

Reflections

2006-02-09T19:43:00.000-08:00

Slow spinning, twirling 'round and 'round as mine anxious thoughts find escape through these whispering lips. Silent words are formed, my worries slowly swirling away from myself, escaping through the air to mingle with the glittering snowflakes. The sparkles fall from the sky, fascinating in the wind. They gracefully dance off the rooftops, transforming the dreary world around them to a different place entirely; freezing time in their enchanting fall to the earth. I watch, captivated, as the flakes slowly abandon their dance to melt in my open palms. As I slowly let go, the spinning world falls from my shoulders, melting away softly and quietly.

There is a certain tranquility in finding a release from one's own thoughts, a peace that can be found in escaping reality momentarily to observe the world around them. Often, mine thoughts stray to those quiet and reflective thoughts, neither depressing nor heartening: they being merely a contemplation of what is, or of what has been, or of the future that can neither be envisioned nor truthfully prophesied. I have only my heart's wishes, dreams, and those lingering, yet quiet fears regarding that which I cannot see. Captivated by promises, bound to bittersweet memories.

It is in this rare solitude that I am exposed to mine own thoughts and find myself led down trails I fear to follow. While I scratch these thoughts and fears on paper, finding comfort in the secrecy of expression, I dread this loneliness. The snow falls slowly, each unique flake spilling in multitudes, melting on the warmth of my face.

Love exists, it must be true.

Monotony

2006-01-24T15:54:00.000-08:00

Recently a letter arrived for me, and concealed inside lay a promise for my future. Indeed, the present condition will not last forever: yet despite my knowledge of this, it is my emotions from which I attempt to escape. For while I am well aware that the future will inevitably hold more than I can imagine, a fear of the unknown lays siege over my heart. Doubt and uncertainty, coupled with a blind jump into an unfamiliar future has crippled my hope. The days have turned monotone, despite my crude awareness of the passing time. I am overwhelmed with a need to take advantage of each day, to learn more of everything around me; to soak up the details, to reminisce with those instigators of my memories while I am still surrounded by them.

Yet a frustrating nothingness has overtaken the days, pulling a blind over the beauty for which I so desperately seek. A desperate fear is pulling at my heart, filling my days with loneliness and shading the bright colors for which I yearn. Endlessly repeating; back and forth I am pulled in desperation. Days lost will never be replaced.

Days Go By

2006-01-19T19:06:00.000-08:00

What do you do when the emotions you expected to have are not the ones that occur? When the world falls in pieces around you, and in an expectation of despair, you see hope? In an expectation of comfort; simply more unanswered questions to accompany the devastating fraying of reality. And the world collapses around you, falling in blocks of gray; each shaded light or dark to match your days. Each occurring event is just another piece to the endless puzzle: and each piece found simply provides more questions, slowly diminishing the hope for an answer. And despite the endless struggle you've endured to discover each piece, the reward is just another shade of gray to throw to the ground. Another fruitless hope, another wasted love.

The passage of time is inevitable and looming. Here I lay in wait, engulfed in a pile of monotone days that consume my being. Endless and gray is this wreckage pile of my abandoned dreams.

Exhaustion besets my tired mind.

Unspoken Hope

2006-01-12T23:20:00.000-08:00

For the last to leave has lingered the longest,
Bidding his while as he silently prays
For the gods of time to wait as he watches
With his angel of beauty he patiently stays.

In silence they sit, for no words are bidden
The heart understands what the brain cannot say
His kind eyes chase out the fears she has hidden;
Two hands entwined where they peacefully lay.

These Endless Numbered Days

2006-01-03T21:17:00.000-08:00

Time has converted its captivating moments to a melancholy blur, spinning uncontrollably past my unfocused, tired eyes. An ambivalent drudgery has momentarily captured me, binding me tight to its endless routine of fatigable, uninspired days. I fear this passage of time, for the ticking metronome neither slows nor offers hope.

Delivered in my Convictions

2006-01-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

A letter rests in wait as I thoughtfully toy with its edges; it slowly gains a greater gravity the longer it weighs on my mind. A message crafted by my own hand lies inside, written months ago to foreshadow the inevitable passage of time. Several times before I had thrown it aside, promising myself that a later, more convenient time for opening it would arise.

In truth, I am terrified to open this landmark of convictions; the message concealed inside is far too brutal and honest for my current mindset to grapple with. For what force can open the window of one's own mind with a greater power than that of the ghost of a former self? To fling open this window is to allow the winds of change to whip across a weakened heart, bludgeoning the long- built walls of ignorance and excuses to create a crater of truth. An exposure of weakness, of humanity and inexcusable foolishness. Feared as it is, it is an exposure I had afore destined myself to meet. Hidden in the scribbles of my heart, this letter holds the outlines of a battle I fear I am not ready for.

And so, I sit in wait of my own strength of heart.

Yet, a cold realization is slowly overtaking me, for far too long have I promised myself of the approach of a more opportune time. As I starkly recognize the time is now, I slowly reach for this enveloped promise.

