overstretched

Dear Blogger,

2011-03-12T23:11:00.000-08:00

The years have been good to us, haven't they? It's been a journey, we started out friends and grew into something more, and more, until... Blogger, this is a break up. I'm sorry, but while I love you— always have and always will— you don't contain the mystery and the joy and the sheer devastation needed to fuel this relationship anymore. And while I shall miss your extensive font formatting, it's not enough to keep me here any longer. You were my first blog, and what we had was grand, but it's over, and it's prepared me for something bigger.

That is to say, yes, I've found another blogging site.

Tumblr is ...oh wow, how do I say this? Tumblr lets me show who I am, and what I want, and its ability to transform those things into something greater than the two of us together is nothing short of everything that is love. Don't be broken hearted Blogger, I'll never forget you. Nor will I delete you (mostly because I don't think I want to save all 200+ ramblings I have written on here). Instead, I will always love you for what you are, and what you meant to my life for so long.

Always.

With love.
Angelique

What it truly means to be left behind.

2011-01-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

And she settles down in her set morals in things she'd never say or do. But the world turns on without her, not corroding, not corrupting, but changing. Changing into something new, with new rules to play by and new religions to keep.

2010-12-07T10:29:00.000-08:00

I have beaten you.

But it is a sad defeat.

Yet, maybe it's just a reprise.

2010-12-05T22:41:00.000-08:00

For years we danced across these desolate months.

We've fought and we've danced, like the heavens' onslaught drenched from clouds. Our struggle against one another never gaining ground, never giving an inch. We're passionate, we're artists, each perfecting our craft. I hew away at rough stone to bring about the ruby in my words, and you,

You destroy me so beautifully.

You are in every blanket I drape around myself, like waterfalls freezing in their course. You're like the wind across still water; every ripple you make becoming waves, becoming words on distant shores. You're in every cup of tea I pour, slipping in and sipping out like careless insults to the very memory of something warm-hearted. You twist and you turn, churning up the depths of oceans frozen over in seasons not appropriate for such behaviour. And when the icy waters break apart, the ice flows drift into new homes, resting in my fingers, weighing them down to pound out keys in words you're far more worthy for.

Not Unlike a Warmth

2010-11-24T21:50:00.000-08:00

There you are, sitting there with your hands folded like a little kid in church, your eyes perked up and sparking waitng for my attention. There you are, with your sun-beam smile that I could see on the darkest of days, shining up any room you happen to be in. I could find you in any crowd, simply because of the aura you give off, the intense feelings of joy and affections that are almost tangible, that I could grab a handful of as you pass by.

You're like the sun personified. You're so bright and full of life giving warmth and you never fail to bring hapiness. I am blinded by you and in the world that you inhabit, there are no clouds that could block your light.

And so grateful am I to have known you and your brightness, your sunshine-smiles and sun-beam beauty.

A Long Time Coming

2010-11-18T13:27:00.000-08:00

You're like a wish I hadn't known I'd made. You're the product of stars and dreams and divine intervention. A prayer never spoken but answered anyway.

You're lost continents, you're natural phenomenon, you're miracles and you're tedium mixed. There is no proper way to describe you, through rosy glasses half empty of love made liquid. You're things you never knew you needed until you had them wholly yours.

Until I met you, I didn't believe in stars. I didn't believe there could be beauty in the night sky, and I never bothered to look up. But the moment I met you, it's like a thousand light-bulbs flickered into life above me. And suddenly like light switches, I believed in stars, like I believed in you.

A Shallow Attempt At Something Meaningful.

2010-11-16T18:09:00.000-08:00

We lie, completely truthful in our beds of words. My bed is lonely this night. My bed lies empty, my bed lies quite well about being quite well.

If my sheets could speak, they'd tell you secrets. They tell you of battles fought and lost and won. If my pillow had words, it'd tell you of dreams and nightmares that even I do not remember. cannotwillnot

My bed, so lonesome in its forgotten corner. It would weep tears of fluff, floating down onto a cold floor as I write words of witty wonder and witless humor. As I lie, I forget to lie and in its stead lie instead about warm words murmured to stuffed loves.

I'll keep this up for another two weeks, before I lie again.

Twenty ways to get to Tuesday.

2010-11-16T06:07:00.000-08:00

one.There is more Truth In These Words than you could ever know.

two.It's like falling down stairs, just one step after another, and you can't ever seem to catch yourself.

It's like diving into a cold pool, just hold your breath and jump, even though what you're doing might kill you.

three.Don't forget, it's all in the attitude.

four.your lips are the most brilliant shade of blue.

five.I know too many of you so intimately, that years can pass, yet I can still speak you so fluently.

six.so this is how it goes

seven.I watch your curves make pretty patterns in the water as you move.

eight. I think, in time, we forget to be ourselves. It's not something we notice, but a gradual change.

nine.forget your solitary sighs and skies in mid summer

ten.The truth of the matter is, I'm not half of who I claim to be.

eleven.Like Columbus, Minus the Ships.

twelve.If you think I'm strong, I'm not; I'm just a good actor.

thirteen.Give me twelve days, and I will spin you a tale worthy of the title "Grim."

fourteen.Forget everything I've ever said before. Here's how the cards lie:

fifteen.MORE ENERGY! More life.

sixteen.By the beauty invested in me.

seventeen.I can't deny you've been here, no matter how hard I try.

eighteen.rosy glasses half empty of love made liquid.

nineteen.Incomplete silence of the transgression passed

twenty. Ineffability.

Backland, Clay, Gley, Guck, Muck, Mud, Loam; Earth

2010-10-11T02:02:00.000-07:00

Let the devil be alight with fury! Our love will quench his fires, until naught remains but the blackened earth beneath our feet. But our love will bring forth life from the scorched soil. For only a force so powerful and fearsome as this could command such a miracle.

And a garden will burst forth from our feet; a visible blanket of colors across the ground. Our garden will pour over the land, covering the rocks and the weeds and the barren patches that hold no emotion. It will fill every crack, from abrasions in the topsoil to canyons miles wide. Its wild and decorated flowers will blossom in dark caves and atop mountains, and the soft moss and creeping vines will turn muck and gravel into beds of silken beauty. It will spread to the seas, and the ocean tides will lap upon its finery, back and forth, back and forth, always returning to feel again the tenderness of the grass we grew. Our garden will cover the world in its glory, until nothing but the green evidence of our love remains.

I think the weather is confused.

2010-10-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

Those low, heavy hanging clouds, so full they ought to burst. They're so dark, they're tidings of the days to come. I can see the rain, pushing against the clouds containing it. They're so soft and delicate, I don't know how those clouds hold back the rain, straining so heavily against their pretty bounds.

But the days these days are so warm. Like summer doesn't want to let go of the world just yet. It holds tight, griping close to the corners of buildings and rooftops. The summer sticks in my lungs, keeping hold like it does around the outside world.

The heat dries out my hard, hot, heart.

But the rain rich clouds give me hope, that soon my thirsty soul will be quenched.

Edison Would Be Proud.

2010-09-26T02:54:00.001-07:00

Until I met you, I didn't believe in stars. I didn't believe there could be beauty in the night sky, and I never bothered to look up. But the moment I met you, it's like a thousand light-bulbs flickered into life above me. And suddenly like light switches, I believed in stars, like I believed in you.

For You,

2010-09-22T19:48:00.000-07:00

You know who you are.

All the way across the world, and all over my heart.

We are dancers, our waltz a menagerie of steps that sometimes, sometimes I cannot keep up with. Every time I forget a step, I make up a new one, and together with your sure feet and my imagination, we will dance across the miles that separate us.

