Peculiar Journeys

Swing, Kid!

2009-06-07T01:10:00.004+03:00

I begin to dance tonight, with a strength never possessed before by any human. I feel the rhythm dictating speed and agility to my blood. I’m twirling and twisting like a thunderous sea, wrapped in clothes that make no difference. Music is filling my every cell with a hunger worthy of an animal, a beast. My senses all feel alive, as I live fully vibrant for the first time. My every heartbeat rules the world, creating a constant echo of life inside my chest. Certainty and unsteadiness have lost their massive impact: everything worldly has lost its value. This physical spinning has caused a silent revolution inside.

My body is dancing, wrapped in such a fabric that passer-bys can’t stop staring. My bones can’t stop the gracefulness of their undulations, and neither can my wrapping be less flattering. My body is trapped in beauty by envy.

I begin to dance tonight, steadily stepping in my flaming red shoes. I begin to dance tonight, to swing music, not the blues. Alone I spin, alone I swirl, alone I’ll jump and singularly twirl. But this independence is not the stuff of nightmares, public humiliation and certain depravation. I am the ocean, I am the sea, I am the sun, and there is nothing you can do to murder me.

Victory

2009-06-07T01:08:00.002+03:00

The bile of fifty thousand years
The cold whistle of a night guard
In death and silence breeding fears
Leaving behind foreheads and hearts scarred.

Breeding rot inside new bones
Winding keys to useless tones
Drawing one eternal line
In which we’ll nestle just fine.

Never do their fists falter
Never do their stares alter
As they lead a generation to the gallows
Feeding worms a meal so callow.

Matching our heartbeats
To one droning melody
The machine cheats
And no blood will there be.

In a world with matching brows
Identical synapses and factory cows
We are fed the food of void
By which we are slowly destroyed.

They lie, cheat, steal and kill
Only to smother our will
They suffocate the very core
That makes us humans roar.

Yet for all their efforts
To pull us apart
We are separately one heart
Fabricated by dreams -

With iron ore seams.
And we prevail,
It seems.

Love Story

2009-05-27T23:58:00.006+03:00

Light and shadow on your fingertips
Light and shadow playing the piano

The way you leave without a trace
The way my mornings smell of you
The way your keyboard sounds surreal
How every blink of your eye
Turns into night and day for me
How my curves shape to the river of you
Because my nerves burn at your touch

The heaven on your wrists
The music on your knuckles

The you in each embrace
The sunrise in your kiss
The technicality of your devotion
How every touch becomes divinity
When the world stops for us
How I breathe in your word
Because I live by its magic.

The hell-fire in each of us
The intricate arteries of love
Pulsating to the beat

Of our unanimous breaths.

Wrapped Spirit

2009-05-26T22:08:00.003+03:00

A headache love
And a freeway dove
Gave birth to an inconsistent dove
In Marrakech.

A windless whisper
And a saxophone
Produced an ugly, charming tone
Now issuing from my gramohpone.

The world's a-bustling
The leaves a-rustling
My street's alive
I am left but to dive.

I sit very still
In the aftermath of a kill
And the sick light from the window sill
Hates me.

I'm alone!
No, never so...
For how can one who does not exist
Claim any woe?

I have lost density
Acquiring fluid propensity
For all winds and chills
That your heart busily spills.

You have spared your heart
And shot mine with a poisoned dart
You have stretched my soul
And I've just sprouted a hole.

Leapsa (I helped myself)

2009-04-28T09:47:00.005+03:00

Nume: Ana

Câteva cuvinte (din 4 litere? neah.): androgin, arpagic, ascetic, aplicat, analfabet, amfetamine:>

Numele unui băiat: Andrei, Ahile:>, Aristotel, Aristide, Agamemnon

Numele unei fete: Ana(duh), Alia, Arwen, Ariel, Arizona, Apple, Addison, Ashley, Arya

O ocupaţie: alimentator de vise:>

O culoare: azul:D, alb

Ceva ce o să porţi în viitorul apropiat: a...muleta?