Resolutions

2006-01-01T01:01:00.000-08:00

How can you capture a beautiful feeling? Good things come and go, time marches relentlessly on. The beauty becomes a memory; the memory both cherished and cursed. Sometimes one can't help but wonder what might have happened, what sudden change of past events could change their present being. More what ifs, more if onlys. Yet all we have is the present, another day mercifully granted to us for an unbeknownst reason.

Thus, my New Year's Resolution has emerged, the first of its kind to be uttered aloud from my lips. For if all we have is what is, then far too often this gift has been wasted. Difficult as this path has proven to be, I strike out with my own inherent stubbornness, accompanied by a whisper of hope, to discover what other simple gifts have been silently laid before me. Gifts too often overlooked afore.

Contentment then, is virtuous.

Dreaming of More

2005-12-25T10:30:00.000-08:00

Dreams so tangible and definite you can breathe them, so real you can taste them, so near that they tantalize and capture you, transforming what is into what could be; something so magical you can see them, that your soul longs and reaches for them without end. Some days dreams are so close, reality appears as a mere illusion, hidden by this beauty your very being so deeply yearns for. The magic overtakes your senses, obliterating all logic and replacing it with a shaky, beautiful and innocent hope.

Yet at other times, the current of reality washes over these dreams, often blurring and obscuring the beauty of these heart's wishes, distorting hope into a bedraggled, disfigured despair that taints the beauty of love. It is then that life's vibrant colors fade into a monochromatic scheme, endlessly repeating.

Ultimately, who determines change?

Magic

2005-12-13T17:42:00.000-08:00

The melody was soft and sweet, rising and falling, taking a form of its own as it grew in this single voice. This freedom of expression, a freeing of her inner voice; a story unfolds in the simplistic tone. The tone softens until a staggering second of silence: stretching on and holding the audience captive, waiting. The room suddenly erupts in harmony, the beautiful fusion of a hundred voices. Shapes emerge, ghostlike figures that are born from the melody, fashioned in the depths of the listeners' mind. Dancing and twisting, unbound by the confines of reality; each growing in the power of the words, the magic of the music.

Some moments just captivate you and steal your breath without warning; those precious golden seconds for which I'll search relentlessly without reward, and then: it just happens. When the music is gone and the lights have dimmed, somehow the trace of a smile can linger through the loneliness. And then life's not so bad, for you know that somehow beauty still exists.

Infestation of the Vermin

2005-12-06T23:52:00.000-08:00

Fleas are really amazing creatures, designed to survive. Naturally grown defense mechanisms, built to survive extermination. A female flea lays twenty to thirty eggs a day; eggs take one to ten days to hatch, whereupon they lay in little flea cocoons, laying in wait for the vibrations of an animal to walk past. When this happens, the flea hatches from the cocoon and flies (they're amazing jumpers) to the newly acclaimed host animal. An adult flea can live anywhere from two months to one year without nourishment; this means that even if they don't have a host animal to suck the blood out of, they can still survive for up to a year. The eggs are laid in the fur coat of the host animal, and are designed to fall off the coat: they then hatch in two days to two weeks, and lay in wait in their little larvae cocoons.

I am disgusted by their ingenious survival tactics. Imagine my dismay: even if you eliminate all but one live adult female flea, one egg, or one little larvae, the entire population can flare up again. Two weeks of eggs and larvae lay in wait, multiplying all the while.... a portrait too drastic and impossible to imagine. This cat sleeps in the deep dark corners of the house; after he's been de-infested and let loose again, he'll return to his little hidey- holes. One little flea that we missed, and the entire cycle begins again.

Broken appliances do not help the situation in the least.... a washing machine is vital to the extermination of this disgustingly well designed little flea.

A Melody

2005-12-01T18:28:00.000-08:00

Today during passing I was unexpectedly swept back through my cherished memories. A flashback to their sweet childish faces, innocence shining through their sleepy eyes as they looked at me with a pure trusting love. The sound of a voice carrying through the darkness, the tone rising and falling gently, lulling them to the comfort of their dreams. How my heart broke silently on the last night; they begged just one more song, and I secretly begged for more time.

The pain of loss comes in waves; bitterness mixed with sadness, a deep sadness and longing for what has passed. Their gleeful shouts of acknowledgment, their pure joy and excitement to spend time with me. Dancing without a care, swinging 'round and 'round until the world beneath us vanished in the giggles and shrieks of terror- filled glee. A simple lubaduu, an unabashed declaration of love. Deep brown eyes that loved and trusted without bounds.

The sand changes beneath my feet, leaving nothing for me to do but watch the waves. Just a silent, unspoken prayer for more time.