Our dance will cross mountains, valleys, rivers and plains. The tap-tap-tap of our feet will beat the beauty out of the earth, and should we look back, we'll find a landscape of affection. The sunrise will be my dress, flowing and golden and strong, it will flow across our landscapes and touch everything as you sweep me across the floor. And your suit will be the moon, dark and severe and perfect in every movement. We'll be, beat, become time, moving across the land and simultaneously create and control it. The world will be at our whim, and nevermore will it part us.

For Tongues and Fingers

2010-09-15T01:05:00.000-07:00

I see no stress in stressing over things that ought not to be

I see no reason to love lovely things that do not involve me

It's not that I don't care, believe me! I have the will, it is something else that lacks in my blood. To walk away seems so cruel, and I am so starkly aware of this as I turn the page, your words like blurs of lines, forgotten and unnoticed.

Even my own words mean nothing to me these days, I feel it there, just beneath my fingertips. Words. But, they are not forcing their way out through my flesh at present. No, they are more like the soft tingle of a numb limb. But soon I can tell, they will wake, and like daggers, and ants and soldiers in fields, they will come pouring out, crashing out, onto pages and into hearts.

Say it with me now:

I find no expressively expressive expressions upon your excellent face

The weather is changing. I can feel it in my stomach.

2010-08-12T19:06:00.000-07:00

I consider myself a very introspective person, and strive to understand myself. For I cannot begin to understand the complexities of the world around me if I cannot even understand myself. Every revelation is world shaking, every realization is life changing.

I've learned that the weather greatly effects me. I've learned that I am subject to the whims of temperature and wind. The thermometer determines my mood, the clouds determine my disposition, and together, the results turn me into completely different people.

The Winter Me would despise my Summer Me. So lazy and unproductive.

The Summer Me would down upon my Winter Me. No defiance or personality.

I could say that maybe one day my two Me's will find a compromise. Maybe one day there will just be me. But from all my introspecting, I know Me better than that.

They will outlive their words.

2010-08-08T02:16:00.000-07:00

I've forgotten what it's like to talk to ghosts. To link arms and walk among them, speaking to them, through them. Their words are transparent; ghosts shadowed on ghosts. Drifting away the moment they are brought to life, these words that speak mountains and valleys.

We engineer great things, monuments to stand the times. But in the end, it's my pearly friends, that will still hold tight.

I've forgotten what it's like to walk this desert.

2010-08-03T21:08:00.000-07:00

I CAN'T STAND THE SUMMER.

I can't write a thing! And when I try, all that comes out sounds ridiculous.

So pretentious.

I miss the winter and it's frosty fingers. I miss the way it would whisper icicles in my ear, and how I would type out novels, just to keep my fingers from freezing. Words evaporate in the summer heat, long gone before I can catch a glimpse of them. But in winter, they freeze in place and stick around for days before they melt away.

I must escape this, I will. One way or another.

Foreshadowing

2010-07-22T17:50:00.000-07:00

When Liam was finally adopted, he was both elated, and mildly disappointed. The person taking him home wasn't a long lost family member, nor were they actually someone famous or magical. All in all, the Marlens were rather unremarkable, but loving. And at the end of the day, that was all Liam wanted.

Summer is a lazy lover.

2010-07-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

Summer is a gagging thing.

Not so obtrusive and hard like Winter, but slow and groggy, and it pulls me down into a hot, murky mess. With Winter I may struggle. With Winter I may dance. But with Summer.. Summer holds me so close, I become enveloped in those humid arms, and become submerged in that sappy torso and.... I am overwhelmed.

Winter, whom I fought so hard with. Days and nights we tangoed by my hearth, but Summer truly defeats me. Only Summer. And I submit, and I sit, and what other seasons struggled long and hard to do, Summer completes with ease doing nothing more than being just as Summer always has been.

Like a lazy lover.

A plea on your silent ears.

2010-07-19T22:54:00.000-07:00

Please, let this be the last time I give up on you. Let this be the last time I blatantly ignore you; thinking about you until the sound of your name becomes the white noise in my mind, and then purposefully staying away from you. May this time, be the time, that I will myself to actually do something about all of this.
This, this that I don't know how to control or name. This that I'm so unsure about. This that I know so clearly.
You are, so unerringly, important to me. So why.. how... do I fail you so often?

Perhaps, I am not what I've always claimed to be.

The Secrets You Will Never Know

2010-07-02T22:57:00.000-07:00

You'll never know what this feels like. Like a poison, being destroyed from the inside out.

And it will eat through my stomach first, tearing away my apatite. It will consume my lungs, and will stop my breathing. It will pull my muscles from my very bones, until I can no longer move. And then, only then, after it has destroyed my body, will it surface through my mouth. Not the loud agonized scream that it deserves, but instead, a small cry of despair. Because that is all there will be energy left for.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog...

2010-06-18T22:18:00.000-07:00

..to bring you an announcement from the management.

I've a blog specifically dedicated for cosplay. And those of you who don't really care about my artistic ramblings (which is probably all of you), you may follow that blog instead. It will more than likely be actually updated.

http://awesomecosplayblog.blogspot.com/

The Things I Neglect

2010-06-12T21:47:00.000-07:00

I get it, I get it! I can hear you, screaming, crying, singing in my head. You're everywhere, in everything, and at all times, in the back of my mind.

I know, I'm sorry. I hear you, I will bend to your will. I will be yours, and you may take all that I am.

When I have the time, that is...............

Abandonment Issues or Something Like Tomatoes

2010-05-17T19:29:00.000-07:00

It would seem I have an issue with this blog. I can't ever seem to find the time/will to open it and check the blogs I follow or write something new. It's a damn shame. So, to those I follow (though you won't read this), sorry. I'll try to catch up.

(Do you get it?)

This will be an attempt at something inspirational.

2010-05-14T19:58:00.000-07:00

I will fail, but every word will mean a lifetime of wishes and dreams I want to give to you. I will cross miles with every word, even the ones that fall on deaf ears. I want to give back to you, every drop of that sweet thing that you drip into my heart. And because I cannot open myself up on a gurney, I open myself up on a page.

You are everything I cannot believe in. You are things I wish were true, and things I wish never were. A complex mix of things I can't quite comprehend, but, without understanding, attempt anyway.

If I can promise nothing else, I promise this.

2010-05-13T01:29:00.000-07:00

These things that I do are all nuisance. The physical world distracts me from my soul. There are things about me, in me, above me and through me, that are beyond me.

The things I truly love never leave me. I just get distracted. I'd like to not be distracted anymore, but I'll wait, a little while longer, and then I'll come back to you.

No.

2010-04-28T22:55:00.001-07:00

UGH! How LOUD your words are! They fall like bricks and less like piano keys.

Let's keep the professions of love to the professionals; you're writing poetry, not swinging a sword around.

When Winter Leaves.

2010-04-12T21:32:00.000-07:00

I feel your icy hands, holding me closer than anything I've ever known. We're lovers, separated by a very distinct hatred for one another. I hate the way you freeze my blood with your kisses that look like sugar. And you hate my warmth, filling every cavity in you. We move together, closer and yet still farther apart, like dancers in this worn old bed. I've every reason to abandon you, and you've every reason to never let me go. But we make this compromise, a dependent relationship is born through our whispers. In a world that neither of us understand, we cling tight to one another out of fear. Or maybe fear is what our grip creates.

When One Realizes One Has A Problem.