Un nume de mâncare/ingredient: artichoke, (ginger) ale

Ceva ce găseşti în baie: Algocalmin

Un loc: Amazon

Un motiv pentru întârziere: Aiureala

Ceva ce ai urla: Ah.

Un titlu de film: Amityville, A Clockwork Orange, A History of Violence, A Bug's Life, About a Boy, A Streetcar Called Desire

Ceva de băut: A...a...apa de izvor (mai repede ca mor)

Un grup muzical: AC/DC, Aerosmith

Un animal: African Wild Dog, Asian Elephant, Anoa

Un nume de stradă: Armata Populara, Ateneului, Agricultori, Aviatorilor

O marcă de maşină: (L)Amborghini, (Tr)Abant.

Titlul unei melodii: A Kind of Magic, A Thousand Miles, A Thousand Kisses Deep

Fly, fly, birdie, fly towards Cony & Betzy...:)

Journey to the Past

2009-04-27T10:52:00.002+03:00

There’s a desert on my heels
A cemetery where I’ve lost my wheels,
Where a full mausoleum lies built and bare.
Emptiness has paid money to be buried there.

I’m flying over a path
Scouting for a place to take a bath.
I smell like a rotten grave
Off I need unhappy bones to shave.

Before touring the graveyard
I lived in a peacock land
And fell in love with a bard.
All that has now turned to sand.

Now I’m just wandering,
Preying for a home.
I’m just circling -
I’ll make do with a ruined dome.

But there’s this twinge
In my spleen:
I’m tired, and have many things seen,
And fear makes me cringe.

But I secretly long to once more be part
Of a land’s soul, of a mountain’s heart.
I wish once more to find pride
Flourishing on my back hide.

I’d like to be tall,
Forget what it’s like to die and fall,
And worst of all:
Bat my wings against a wall.

So there’s hope in my veins
That I’ll one day hold the reins
To a green, gold land, and sing
A silly, tuneless tune, next to my King.

The Shieldmaiden

2009-04-17T00:15:00.003+03:00

My dress is made
Of broken feelings and rejected doorways
Sleeves cut by a silver blade,
Sewn together while the tailor prays.

My jewellery is cold,
Which is perfectly normal
Or so I was told.
It's still icy and formal.

I have dancing shoes
With soles of lead
That make me feel like I've nothing to lose
And other times make me feel dead.

But inside this corset
I burst open with the warmth
Of a rising sunset
And twist like a whirlwind of mirth and gloomth.

My hair is filled with madmen
And the dew of long lost songs.
Why do you not see me then?
I even have golden silver prongs.

I suppose it's my fault, too
I was too wrapped up in silk
To remember you
And your words that solidify like milk.

Yet I enjoy my vaporous cage
It's a safe shore
A dungeon for my rage
It keeps me wanting more.

In freedom I would choke
I'd be too naked to know what to do
Without the warmth of my tight cloak
I'd be too close to you.

And you, however benevolent
Are foreign and strange
Separate, frightehing prevalent
My defences you would shift and change.

And I'm afraid.

So I choose crumpled fashion
To shield me
I clothe it in passion
To avoid that dreaded "We".

A collectivity that would become me
Haunt, bewitch and suffocate
With white lover's arms, you see
The very ego and force it was supposed to create.

Burlesque

2009-04-10T01:05:00.004+03:00

Clowns spitting rain
Wounds of the sword
Humid vengeance drain
Thus the word is slain.

And as it died in writhing pain
Form dragged along its rusted chain
At the end of which lay unfolded
The canvas of feelings often molded

Into chaos.

I hereby enter the world of plaster
And welcome the flat magic of the acrylic spell-caster.
I steal Rigoletto’s sounding hat
And I, too become flat.

Baroque flowers choke me
As I see the passing rainbow carriage
Of the curly marquis
Who is heading towards marriage

With a tree, you see.

The alabaster tree
Stands shorter than me
She winks her leaves, you see
And waves away the bowing of the bee.

Her vibrant still life
Cuts the canvas like a knife
Yet for all her boldness and my strife
I could not see her as his wife.