Bitterness

2005-11-29T22:30:00.000-08:00

The faces on the wall stay the same, even as the world changes around them. How is it that time passes so quietly, that age creeps up so steadily? To look back is bittersweet, while the future ahead looms frightfully. Weeks pass without notice; friendships neglected and letters unsent. Time to time, I find it's not only myself that age sneaks up on: last week while at work, a kindly lady stared at me with a mixture of grief and surprise; for upon discovering my youth, she had distressfully realized her own advancement of age. I could do nothing but halfheartedly smile and hand her a consolatory cup of coffee.

And so, with my own daily discovery that moments lost will not be returned, I find myself dismayed at my own foolish pride. Irrational pride with which I discover myself clinging to broken bottles, holding tight to misunderstandings from whence I've been hurt. Time passes, and the taste of my apologies grow foreign and bitter. I have yet to discover the answers: instead, I find myself dependent upon hopeless dreams, growing ever more disappointed as time passes.

Hatred burns a hole in my heart and leaves me broken without a crutch: if only life were that simple, and I were unacquainted with stubbornness.

If only, if only.

My Tearful Standby

2005-11-21T16:55:00.000-08:00

Broken hearts dont easily mend.
And hope, once lost, is not easily found.
And life, once settled, does not stay easily sound.

Ripples in a deceptively still river of life.
When screaming cannot change the truth,
And tears do nothing to alter the pain.
Where do you turn to?

Love is too fragile a thing to be handled, too trusting a thing to be broken. How is it that people hold the power to take each others' hearts and crush them, without regard to what they've done? Betrayal. Such a bitter word: a betrayal.

The ghosts become overpowering, the wracking sobs too much. Somehow it has passed beyond the point where comfort is consolation: my words are useless and hang in the air, unbidden and unwelcome. Only an ignorant fool could not see what he has done, what he has left behind.

Another End

2005-11-18T12:54:00.000-08:00

One night to ponder.

The worth in the tears of a circle of girls, each relaying the value of a memory as honestly as is possible. A memory, a life: the invisible bonds that draw us together. When revealed, these bonds uncover the rare value of appreciation: stories infrequently told, emotions rarely recapped. Powerful comments that are taken to heart, each comment a treasure to the recipient, never to be forgotten. Perhaps the most sincere honesty is when words cannot be found; that stretch of understanding between the tears and the laughter. Between being left behind and being found once again. Those awkwardly phrased words that fill the listener's eyes with tears: the beauty in the simplicity. No scripts, no lies. Just raw, earnest honesty.

The innocence in the face of a sleeping child, so calm and free. Unburdened by any weights of this world, simply living with the boundless opportunities life presents. No self- consciousness, no fears.

The comfort in a cup of cocoa, the warmth and familiarity of a cozy routine. The relaxation in a sketch, the worries of the world following those rigid lines; the formation of something from nothing.

Thus far is my night, a compilation of thoughts and observations. And so, another chapter in my life is ended. Dare I move on, lest it hurts to look back?

First Snow

2005-11-15T16:34:00.000-08:00

A dreary cold week, the wind biting at my nose as though to remind me how unavoidable it is. Dark, rainy, and then: the perfect crystals fall from the sky, dancing on the wind. So utterly flawless; yet the instant they make contact, their beauty is gone. Designed to melt. Just another drip of water to wipe away.

And so, with the first snow of the season, I find myself lonelily curled beside the window, watching the flakes gather. Memories swirl through my solitary thoughts, following the last of the chocolate swirls in the bottom of my cup. They twist my reality, bring me back to those fairy tales I once tried to believe. Deadlines hang over my head, promises of the future that I can't quite reach or envision. Just another thing to do.

The merit in a promise, the truth in a lie.

Fairly soon now I'll shed this melancholy loneliness and start to shave the layers off that pile of obligations; my ode to productivity. I'll just need a few blankets to fix this cold: it seems to creep into everything.

Progress

2005-11-13T21:47:00.000-08:00

I've found myself lost again, wondering when and if I'll start making progress on that mountainous, endless stack of things to do. Despite my firm resolution for progress, the inevitable occurs: my mind wanders off without warning, visiting nearly anything in my life that lures my attention. Of course, eventually my consciousness catches up and notes the passage of time; despite fanatically realizing this, I end up making a brash attempt to follow those stranded thoughts. By then, these are simply ghosts of what they were: unrecognizable and un- retainable.

They become a frustrating loss that merely leads to further distraction: a pursuit of the fleeting thoughts that make everything else make sense. Those taunting thoughts that so expertly avoid me when I need them most, yet set in after the search is over: my calm after the storm. The thoughts for which I search while seeking reason, despite broken hearts or hopes or dreams. The moral of the story.

Time passes on and deadlines loom with threatening consequence.

The Initiation

2005-11-11T12:43:00.000-08:00

Another late night, looking for a place to lay to rest mine wandering thoughts. And so, despite the powerful warnings against such things as blogs, I have seceded from this defiance of the cultural norm and thus: another blog is born. A wise decision or no, it has happened, and once one has ventured this far--there is no turning back.

So, adieu and farewell, I hope you all wished a dream on 11-11, 11:11... you know it's bound to come true. ;)