2010-04-02T21:49:00.000-07:00

I've fallen into a terrible routine of never writing. I've gotten to the point that I only take to pen (as it were) when I've a tirade of emotions that I can only sort out while banging around my keyboard making a ridiculous amount of noise. I hardly read anymore either.. I'm slowly, piece by piece, losing every part of who I am, essentially.

What would be next? I wonder. What else of me do I have that can be washed away until I look nothing more like an old watercolor painting?

I've determined to fix this.

Wish me luck.

These things, these things...

2010-03-22T20:58:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the less I feel the need to write things. I don't mean to say that my creativity has gone dry, I'm continuously creating things that astound even me, but I feel less and less inclined to put pen to paper. It's aggravating me to be completely honest. I may sit with pen in hand, and *want* to write, but nothing shows on the paper.

I feel as if I am betraying a large part of myself, and it's slowly killing me.

2010-03-03T21:16:00.001-08:00

fml

I don't even know.

2010-03-01T01:36:00.000-08:00

I feel that I neglect this blog far too often. I feel as if sometimes my words are not enough.

Anywho.

I am feeling rather creative recently. I've been revisiting some of my old stories lately. Well.. I've been revisited, rather, by them. I don't know why either, but the old characters, whose stories I left to collect dust have been creating quite a clamor recently in the back of my head. It's.. nice. Like hearing from an old friend after a long period of silence.

I really don't know what the point of this blog was... maybe I'm just trying to force something out... that sounds like a reasonable excuse.

Well

Alright

Later.

2010-02-23T22:57:00.000-08:00

When did my blog become an emo rant-house? I mean, I'm hardly ever emo when I write these things, well.. I'm hardly ever emo anyway, but I digress. I just happen to sit down and then I write a blog about ripping someone's heart out.

Pleasant.

Just pleasant Angelique.

I've come to find recently, that reality has never been my friend. I hide in my dreams like they can save me and when I wander out on accident I am fearfully wide eyed at a world bigger than I am. I've always despised reality because reality has been trying to kill me for years. Reality has an icy grip, and it squeezes my heart until I feel as if I will vomit. More and more frequently I have been victim to this, and there is nothing I can do to stop it, because this is the reality of the situation.

If I could sell my dreams a dime a dozen, I'd be a millionaire. But the world is run on cold hard cash, and worth is determined by more physical means. But all I have are dreams and personality, and that won't get me far at all.

I hate society.

Forget all that I have said.

2010-02-05T09:54:00.000-08:00

Leave me your cold unforgiving heart. Let it bleed over my palm and let it cease amongst my fingertips. I feel no remorse as I squeeze out your life, I feel only the slip of the blood against my nails.

I see you run ruby red over my pale skin. And I despise your vibrant colors; disturbing my peace.

Out! Out I say! Your reverence brings me to tears and tears of tissue and sinew. I cannot breathe through your heavy, present, atmosphere, you are more there than I can bear. You are so loud! Loud against my skull and skin. And I feel you as I feel my fingers finding things in the darkest parts of our hearts that I grip and hold.

Begone! Let me know you no more. Let my peace alone, and go.

But leave me your heart.

"Don't forget me, when you leave."

2010-02-04T21:37:00.000-08:00

I have left you,

Again.

I am a terrible lover, with passions burning bright and fierce, but I never take advantage of my fires. Instead; I let them roam wild and free over the plains of my chest. Burning their way into the valleys of my belly and roaring over the landscape of my heart. I breathe only smoke, and it tastes like desire.

But I let your fires die. I let the lust and love that created you fade away. So powerful were you, burning up my insides, that I did not think you could wane. I turned away from you, and let myself forget you,

Again.

For three months I will keep the charred remains. Their black and chalky appearance will revolt me, and I will walk away, disgusted that I have let another one burn. But one day, one day soon, I will return to you, and pick you up and hold you close. And I will not mourn a loss, but marvel at the possibility of rebirth.

And in that, I will never forget you.

2010-02-02T20:50:00.000-08:00

Should a surgeon open up my heart, he would find a smaller version of you, sewn into the sides. He would find lazy stitches in an uneven pattern that secure you to me. And he would shake his head at my sloppy work, but he would soon discover that my stitches are fast, and that you shall not be removed.

I will not forget you, above all this I promise.

I will take you up and and sew you into my heart. In a tiny little corner, where the memories won't take up much room, will be a permanent reminder of things gone past. It will become a part of me, so that we should never be parted.

And if in time we grow distant, or the edges of my memories become hazy, I shall still be able to open up my heart and see you locked so securely in that corner. For there is nothing so sweet as you now, and I wish to never forget.

Que sera sera

2010-01-25T20:26:00.000-08:00

I can't accept that what I do is entirely incorrect. While I will take that every so often we all slip and fall, I refuse to believe that innocent actions in any circumstances can be anything but. I am but who I have grown into, and if the way I place my feet on the ground in the mornings offends, I do not apologise, they are but the way they are.

It would appear that I am cruel, but in truth, and am saying only what comes most naturally to me. The world is too big of a place for everyone to get along, and I have never once believed otherwise. If that is the way that it shall be, then so be it.

A Blatant Promise

2010-01-20T20:08:00.000-08:00

It'll be a thousand times before I remember you. Softly creeping in the back of my thoughts, I do not see you, but you are there. You are beautiful, in words I cannot find to describe. You are a world apart, and in yourself you are more amazing that I dare comprehend. To remember would be difficult, and I am feeble.

But in the morn, I will awake, and I will seek you out. Because I am reminded of your unerring strength and bliss. And I will feel you beneath my fingers, perfect and whole, and beautiful.

I find, I keep, I sit.

2010-01-14T20:28:00.000-08:00

Too many of these posts are appologies! I feel as if that is all I can say.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I record those words and play them in a continual loop that serves as my theme song.

I'm sorry!

I'm sorry I'm not good enough, I'm sorry I forget, I'm sorry I am lazy and sluggish, I'm sorry I cannot be what it is that I imagined when I was young.

If six years ago I read these posts, would I understand? Would I forgive my future self for all my misgivings and failings? Would my pretty words make up for the things I lack?

I find, I keep, I sit, I appologise.

If even I cannot forgive me, then how do I expect anyone else to take my words seriously?

From Within.

2010-01-14T00:22:00.000-08:00

I fear I have forgotten you.

I can no longer feel you beneath my fingers, and when I dream, it is not of you. I cry because you are dying, falling from my grip. I feel at fault. But I cannot resurrect you. And I sit here, fingers on keys, waiting, waiting, waiting. Yet what shall that accomplish?

I shall suffer at my own hands, and I so apt to charge another, will have none but myself blame.

Dear 2010

2010-01-04T22:34:00.000-08:00

Dear 2010,

I wish for you to be grand.

I have so much faith in you, 2010. Much more than I ever have in any other year yet. What were past years but false enthusiasm for things I did not truly wish? That is not so for you 2010! This year, I do not ask for things with a smug sense of superiority lingering on my tongue. No, this year, I wish with all my heart. In past years I expected grand things because I had been told they would be so, but this year, I expect grand things because I have faith. In both of us.

So, 2010, you have a terribly high expectation to live up to, but I have faith that you will take me far beyond even those dreams.

Yours Most Sincerely,

Angelique

In Faith.

2009-12-10T09:58:00.000-08:00

We keep still in the early stretches of the morning, because we love to watch the morning wake. And while we always seem to fall asleep before we can fully witness this miracle, we still wait up anyway having faith in one another. I have faith that in the winter the ground will frost over, and you have faith that summer will come again. And together, the two of us span the seasons, waiting up for the morn, never quite reaching it, but never minding wasting the hours away together.