She wore a dress of pure sky
Wherein encrusted pieces of organs lie
And feathers of birds that cannot fly
And beads, and nectar, even rye.

The wedding party was a crowd
As numerous as they were loud
Silently they were stuck
From the willowy elephant to the blinking duck

To a painting.

And with lacquered shoes and booming trumpets
Each dreaming of the feast of crumpets
We cascaded down the boulevard
‘Twas a true event, recorded by a bard.

They have no churches there, you see
So ignorant are you, like me
They have the sand, the shore
And the dry, salty sea.

And our wedding party stopped still
As by a God or madman’s will
We waited for the lover pair
To jump off the cliff, into the air.

And as his curls flew into her leaves
I knew it was time to take my leave
So I sprinted down the dusty relief
And took flight upon a crazy belief

That I will survive.

Crashing down came I
Along with the dress, the beads and rye
And all the wedding party was to die
A burlesque, indecent death

That madness always keeps nigh.

Totem

2009-04-10T00:38:00.002+03:00

Because a lonely wolf
On an Indian highway
Waiting for the sun to go grey
Is such a cliché.

The end of the knot
Is where my ideas got caught
And remained doomed
As the grey sun loomed.

The desert sand was on fire
The wind threw its dusty spine higher
Offering strokes of glitter
To the morose flame-spitter.

I think in rhymes
Patterns and dimes
I hear chimes
I smell unoriginal limes.

I dream pictures
I have seen before
And sprout blisters
When I get sore.

I see my reflection
And it tells the truth
It is my deflection
That within bears root

Of all creation
And thus I pray
That some constellation
Upon my crown lay.

Shifting to the Wind of You

2009-04-06T23:58:00.005+03:00

There are prices we must pay,
And routes that become our way;
But I wish today
To be the tree that does not sway.

And even if death is nigh,
Even if I end up falling in the sky,
Even ended with a sigh,
My hopes and dreams forever will be high.

And I shan't let waves break me
I shan't dance for everyone to see.
I hope one day to grasp the key
That opens the door and lets me be.

I dream, I sweat, I scream, I pray
I hope to God I do not sway
But I'd lie and kill anyday
If only you could stay.

As under your hand I lay
Knowing that I'll act your way
Pushed by uniformity's deforming ray
I wished you loved me anyway.

Twisting Kaleidocsope

2009-03-21T17:04:00.002+02:00

On a bar, the tourist twists a dime
In Calcutta
It's closing time.

There's a fluttering sari
Dancing softly to the tongue of silent music
Making the stranger drinkers wary.

A drunken snake-whisperer
Stares at the thousand
Movements evoking the paths of a conjurer.

Hips swaying
Like the Babylon
Charms reminders of witches of Avalon.

She shows us all but her eyes
Averted windows
To rainbows in the skies.

Bedazzling waves
Of coffee silk and Imri
Are all our idle tourist ever craves.

Achmar, Ajwain, Bazil
Flavours of the East
Enslave his will.

Hare, Kesar, Nimbu
His synapses seek
Only to imbue.

Pyaz, Rai, Saji and Til
Cascading forth
From the window sill.

Alighting the streets
With flowers and fire
Fulfilling all madnesses filled with desire.

She dances softly
With her belt buclke ringing
The light from her jewellery stinging.

As they were all under her spell
The black curtain of fate fell
And she lifted her kaleidoscope eyes.

Madness, lies, Shiva
Aja, Jara, Savratapana
Blissful chaos settled, and the world turned to stone.

With her twisting irises
Long-lashed stars
The death of the world arises.

A Hell Hound On My trail

2009-03-12T19:02:00.005+02:00

We don't have to be glad to be content
We don't have to be less to feel more
We don't have to drink when we're sore
We don't have to starve during lent.

And she shines because she's a superstar
And the inquisitive world wonders how she got so far
And the blame goes to the war
The result - to us all.

I can't really think for a reason to laugh
I can't be one when I feel half
Cut from me is somewhere
Not seeing me from over there.

A lily can float
Without the impulse to gloat
To the heavy set rock
That, sinking, joins the flock

Of sheep fallen on the riverbed.

I don't have to do a thing
I don't even have to think
If I choose not to.

So I refuse to bend
I refuse my hard-earned glory to lend
Nobody should be hell-sent
Because they resented being led.

And nobody has to be whole to be happy
That's the truth turned sappy
And the world is not exactly round

I'm telling you, we're all Heaven-bound.

Wonderland

2009-03-08T18:55:00.006+02:00

In my world
Broken whores have angels' wings
Cyrillic doves have bees' stings
And all is topsy-turvey.

My words are converted into song
My short-cropped hair is unexpectedly long
My wizened recent history rings in my head
Alighting past feelings long dead

I am reminded of a place
Where we walked on transparent skies
And made wishes upon falling leaves
There, love never dies.

And we used to point at grass
Lying sprawled on our backs against the moss
Of clouds and mist
There, your fingers grabbed my wrist.

But our contact was not physical
Nor did my speeding soul belong to anything clinical
Ours was a contact of souls
In one moment, devoid of all goals

For a milisecond
That lasted an hour
We were both sincere
And sweet felt the moment, otherwise sour

In my world,
The Cheshire Cat
Cries behind its Cheshire grin
But all other souls smile from within.

In my world
There are no masters to the sand
Nor to the lightning, nor the word
My world, my dear, is Wonderland.

And I am not some sort of Alice
Belonging to bourgeoisie
I am simply the sower of a world without malice
Wonderland is, in fact, me.

Confusing Romances in Uncertain Seasons

2009-03-03T20:43:00.003+02:00

In your hands I lay the torn ribbons of my soul
A little figurine of an ambiguous material
To play in your childish games the role
Of myself, and a love too immaterial.

Admittedly, I rushed in giving you the thing
I hoped that your heart would not spring
To the cache future of commitment, devotion
Which, by general consensus, mean absence of all emotion.

But it was like I had screamed, and you recoiled
And in the instant our gaze turned blank, my arteries boiled
For in that marmelade symbolism you saw
Threads of the life you fancied cut raw.

So you dashed from your seat
Down the twilight alley
With your hands drowning the beat
Coming from the valley.

In the valley passed a crowd
Spreading music way out loud
Music humming in my heart and brain
Music seeking every one of my emotions to drain.

As I heard the empty echo of your footsteps walk away
I waited for the world to tumble down
Crash and burn on my shoulders as I insecurely began to sway.
And whilist I cannot say I received a crown

Something truly was relieved: my frown.

I saw no point to hang my heart teethily to yours
No finality to cry and beg for love on all fours
No purpose to being down
Disinteresting I deemed attempting to drown.

So disdainfully yours,
I rose from my seat
Next to yours' cold shores
I straightened my back, some oblivion to meet.

I threw my blackberry scarf on the wizened park bench
I laughed till I felt my teeth were like sand
Carelessly strutting away from a breakup's stench
I flashed the world a smile and joined the band.

Whispers - Part Three: Underwater Reality

2009-03-01T19:09:00.004+02:00

She would do it today; today she would become healthy again.
Cecilia sat scantily clothed on the pier. It was winter, so nobody was there. Again, she was alone, but this time she felt the fluid voices calling to her from amid the crashing waves. The rocks below did not frighten her with their sharp, dark edges rising from the water. As soft as swan feathers she saw them, undulating to the curves of a blackbird's bare back. The steaming froth of the freezing water jumped high upon hitting the pier's edge. The wind rendered her dark hair dishevelled even under the knitted hat she had recived from Dorian three Christmases ago.

No one was there, thus no one saw what she looked like. She was wearing the wedding dress she had worn on the Eve of Dorian's death. Strikingly white against the wet grey of the pier, her dress flew under the strength of the wind. On her fingers she had the three rings Dorian had given her - emerald, diamond and pearl. Around her neck was the white gold necklace she had received for her birthday; above her heart was the dove brooch she had fallen in love with while walking down Broadway and which Dorian had bought for her. The hat, the dress, the jewellery - wrecked vestiges of her love, now abused by the winter winds of the sea.