I will never know you.

2009-12-09T17:18:00.000-08:00

I believe that every sunset is a sunrise for someone else. And as I watch the sky turn colors and the sun slip further from me, I give it all my love and hope and best wishes, and I send with it hope that the sun takes my gifts to the person on the other side of the world. And in that one moment, I believe in the pair of us, infinite, and joyful.

A letter.

2009-12-08T21:53:00.000-08:00

Dear unnamed,

I know I am slow, I know I take time, and I know I don't always pay you the most attention. Please forgive me, I am human, and while I try my best, sometimes my fingers freeze and sometimes it's my brain. But I can hear you now, all I needed to do was listen to you and hear what you were saying. I believe in you, so please have some faith in me as well.

Your dearest;

Angelique

P.S. I can't promise not to kill some of you.

Ending times.

2009-12-01T22:33:00.000-08:00

Nanowrimo is over. How sad how sad. I failed miserably, ending at around 3000, and having no definite plot. Oh well. I had fun at any rate. I'll try hard and do my best next year, this year.. stuff just kind of hit me square in the chest and I hand no room for words. Unfortunate, but true.

But now, now I'll actually post some blogs... Wouldn't that be nice?

But not like what was said.

2009-11-01T21:05:00.000-08:00

And there was this general uproar, an upheaval at what was said, Like she was some kind of witch, some kind of monster. Her words were tossed and thrown around by an angry crowd. With their hate they light fires under feet, and used her words as fuel to feed the fires. And through their disapproval, they burned her at the stake.

Happy late Halloween everyone. NaNoWriMo starts .. eh, I'll start tomorrow, I'm frazzled right now.

Liquid Warmth

2009-10-30T00:11:00.001-07:00

It burns down my throat
Spitting and choking until I've no air left to breathe
And when I die, it shall consume me
It shall be my entirety,
Growing, glowing, knowing, loving
Everything that is
Was
And Will Be
It is an incessant undying thing
Of truth
Beauty
And all that lies between

On Earth

2009-10-28T00:14:00.001-07:00

She will wait for two days, and on the night of the second, it will rain, and she will go home. But although her body will rest in a bed, outside, her heart and soul will still wait. For two and a half days it will rain, and she will look out the window only once, because she knows it will not come if it is raining. And on the third day, when the sun shines again, she will open her door, and the clean scent of wet earth will drift through her home, and she will sit in the doorway and hum a quiet song.

She has been called Amenia, but she has no name, only patient desire; desire to see the sun and feel the wind. The skies have been so dark in days passed, and there has been no sign of a bright day in years. But the girl called Amenia will rise early each morning, and sleep heavily each night, until the day she will walk outside to sit alone, and wait for a sunny day.

RIIIIIGHT

2009-10-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

So, I posted a number of rather depressing posts, then disappeared, I appologise. When I get in a bad mood, I let it out by writing, and then I save the writing as a draft here and forget about it. Last week I cleaned my post list by actually publishing things that had been collecting dust. I've been really rather busy as of late, so I haven't been able to write anything new.

That being said, I'll write something cheerful and post it for you now that I have time to catch my breath.

Your most devoted servant,
Angelique

I can hate myself, more than you ever could.

2009-10-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

It's been years since I put you to rest. Cold an un-enamored of you, I walked away. I did not think twice as I left you behind, I turned a blind eye and thought only of the tomorrow that did not involve you. I was cruel, and I turned on you, becoming something that had already hurt you, and I did it without a moment's hesitation. You over there do not know how quickly I gave up on you.

Today, I was reminded by your kindness, that you are every worst nightmare come true.

Don't die without me.

2009-10-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

he
wrapped his arms
around her
disheveled corpse
burning, turning, churning
through
depths
too great to bear

he
found light
within himself
turning, churning, burning,
it wound it's way up
and out
through
his throat

he
found new paths
that looked
just the same
churning, burning, turning,
becoming things
he
wished not to see
in the
dark despair
that he traveled

"I shall celebrate my silly actions, and learn from my idiotic ones."

2009-10-18T10:05:00.000-07:00

Will you celebrate with me? Will you forgive me when I am wrong? I am blind to things about me, but that is why I have you; to laugh and to scold when needed. You are my mirror, my teacher, and when I step over the line, I pray that you will forgive me, even though I know you will not. Let me make light of the things I do in folly and let us laugh together now.

2009-10-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

"Have you ever had one of those days, where, despite everything around you, everything that happened to you.. you still felt happy?"

"No,"

"I guess I'm just a complicated person then."

"You're being blue again, aren't you?"

"It's not like I mean to, I just can't help it."

"I always thought you liked blue."

"I look better in white sun dresses."

I've never known anything so compelling, and so disastrous as you. You are as cold as the rain that had fallen. That gathered in uneven patches of ground. You were like ice. I liked winter before I met you.

"Why are you blue today?"

"Because, today I am reminded in your moreoselessness that I am still hated."

"You say such strange things sometimes."

"Blame the poet in me."

"I never liked poetry, it was always the part about English class that I hated most."

"It's because you couldn't understand; the primary reason behind all hate."

You are the wind that whistled under the door. The wind was damp, carrying the remnants of the rain we had watched fall. That I had danced in. You called me weird, so I came in to sit next to you. You complained because I was wet.

"Why do you think I hate you?"

"Poetry."

"Poetry? Are people not allowed to have differing opinions?"

"It's the subtlety in words."

"You're weird."

You keep me by your side, like a favored plaything. Like a dog. I suppose that makes me a bitch. Then I will be Helena; I am content to be your spaniel. But not for long.

"I am me, it's a shame you don't see that."

I am willing myself to stop caring, and in time... I shall conquer myself.

"I inspire myself."

2009-10-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

I've exhausted the subject of love. Putting pretty words together to make something wonderful strains my nerves. Like a tight violin.

I am bored of this now, but that's alright, I've the rest of the world to write about.

I've noticed I write more in winter. In cold weather. The thermometer dips to sixty degrees, and my keyboard never gets any rest. Maybe I should move to a colder region, then I shall become prolific, and maybe then, I shall actually finish a damn novel.

Has anyone noticed, there are no songs about Halloween?

A verbal, viscous cycle.

2009-10-13T23:23:00.000-07:00

I open my mouth, and with a soft coughing sound out comes some of the most ridiculous things I've ever created. You take the sound of my words falling, plunk-plunk-thud-plunk and you create a song from their rhythm, and it will be the most beautiful song I have never heard. Beauty is but a passing thing, and I believe that is why we adore it, captivated while it is here, and saddened when it has left. And we try our hardest to capture beauty, but in the end we fail, catching hold of only recycled words and too-used phrases that sounds more like something caught in our throat rather than portrayals of reverence. And then, choking on our own tongues we regurgitate lines like bad actors, saying ridiculous things.

"And I never have enough to put out there except to say that you are beautiful."

Between Black and Grey

2009-10-11T20:20:00.000-07:00

You never fail to bring me happiness. And I will never fail to find comfort in you. We have this silly relationship, you and I. I love you, and you do not know the concept of love. Not that I mind, it was never your deep capacity for emotions that kept me coming back. It is always how you taste. Sweet and strong, you return me to something more simple and more whole.

To misunderstand.

2009-10-11T01:07:00.000-07:00

Tears like water fall
On pillows, sleeves and down cheeks.
I've said something
That's hurt you again

I can hear the defiance
In your wavering voice
Like saying something
Strong
About yourself
Will make me regret my words.