She took a step forward, and with a breath released her thoughts into the water. She let the waves have her soul, whilist she stared into the same shifting spot of water. Unexpectedly, a sea of bald, translucent arms rose from the waves, reaching for the hem of her dress. Their glowing claws tore the beaded silk as Cecilia understood the betrayal and treachery ebbed on the faces beneath the waves. If Dorian were among the mermaids, he sould have come to greet her and ease her passage. If Dorian had been there, she would have seen his angelic face under the foam, his barley locks and soft lips.

"No!" Cecilia spat at the engulfing, slithering tentacles of the hissing creatures. Half-men, Half-fish, Half-women, Half-scaly - they had risen halfway from the whirlpools and were lashing out at her. Marble, cold-blooded skins were beating agaist the pavement of the pier. She turned round, making a swift escape.

"Come," a distant whisper was heard, making her blood curdle. Then a swish, a slash and a fall. Cecilia was on her knees, scraping the smooth seams of her dress and crushing the glass beads of her dress against the cement into a million particles of dust. As they shattered, all hope was driven away from Cecilia. The hold on he dress was too tight, the hold on her soul was too deviously peevish and perverted to die now. She let go, hoping for nothing, secretly wishing for the fulfillment of the mermaids' promises.

She was swalloed selfishly by the waves, paralysed by their coldness. She never found Dorian. Her soul haunted the ruins of wrecked ships, swaying to the tune of the distant, wordless, meaningless songs of the torturing mermaids. It was the price she had to pay for ever listening to the Whispers and falling prey to the Charms of the Underwater Beasts.

I want it all - and I want it now

2009-03-01T17:59:00.004+02:00

Hmm, seeing as i got tagged yet again [hugs to Pucca for that], this is me bending to the rules...and liking it:->.

I want:

> Starbucks Chocolate Cake.

> Time.

> Sleep.

> Ice cream raining down on me...No, wait...the raining part would be messy...

> Two heaps of money: one I could donate, the other spend on clothes.

> Music in the streets. Classy music.

> Random hugs.

> Patience to finish a book or some sort of literary oeuvre.

> Lacy wings. They'd be a nice touch, don't you think?

> Superpowers. Like flying or reading minds...preferably both...

> A vampire lover for each of my friends.

> Fever [In the morning.] Fever [When you hold me tight.]

> Green eyes.

> Prettier handwriting.

> A decent singing voice.

> The ability to walk in stilettos.

> The posession of stilettos.

> My fantasies to come true.

> To discover some day that my fantasy-world exists.

> To never have to kiss a frog in order to get a prince. [Seriously, can't he just kiss a mirror and be done with it?]

> A Farie twin.

> To rule the world. [This is just the grave cliche ending, it's not really true.]

There you have it. Cony, Betz, consider urselves tagged:->

Peace \m/

Famous Blue Raincoat

2009-02-17T19:28:00.006+02:00

You live in a raincoat which has no sleeves, buttons, or orifices in which I could curl up and cuddle. Naturally, it is made from the most extraordinary material: it lets nothing out, and nothing in. And it is to you like a realm of caffeine, painfully keeping you awake, aware and in control of what happens to you.
With this raincoat you float, on waves of blue and their frothing white foam, and are content. No; not content. Idle, and at peace with it.
If anything should mercilessly puncture a hole in your unbeatable fortress, you would sink. You would try to swim, but the weight of all those muscles and bones you have never used will drag you down. Should anyone try to show you how we float without a raincoat, you would become nothing but a cracked vestige of human cowardice on the ocean's marble floors.
But I take that sin upon me, and throw my thorns at you. Giving you what the salt of the sea gave to me, the gift of minerals in crystals upon my skin, I gave you a part of that which makes me as I am. It was a gift, and you received it with a small scream.
Disgust lined your impersonal face, and you stared at me and my dishevelled locks of hair with hatred. You were already surrounded by the domes of air coming up as you came down. The bottom of the ocean was calling for you. When your brief moment of suppressed violence had passed, you realised what had happened. Your infamous raincoat was disintegrating by my hand. If you had but chosen to curse me, as Mercutio cursed Romeo, I would have had some idea of the righteousness of my actions.
But no; you did not understand. You panicked, yelped and pulled your arms closer to your body, trying to retain the protection of the raincoat. Yet the acids of my making were dissolving it; you screamed upon seeing the bubbles of an unnatural chemical reaction.