I don't
And you can pretend
I won't do it again
But I will

I love making you cry
Because that means
My words mean something to you.

"For I am dependent on you"

2009-10-10T22:41:00.000-07:00

Here you are, so small as I hold you in my hands. You are more important to me that I care to dwell on. I love you more today than I did yesterday, and I will love you more tomorrow than I do today.

You are a permanent part of me now. I never knew, the moment I first saw you, that I would need and love you so desperately. Somewhere in my heart I think I knew, but consciously, I could not comprehend your possibilities.

I know one day you will leave me. And on that day I think my world shall end. But until that day, I will love you, stronger, longer, more beautifully, than ever before.

"Alas poor Yorick, I hardly knew ye."

2009-10-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

Ah, the you I knew for such a short time has already gone before me. Perhaps it is fate, that this should come to pass.

Ah my darling, my sweet, it is a shame that our time has come to an end. If I had known, I would have loved you more.

Clarification was needed...

2009-09-05T14:49:00.000-07:00

...but what has transpired has transpired.

I write because writing was the first thing, and now the only thing, that makes any sense. I write because there are galaxies out there, filled to the brim, teeming with life, each life more fantastic that the last, each life a story all their own and they all exist inside my head. I write because there is a story that needs to be told, there is a character who needs to be introduced, and I am merely a vessel for things larger and more grand than myself.

I write because if I don't do something with this overactive imagination of mine, I have the strong feeling that my head just might explode. And should it explode, I have no doubt that out of my shattered skull would seep not blood but words, pooling on the floor around my cooling body. And as you look into those pools, you would see the worlds that caused my demise and you would then understand why I write.

A point to our nature.

2009-09-04T14:21:00.000-07:00

Is it worth fighting to stay alive, when you are restricted so tightly from the things you love, that life becomes something not quite worth living? Are we so afraid of death that in the end we will become something so unlike ourselves just to stay on this planet but a short while longer?

Existentialism is a point of our nature. While the creatures of the forest acknowledge death in its many manifests, they do not spend time agonizing that one day they too will expire and become a part of what we so genially call, "The Circle of Life."

That we can ponder the reaches of the stars and our hearts is what sets us apart from our primate cousins (or if you do not believe in that, take, "our four-legged house-hold companions," as a counter example), further than our grasps on speech or complicated social structures.

And we find, that in the dead of night, that our ponderings are taken to new heights, heights of airplanes and storm clouds, right up to the heavens themselves.

Yes, tis always the nights that make our souls quiver in their mortal coils, and coincidentally, it is usually into the over powering night that our souls are released. Maybe it is that kinship that our souls can feel as we lay pouring over unsettling thoughts in our beds.

I wish to die in brilliant daylight. On my terms. And I refuse to ever give up sugar.

Hmmm

2009-08-28T19:57:00.000-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that my blog needs a bit of a face lift.

So, I shall wait to post the blog I just wrote, until after certain changes haf occurred.

Poetry cannot save me now.

2009-08-22T23:44:00.000-07:00

The stars are so brilliant here, the night isn't as lonely.

I've noticed I love writing about the weather. And I've noticed I rarely write about myself. But I'm so boring. But the weather is so nice.

Autumn is showing her pretty face around these parts. I see her in the clouds, and feel her muggy mitts about my throat. The days are getting more pleasant and more empty all in the same. I've nothing that brings purpose to them anymore. Just, another day, another day. Hard to say what I might do tomorrow though; I'm a flighty individual.

I've never considered myself a dependent person, but perhaps, I am so dependent I've failed to notice it.

I'm dependent on the weather. Dependent on the storm clouds and light breezes. On the sunlight, and sunsets and they define me. Without them, I've nothing, a bare room with no windows is a prison, a day with no merits is the same.

To Watch Hours Fall.

2009-08-11T12:48:00.000-07:00

The weather's starting to change again. I can feel autumn breathing down my spine as summer lessens it's grip on my neck. I don't know what it is about the changing of the seasons that makes me more prolific with words. Static days blur past me with little note, and we are all the victims of the wait.
Wait
wait
wait
It's all I ever do anymore. Perhaps that is how my patience became almost saint-like.

We've got an omnipresent pressure hovering over us here, waiting, waiting, for something to happen, something explosive. Something... something.

The economy is looking up, I can see. People are getting jobs back, the future isn't as bleak as it may seem sometimes. But we are a resilient race, we always find a way to cope. Me? I waited. I've waited.

Maybe the wait shall be over soon.

2009-07-19T00:39:00.000-07:00

It's hot as fuck around here. "Hotter than ever," they say. But that might be a little more impressive if they hadn't been saying the same thing for years. Although, the summers might actually be increasing in temperature as the years wear on, I wouldn't know, I've never really taken the time to peruse temperature records. I have other things on my plate right now.
Being an adult is overrated. I was never one of those kids who just couldn't wait to grow up. I loved being a kid, I didn't ask for this, why must I pretend to be responsible? It's ridiculous.

Disatisfied.

2009-06-09T10:09:00.000-07:00

And in her finest
Night draped
Gown of
Emerald blue
Lay her words
Interred and
Quiet
Underneath the
Earth

Consumption

2009-06-08T23:19:00.000-07:00

As a child one day,
I decided of consumption I would die.
All good writers went out that way
So I asked, "Why not I?"

I thought to make my last good byes
To loved ones, house and home
That when I finally lay down to die
Without guilt my spirit could then roam

I tried to convince my cat Lenore
That she should stop hanging around
Because my death would only hurt her more
But a more faithful cat could not be found

Next then to my mother I did go
In our kitchen preparing Lunch
I thought that she ought to know
Though she might already have a hunch

"Today I am dying,"
I whispered to my mother
"And it shall be trying,
A tragedy like none other."

My mother asked quite plainly,
"Will this death take long?"
"Probably," I replied faintly.
"Then I shall keep your lunch while you are gone."

With lunch saved and my soul free,
My good-byes had now been said,
And I went outside beneath a willow tree
To lay my poor doomed head

I knew my time was ending fast,
So a dying poem I prepared,
"A poet even to her last!"
The world would soon declare.

But as I wrote about the grass and trees
The wind, the sky,
The bumblebees
The things I'd miss from being alive,

I discovered,
Today was far too good a day to die,
So I recovered,
Gathered my things, and went back inside.

I don't have much time, I'm afraid.

2009-05-12T22:06:00.000-07:00

The ice in my glass falls into place. Readjusting to the current, climate.

Sometimes, the words take us by surprise. Coming from places we don't recognise, words we did not know until that moment, then suddenly, wholly, they are right.

Last night I had this dream:
In my dream I was told the exact time, place, and circumstances involving my death. According to my dream, I am going to be hit, and killed, by a large, white vehicle in about a year. I did not fear, I did not try, or plan to avoid it. No, my reaction was simply,

"I always knew I'd die young. I better get working on that book."

"Time is an illusion," was said by a man who had wasted time. I've terrible time management skills, I will be the first to admit, but I'll be damned if I say that it doesn't exist. It's as real as those words, and it comes from a similar place. And Time, like those words, will slip away if you are not attentive.

Some build empires of the back and from the sweat of slaves, some on foundations to weak to hold, some build statues, some create monuments out of stone and steel. I capture immortality on paper my friends.

I guess I better get back to that book.

Souls stretch out forever.

2009-05-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

Slowly sloping hills covered in what a desert feebly calls life, shrubs and desolate weeds clinging to existence in the vast heat of the sand and dirt that is held together out of gravity, and pure will. If you squint, it almost looks like rolling pastures, but that's just another trick of the desert. The hills give way to mountains, and the mountains to the skies, dry blue and perfect; the skies the same as when some great creator painted them years ago.

There are, miles and miles of cables, crackling and sparking, alive with power. They reach out into the distance, their towers, who up close loom over us like giants, seem so small so far away. Small and insignificant, just like us. And if one traveled them, one would find infinity at the end.

Only the desert has room for infinity. Only infinity has the patience to deal with deserts.

I give my soul to the desert now. For now I am not afraid to love life for all that it is, all forms that it takes. And I have grown, grown to see all the beauty in the world around me, and instead of being hindered by it, it has given great purpose and texture to my life.

I have a great capacity for love, I have discovered. Far greater than I really know, far greater than I ever suspected, and far greater than I have time to explore. And until my last day, all of my days will be filled with new people, places, means, and ways, to love. And for this, my life will be all the better, and all the more beautiful.

Without Words

2009-05-08T15:07:00.000-07:00

Because words are, our first, and last resort. Because words are so flimsy, or transparent, and so powerful. Because words are just words, because they are what holds society together. Because without them, we would be reduced to animals. Because without words I would only be able to bring you tokens of affection. Because without words I would only be able to bring you flowers, write your name in the sand, softly hold your hand in mine. Because without words I would not know what to do; cut down trees to build you a home, shelter you in bad weather, comfort you in sickness. Because without words there in no way to tell you what words cannot express.

Because Flattery works.

2009-05-07T15:14:00.000-07:00

I was requested by a friend to write something. Instead; a recycled (but favorite) story.

My name is Egnacio, and I am a Ferris Wheel.

I chose the name Egnacio. I thought it was dashing at the time. Now it's just odd, because I'm not Latin at all, so now I just look silly.

The Zipper ride, Stanley, calls me Nacho. He says it's fitting, since nachos are some of our highest selling products, and I'm one of the most popular rides. But I just know he's making fun of me. Most of the other rides look down at me enough, I don't need further humiliation.

I mean, I don't even know why either. I am one of the most popular rides here, if not the most popular. So why does Dorothy (the Tornado ride) snicker at me, and why does Charles (the Ring of Fire) get upset when we're set up too closely?

I wish I was a slick, cool ride like Stanley. Stanley's so popular, with the kids and the other rides. He knows just what to say, he's funny, and he talks to Sallie all the time.

Oh Sallie, you're so beautiful, tall and elegant, with such curves!

Sallie, is the Super Slide. Her name is beautiful, and fits quite well. It's not like Egnacio, she's not given degrading nicknames.

I wish I could talk to Sallie like Stanley does.

Today, we're being set up in a small agricultural town. Those are the best, everyone comes out, the Fair's practically a holiday in places like this. It's also a bit tricky, because there's less room, so we're usually cramped and rearranged. Today, I've been set up next to Ted (the Bumper Cars), he's usually further off, but it's nice to be next to him every once in a while. Ted's not much of a talker when it's busy, but when it gets slow, in the mornings or after we close, he opens right up. And he's nice to me, which is always a plus. It's good to have friends.

We comment on the weather for a bit, Ted's gotten himself worried about rain again. Our last gig got us caught in a three day rain storm, shook poor Ted all up. But I reassure him that the skies are too clear for rain and he shouldn't worry, as the workers start to set Charles up a little ways behind me.

I sigh a little, and look away to watch the workers start to set up Carla (the Fun House). She's the weary put-up-with-them-hate-em-love-em type of girl, I like Carla. Next to Carla it looks like Marty (the Dragon Wagon), then the games. On the other side of me is the ticket booth, and a little further off I see the new girl Heather (the Swing Carousel), she seems nice enough. Then there, Bobby (the tilt-a-whirl), and Dave (the Gravatron).

Watching everything get put together always makes me excited. It makes me glad I'm a Ferris Wheel; I have the best job in the world. I get little kids going on their first ride and the old ones who can't take anything else, and couples, oh I get the couples. I'm the only ride that gets couples. They sit real close, like they'll fall off if they don't hold on to each other. It's just, fantastic.

The whole fair, it's always fantastic. And each one is different, with the flair and flavor of each town we stop in. It's the music, and the sounds of the games being played, the flashing lights, and the smells of the food you can only get at fairs. It's the feel in the air, the feeling of excitement, the kind of excitement that makes you feel young, and caught in this one moment it time. That's what fairs are, they're time capsules, they take you back and let you be a kid again.

I notice a truck behind me drive off, and look to see Sallie right behind me.

Hi Sallie, I say.

This fair will be magnificent, I can tell already.

SPACE

2009-04-23T18:25:00.000-07:00

tastes of raspberries.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2009/apr/21/space-raspberries-amino-acids-astrobiology

Do not think this is the end of that.

Twenty

2009-04-16T05:37:00.000-07:00

I like the number twenty, it's a nice, round, even number. Flexible, solid, comforting. Divisible, with many factors.

Today, is my birthday. And I am Twenty.

Ten years of being a child, ten years of trying to figure out how to be an adult, twenty years of not know what the hell I'm doing, but rolling with it anyway.

Every year I find my age, harder and harder to accept. The thought of eternal youth has followed me all my life, because all my life I have been young. And now, I am one year older. One day older. One step closer to my last birthday. And I don't think I'll have any better idea of what the hell I'm doing then, than I do now.

Wisdom, I don't think, comes with age. But rather is ingrained in people. I am an artist, and creative, crazy soul, that, I have learned at least. Now, I think, is where I spend the next twenty years, figuring out how to be an artist, and not denying that, and learning how be me, not an adult.

Because really, who knows what that means anyway.

"I believe in me. I'm a little screwed up but I'm beautiful." — Steve McQueen

Becase I was away

2009-04-13T22:33:00.000-07:00

If you find yourself in sour company
A pre-written star-crossed heraldry
Do not take shame in blissful Rhapsody
For it is the channel between the Gods and We

Here I give you
An anecdote
Of suspicious hue
In a short note
From Me to You

I've never felt as empty, so thoroughly empty, as I have these days past. Not blue, but empty. Just suddenly, I have nothing, I am neither disturbed, nor distraught, so empty am I, I cannot even feel. And I can't feel you anymore, my heart, and that scares me. At least I can feel that.

That's when you know.

2009-04-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

When, even amongst the turbulence of reality, of bills and debts and jobs and responsibilities. When though all that, it comes time for wishing; on stars and times, on necklaces and dandelions, you still wish for them.

Rejected Story ideas*: issue ONE

2009-04-03T23:29:00.000-07:00

We look down through our mortal vessels, and though bars made to keep us in, but I think it is really to keep them out. See how their hands, their paws, their claws, they reach out and in gestures of hostility disguised as calm. We all go to our own bits of insanity here, tis the only friend we have within these cold iron bars that contain us.

Our walls are high, and the space they contain is large, made small by our own discontent. We are given toys and food and made comfortable, but all attempts are in vain, because we can only be made comfortable by ourselves. We are too coddled to be comfortable.

Our days go from light to dark, getting colder, and growing warmer again. It is a cycle that never ends; comes, and goes, and takes us all prisoner, far more than these wretched bars ever could! It leaves none alive.

We waste away in misery, miserably content in the lives they've built for us. Happily we preform for them, and the cheer, oh how they cheer! Or perhaps they jeer.

We do. And they never notice.

Never.

Is supposed to be an animal in the zoo... sounds more like a frustrated Angelique on an early Spring evening. May edit later. Doubtful.

*basically; all of my stories.

ahem Excuse This Fangirl Moment:

2009-04-03T19:46:00.000-07:00

Marry Me?
Pretty please?