Already the water had reached your chiselled chin.

I reached out to you, offering a clean white hand to help you stand. I would have lifted you and supported your feet from underneath; I would have helped you walk on water and gain honour and glory. But no; you would not let me.
You bared your sharp teeth in a hungry growl, like a piranha with glass eyes. You blinded me with a splash of water, and refused to swim.
When I had finally wiped my eyes clean, you had already gone.

And I had already begun to miss your pitiful presence upon the waves.

I did not cry, for the salt of your unnecessary splash froze my tears forever, grinding them into harsh gems that hurt my eyes from the inside for the rest of my maritime days. But just so your spirit knows, I felt your dead gaze upon the soles of my feet forever. I know you couldn't take your eyes off me, I just feel sorry I had to kill you to get that done.

I shamefully admit to loving a complete coward, a cowering rabbit. A leech, a shameful person, a pitiful personality, a cold fish.

But I killed him, and made him burn white-hot in his last moment. That is my only argument for Saint Peter.

Message in a Bottle

2009-02-16T00:06:00.003+02:00

Eleven books that bring back memories! Thanks, Noelle! Cony, Aly, and all other marvellous bloggers can share!

1. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte - because you have to cry for Cathy and Heathcliff.

2. The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon- because it brings back the magic of Barcelona.

3. Memoirs of a Gheisha by Arthur Golden- because I never really wanted it to end.

4. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte- because I had to admire Helen.

5. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen - because there's only one Mr Darcy.

6. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier - because it kept me on the edge of my seat.

7. Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie - because it left me dumbstruck.

8.The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett - because it's the very fisrt book I read in English.

9. Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy - because I love Hardy and hate Angel.

10. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath - because it's scary and real.

11. Women in Love by D.H. Lawrence - because I was mesmerised.

Bonus tracks: Crime and Punishment by F.M. Dostoievsky - because it made my blood curdle.
A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini - because I got to share it.
Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling - because it's close to my heart.
The Lord of The Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien - because it's genius.
The Lord of the Flies by William Golden - because it's brilliant.

Whispers - Part Two: Underwater Madness

2009-02-10T00:11:00.006+02:00

Cecilia had come home from nowhere. She had stepped out one last time to try and clear her head in the turbulent lanes of the city. Nothing; she was still as empty as a suspended bell jar. The girl felt increasingly cold as air seemed to just sweep through her, taking with it all last shreds of sharp life. Coming home to an empty, windy apartment was just the same. Blown up.
She needed warmth, she needed life. The life and warmth she had shared with her Dorian. Immediately, like an addict's thoughts spring to the poison of his choice, hers leaped towards the shower.
There was no time to take her clothes off. She let the water drag the seams and stitches of her attire down into the drain, alongside weak locks of fire-red hair. Holding on to her knees, she let the water bubble in her ears. The cold silence inside her mind seemed to be gone.

"Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper
"I love you"
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me"

Such was the bluntless of its poetic univers, that Cecilia immediately felt drawn to the ideal image of that romantic place. She opened her eyes and saw what she really expected and desired to see: Dorian. Not the peaceful decorum in the song, but the one who she was dreaming bitter little dreams about. Dorian.
Only his face wasn't exactly the way she'd remembered it. With an upsurge of panic, she thought that she might be forgetting him. But no; Dorian's face had an almost inhuman air. It was a merman's face, and all the more beautiful so. She felt drawn by the shimmer of his skin and the explicit mistery that hung about him. His barley locks were floating around his face. His eyes, even without the pupils and irises, held to her such love...The love she was missing.