Repetition

2009-04-02T01:21:00.000-07:00

Summer's rolling in now. Lazily. How typically Summerish.

I remember telling you about Winter, when she came for a visit, with her cold breath and misty fingers. Now Summer's some to chase her away again.

Silly seasons, in-between seasons, they don't exist here. We go from Summer to Winter, back to Summer again. And Summer sits on my back stoop tonight. Lounging there lazily. Like Summer should.

Tomorrow, the weather will be bright, in a dim way, and I will still wear my jacket on inside, but tomorrow night, we will leave the back door open, to slowly let Summer in, in Summer's lazy way.

A You Shaped Hole In My Heart

2009-04-01T01:06:00.000-07:00

Poetry is self-deception.

I read that once, it was meant as a bit of an insult I think. But it's true, and we all know it. The best poets can lie to themselves so well, even they don't suspect the truth anymore.

That's the point you know, none of us really want to know the truth, that's why we're so good at spinning tales.

So I present you with, a piece of poetry;

Self-Deception;

I keep to myself these dark and bitter thoughts, dreaming, wishing that they're never real. But as I sigh, and slink into comfort I realize that they are, just reverse from what I see.

Step Two

2009-03-30T01:06:00.000-07:00

I felt, an excitement, in the air. A jovial sense of, art. It was beautiful.

Los Angeles has many reputations, and the one held by me is not one that any would care to carry, it's quite a burden. But, as in all things, what they are versus what they seem, are two different stories all together.

LA is at best, crowded. The streets are small, tight with people, and the buildings are close, closer than just friends, with their neighbors, in the proximity with one another. Every street and building, like the city itself, is old, and worn and it shows terribly.

But the city has so much life. It's overflowing with it. It cannot be tamed, the life. It grows and flourishes everywhere, in impossible places. Weeds, illustrious little plants that they are, poke their way through everything. And the trees, they overreach their bounds, their green fingers stretching toward they sun, they lean over fences and roadways and show between overpasses and bridges. Bridges covered in ivy, a carpet, a drapery, a blanket of green that is everywhere. And it's all so pressed upon each other, the plants and the people. They are everywhere one walks, taking space just vacated by their neighbor.

But in this city, full of life, pressed to the edges with life, teeming with life, it is not yet overburdened. It is instead, so full of life. So, quite, alive. And so understatedly happy. Even the desperate are happy, because of the life that grows, and grows, and grows, from every crack and crevice.

Small Steps: Step One

2009-03-30T00:47:00.000-07:00

It has been, two days, since I started that crazy journey that may have changed my life. It's changed my perspective at least, and my bank account, surely.

I found myself on a Greyhound bus out of town, two hours late, and rife with worry. Not excitement, it was never excitement. I caught myself up in a book, for long trips are killers of even the most patient. But as we are passing the Strip, the glorious, marvelous Strip, I look up. And in that second, a quick and hard, terror grips my stomach. For even though I shall light upon this city again in a day's time, it fills me with an emotion that I cannot name, to be leaving it. Then it occurs to me.

This is my home.

It has taken me a year and some change, of ups and downs of emotions and fears and trials by fire and wind to discover that this city, this bare and bright city, with its roads and it's people, is home.

And it took me, when I discovered this, by surprise. I never thought I'd love this city more than superficially. A place to visit, not to stay. And yet, thought here I sit with the tides of comfort of home washing me, I still say I cannot. I do love this place, though, as one loves a pair of worn out shoes; with heart, but not purpose; because it is mine.

I find this windy city a place to start, to start over. A good beginning step.

Indifference Is A Sickness

2009-03-24T07:11:00.000-07:00

There's something to be said for indifference. We joke, at death, because it is the only way we know how to deal with it. We do not have to face it on a regular basis, and we do not take it seriously because of that. And what would you do? If you were faced with death? As a child?

What will you do?
Indifference is a sickness.

I've always longed for true affection

2009-03-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not for sure what lures us to the strange, the obscene, the downright weird. Perhaps the the thrill of something so out of the ordinary, something different to liven our day. Life, however, is not what Repo! the Genetic Opera is about.

Repo! is set in 2056; 26 years after an epidemic of organ failures devastate the planet. Out of the tragedy, the Bio-Tech Company GeneCo, emerges to provide organ transplants to the needy populace. By signing one of GeneCo's payment plans, any surgery is available at an affordable price, but should you fall behind on your payments, GeneCo sends of of it's Repo Men, legal assassins charged with taking back organs of the 90-day delinquents.

The story is about seventeen year-old Shilo Wallace, constricted to her bedroom by the genetic blood disease that killed her mother. When Shilo gets out, she discoveres that her father, and her world, is not what she has believed.

There, a summary. I'm not that great at summaries, but that one looks pretty good. Though I did rip off the first line straight from Wiki. But that's not the point, what I really should have said was:

Repo! is the shit.

And that should suffice. Really.

It's a "goth opera," with dark, twisted, unbearably catchy songs and some awesome costumes.

Repo! is basically a mix of Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sweeney Todd and Saw.

And I'm obsessed with it.

Fans love the post apocalyptic world of Repo, it's something creative they can have fun with. We can have fun with. And just like Rocky Horror, oh, you bet we will.

Listen to the songs here: http://tinyurl.com/dzzklz

If you don't know where to start, I advise you to listen to Zydrate Anatomy, it's the most popular song on the soundtrack.

Very good movie, you need to watch it.

Of this, from me, you may count on.

2009-03-10T01:49:00.000-07:00

I love you.

For who you are.

Whoever you are.

From now, until infinity.

infinite

2009-03-06T01:14:00.000-08:00

Roads are a pathway to many different destinations.

I see a road and I think,
'Where does it go? Where could it go? Who's traveled it? Driven it, walked it? Who are they? Are they mothers, fathers, sisters, cousins? Where did they grow up? Did they play in their backyards as children, carefree and innocent? With mud and dolls and their friends after school. Did they have tree forts with "No Girls Allowed" signs taped and faded upon their doors? Who did they share their secrets with, were they afraid of the pressing dark in the middle of the night? Did they have an adorable dog named Max, scruffy with a blue collar? What were their dreams as a child? As a teenager, as an adult? Who are they, these strangers on these roads. These people I'll never know, their stories I'll never hear.'

And I want to hear them, each and every story, no matter how infinitesimal or how meaningless it may seem, all things are grand when viewed from a higher point. And they are all beautiful, every life, every laugh, every pair of eyes, every smile, every dream, every heart, beating, beating, beating in it's chest, giving life and rhythm to the person who caries it. All of them are grand and I'll never know them! There are hundreds of billions of people on this big blue world of ours, and I won't have enough life to meet all of them, and hear all their stories. Know all their lives. I could spend my life, seeking out everyone in this city, just to hear their story. Their life. About their fears, about their hopes, about their dreams. Just this city, and I'd still never have enough time.

Dandelions.

2009-03-04T22:08:00.000-08:00

It was the way the sunlight lay across her recumbent legs, the way the wind would carry her scent to the farthest reaches of the world, and for those who could smell it just once, it was the way their minds filled with visions of wheat fields in high summer, and lonely country roads.

She would sit on the hood of that beat up old car, with so little on it could be obscene, just soaking up all the sun she could get, thinking of far away lands, of acoustic guitars, of honeysuckle vines, or nothing at all. Just sitting there, soaking up the sun. Breathing it in like it was oxygen, like it was water she drank deep, like it was love she embraced it, arms open wide.