The love that had died.

Cecilia tried to caress his face, but however much she tried to soothe his newly acquired skin, he was too far. It took her a while to realise he was pushing away from her.

"Not like this," he said. "You can't love me like this. Come to my side, love me here. Love me forever; mermaids do not die. Come, trust me, my love."
The fantasy, the dream, the illusion was interrupted by a rush of cold water from the shower. Mrs Humphries - a lady with many cats and a weak bladder - had flushed the toilet.

But, however inconsistent and short, the fantasy, the dream, the illusion had twirled and twisted Cecilia's atriums and ventricles. She had made up her heart. Follow, or get left behind.

She would not be left behind, to droop in daily madness and grief. She would follow him, wherever he might go. And today, her road was the sea, her home the mermaids.

Whispers - Part One: Underwater Dreams

2009-02-09T23:46:00.005+02:00

She only heard the voices under the shower.
The water flooded her ears and she could hear songs from distant lands, distant mermaids, charming her into idleness. Cecilia would just stand there, arm resting against the bathroom wall, and listen to the voices singing songs that had travelled far and wide.
The silver sliver of voices carried filth from the sewers washed with salt from the seas. The mermaid-spirits sung to her of algae in their hair and seashells on their spines. And all the time the water poured and poured, across Cecilia's high cheekbones, blood-red hair, porcelain ears, silk neck, pouted lips and closed gray eyes. In water she found her refuge from the dizziness which stepping oustide her front door implied. Under the water's soothing touch, Cecilia could dream herself a mermaid, and her beloved Dorian, a merman.
Together they were, unlike in real life. They swam together, breathed together, rejoiced together. Underwater, there was life for Cecilia.

Outside was cold, and the news of Dorian's death came over her in every second, each time hitting harder than the last. She was standing alone amidst a crowd of moving people; she had grown tired.

"Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand."

Oh, these twists and turns of fate: how the mermaids happened to be singing a song about a dancer and a musician. Cecilia tilted her head back, and her tears got lost in the streams of boiling-hot water. She was still alive, she was still yearning.

Today, the mermaids had scraped at her chipped heart again. It was torture she was familiar with, torture she welcomed with open arms.

The mermaids were taunting her with a forbidden fruit.

Letters from the Sky - "A Star is Born"

2009-02-09T13:09:00.003+02:00

In the distance, something sparkled. Her green eyes widened, and her heart expanded, pounding more and more blood into her veins. The feeling dawned on her, and she stopped short in her tracks, with the setting sun in front. She had found it. Or, rather, they had found each other.
The gleaming red point in the distance stopped as well. In that unique moment, she forgot all that had been. Seeing only what was yet to come - what had to be -, our green faerie twirled in the air, opening her arms wide and, with a happy grin welcoming the world into her soul.

She was home.

*

The sky was dark in front. Yet, miles away, she saw this tiny green leaf hovering above the ground. Hovering it had been, for the past three hours. And getting bigger. Her grey eyes widened, and comprehension dawned on her ivory face. She froze in mid-air, and in her surprise passed her fingers through her red hair. Tears filled her eyes, tears of relief and joy, as she tilted her head back and gave a sound, melodious laughter of fulfillment. Emotions gushed out of her like rosebuds opening. She then stretched her tiny, frail body along with her dark lace wings. The wind flew under her black silk dress. She had forgtten all but one. The one she had found. Or rather, they had found each other. She took a deep breath, breathing in the barren air between her and home.

She was home.

*
Silently, they gazed in each other's eyes. Green-saw-grey, grey-saw-green and more than that: Juniper memories sighed, and being released with a breath crumbled with their wisps and whorls the petals of the Black Rose. The Black Rose extended its remaining angry thorns and put the twisting, twirling, turning Juniper out if its centennial misery.
Skin upon skin they embraced each other, and the sun burst into a rain of a million colours. Green silk melted into red hair, black silk melted into green eyes. Grey eyes melted into thin wings which smelled of Juniper leaves; dark hair engulfed darker lace wings. The two souls, twin orbs of encasement, became one. The ground under them split, shooting a force that blasted the one Faerie into the sky. No more Juniper. No more Black Rose.
A new beginning on the night sky. A star, a young twinkling star.