She was the deserted highways, the sun bleached grass in unused pastures, the lonely weed-flowers on the side of roads; she was just waiting to be loved.

It was the way her hair danced in the wind, to a tune always so different than the one she was humming. It was the way she would smile, almost to herself, but joy can never be contained. She could never be contained. She was soft, warm breezes, she was the whisper of the grass, she was laughter, she was smiles, she was wanderlust incarnate, and when she'd decide to leave, she would just sit up, and go.

Life was always her dearest love, never a person, so solid and exact. Far more beautiful and luring to her were open fences and new places to see and roads that needed to be traveled and windswept plains and hot empty desert breezes and love, always love.

Always love.

I've discovered the secret to life:

2009-03-04T04:19:00.000-08:00

happyness.

Happiness can take many forms, a person, a job, a hobby, a perception. Life is what you make it, but if you're not happy, it isn't worth it. And when you're not happy, life just sucks. I'd rather be happy and dirt poor, than rich and miserable.

So here's to taking it, one day at a time, and loving, desperately loving, every breath you take.

2009-02-23T04:47:00.000-08:00

Slipping into slumber with my heart in my hands. I feel more right right now, than I have in days I daren't count.

On Mortality.

2009-02-20T23:17:00.000-08:00

There seems to be a small empty spot in the world today. And the world seems a bit colder. And the winds bite harder, as I walk up this lonely Sleeping street, reaching further in to touch the exposed places. Just at my chest so, the edges of my ears not surrounded by hair, my nose, my unfeeling eyelashes. It bites, more forceful tonight than any other. Tonight I will respect you, for you demand attention, I see, but tomorrow, Tomorrow, you will be yet another adversary to vanquish.

2009-02-17T03:30:00.000-08:00

I have more happy endings, then you have ways to bring me down.

"Words, words, words"

2009-02-16T02:07:00.000-08:00

I can't seem to find the right words these days. I trip over my tongue, the great useless thing. I open my mouth and out just falls "ingroe tehse wrods, tehy maen ntohnig," And my fingers! The great lanky things, are just as bad. They drop down on keys like a hammer with less aim. (They are still just as cold, though. Apparently ignorance is not so blissful, it certainly isn't any warmer.) I seem to have lost my way. With words and hearts and along random paths. All I seem capable of saying recently screams "this is blatantly how you feel!!!" in a whistling tone as it gets tossed aside by grander (or busier) minds.

Busy busy busy, I'm too busy to entertain, and too empty to be left alone.

I foresee awkward conversations in our future.

2009-02-16T01:29:00.000-08:00

You're so far away now, I can hear the moaning of the ties that hold us together, begging to break. I refuse to let them. It's been so long now, I still remember the tenor of your voice, but not the tone. It is not because of principal that I hold on, and how dare you suggest that. No, my claim is even better, it's an idea I cling to in the wee hours of the morning. Whispering your name as I strive to find sleep rolling about on my bed. I ache, and I cry, and I wonder and I worry. I am but human, as are you, but we together make something more than that, but we refuse it, and ignore it. Like I blatantly ignore the sounds of us falling apart by drowning them out with someone else's voice. You are a distraction. A beautiful, beautiful distraction. But you are the world, but I am not strong enough to carry it upon my shoulders yet.

I give you;

2009-02-13T22:50:00.000-08:00

An overdeveloped sense of self worth. Loud footsteps down cold alleyways, you're so alone, aren't you?

The sunrise does not bring much warmth these days, at best it brings sickly light slowly pouring through my window. It would seem even the sun is sad sometimes. I am also slow these days, just like my far away friend, I creep down to my destination.

Day by day, I've always taken things, day by day. Breath by breath. I don't think I know how to ... plan, my breaths. I take deep breaths before I go underwater, short breaths when I am upset, long breaths when I am weary, quick breaths when I am surprised or overwhelmed. It's what I need to survive, and nothing more. So this, this is new, and will take some getting used to. I am proud, and it will be my downfall, but be patient, and I will be kind.

Mission Statement

2009-02-12T06:53:00.000-08:00

I promise:

to make your heart ache with the weight of true beauty played out in words off the tongues of gods and children.

Shameless Plugs pt. 1

2009-02-12T00:50:00.000-08:00

Part 1, cause there will be more =]]

First is an amazing singer/songwriter/all around talented person by the name of Mark Bonaventura. He is the sole member of The Cidermill Drive, an amazing band, with an amazing set of tunes. It's the Beatles meets indie rock in this up and coming artist, a sound the world has been wanting and waiting for.

Second, we have the super amazing: James Tanksley. A suburb photographer in the Las Vegas area, that I had the utmost pleasure of working with.

He is the true reason I decided to make this blog today, because I am scheduled to work with him again in a week, and I am, beyond excited. And I don't get excited about much. You can ask my friends. SO
Shameless plug?
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/
http://www.jamestanksleyphotography.com/

2009-02-05T00:21:00.000-08:00

So there's this stretch of highway on my way home from school everyday, that is especially dangerous for me. See, as I round this bend here, and come down this hill there, I see this:

And it's so beautiful, you see. And I seem to have a bit of trouble concentrating as I drive. And I worry for the day when I no longer look up, you see. To see this. Because that is why I still live and breathe, why I still walk these dry and blustery streets. Because the day I stop looking up, is the day when life fails to take my breath away.

Take that. zing!

2009-02-04T13:18:00.000-08:00

I thought I would share with all of you, my not so dedicated readers, specific thoughts that I have found inhabit the minds of people other than myself.

I ran across an article yesterday, and I must say that it made me laugh.
And I quote;

'According to Stephen [King], "Both Rowling and Meyer, they're speaking directly to young people... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good.'
read the rest of the article here

Ha ha fake-vampire fans. Ha ha.

So okay,

2009-01-30T01:06:00.001-08:00

Maybe I should start
Blaming the keys
For my cold hands

But maybe
You can fix that

Nights, mornings and the in between times.

2009-01-30T00:35:00.000-08:00

I keep my jacket on inside nowdays. With my hood pulled up and close to keep out the air, wind, breezes, and other cold things. It's a shield, perhaps, my hood. Keeping out the world. Or maybe it's keeping something in. Maybe it's my sanity that's leaking out my ears and pooling on the floor, taking the forms of overlooked strands of hair and little spots of lint. So I keep the hood on, and pulled tight to keep it in. It hardly works, like trying to keep water in your hands, it just... slips away.

We're all adults here.

2009-01-28T19:24:00.000-08:00

These hands, going cold across these keys mean nothing to you, do they? Spelling out laughter and carefree smiles, and trying to make you happy.

Aging rapidly seems to be the trend now days. Before we know it, we're full fledged adults with worries and cares, and responsibilities. I'm not overly fond of that word there. It's like a cloud over me, following me, and raining on me, reminding me it's never far away.

Boo on that.

I don't stress. Well, let me rephrase that, I didn't used to stress. Until last week, stress was a foreign concept. I have this wonderful ability to take things in, then just let all the bad out with my breath. But... then I lost my wallet.. and my money dried up.. and I missed a week of school and am therefore completely behind in all my work I'm so clueless. I DUNNA LIKE IT.

I've been sighing a lot these past few days.

Defining Lines

2009-01-21T19:30:00.000-08:00

Deadlines, lifelines, laugh lines, love lines. Our existence is defined by the lines drawn around us. In startling brilliant shades of of ultra violent hues and some so deep that they make canyons in our souls. We toe lines, drop lines, color outside the lines. It’s no wonder we’re going so crazy these days with our world so fuzzy when it’s obviously meant to be so defined.