Azha - the hatching place.

They were forever new; home.

Exodus - "Something in their Eyes"

2009-02-05T01:18:00.012+02:00

She stood up, bathed in the half-light of a shy dawn. Breathing in, she felt the seams of her ivy-green dress stretch. Her white chest expanded as her dark hair was blown from her face by the wind. Her bloodstream was filling with the oxygen of freedom. A freedom born out of desire. A freedom that mothered recklessness and selfishness.
Her lace wings bloomed behind her as she opened her large eyes and pushed herself up from the leaf. Her pulsating irises grew alight with a feeling of grandeur. Airborne, she twirled and was gone.
Gone, heading. Heading towards a horizon which promised change. Which promised her desired turbulence of flight. Hardship, happiness and life; Sadness, joy - feeling.
Behind her, a much loved, barely forgotten juniper tree was shivering his needles off towards a dry death. Its branches would fall in howling pain one by one, hitting the dusty planet's backbone in dismay. Its bark would rot, its rustling leaves die. All because he would miss her so terribly; he would beg forgiveness for enslaving her. His love would consume him; it was for the best. She would never return.

She had left the Juniper Tree. She had bought her freedom at a terrible cost.

I'm free.

*

Standing up with a jolt, she grabbed the hem of her black silk dress. Her eyes sparkled with reflected worry, as well as a small feeling she could not quite grasp. It had come and gone ever since she'd seen the petals. Pointing South. Painfully showing a South realm with their golden contours.
For a second, the sky was split by a lightning bolt. Something inside her ruptured: her eyes glittered with the liberating pain of the crack.
Feeling the dark leaf under her feet, as well as the tiny dead cells clinging to her toes, she breathed in the stormy air that came towards her face. On it, our Rose Faerie detected shocks and drops of soothing, rumbling rain. Her decision had been long made, but only now did she have enough strength to let it fill her body.
Pushing up, she extended her transparent wings so that the setting sun would warm them. Airborne, she was free.
With a wave of her hand, with a wings' agitation she left the her Black Rose of a life behind her, shrivelling painfully until it became no more than a fist of ashes. Her Black Rose was no more; its ashes were being driven away from its home by the same wind that empowered her.

The Black Rose's song was still an echo in her heart. But no more.

I'm free.

Letters On Petals of Black Roses

2009-01-31T01:21:00.004+02:00

The setting sun cast a blood red light on her black. Black silk dress, loose and flowy around her marble white skin. Black leaes of dried up roses. Black petals of dead flower wreaths clinging to the front of an abandoned mansion. Black as soot was her domain against the ageing grey marble that was the main house of the abandoned estate. Beyond her realm, was nothing. No other faerie for miles and miles: just the frosted peaks of mountains and the sun's lazy eye shutting between them.
She frowned, her rust-coloured hair twinkling in the half-light. Something troubled her, and she stirred. High she was perched, right in the middle of a south-facing rose, bundled up, curled comfortably and with her legs elegantly bent beside her: amidst dark petals. Her wings tickled the inside of the flower, their flowing curves framing her small body. Faerie of the Black Rose. Yet her Rose was Black no more.
That very morning, a tiny bud had opened. As was her habit, she tended to him kindly; the shock came when she noticed that in the small new orb two identically small gold petals had appeared.

"That cannot be."

The rose was facing - almost pointing - South, and so had she all morning, perched on a black baby-thorn. Something out there sung to her, and she longed to leave the black, grim prison of her flowers. She wanted to shake off the shadow off the dying house that pressed upon her back. Her thorny cage she was sick of; eating ashes in reward for her care had turned so horribly quotidien she choked on the bush's offer. No more kissing black petals, no more tossing dead leaves, no more smoothing thorns. She wanted to be rid of the responsibility of keeping alive something that was not destined to live. Frustration flamed in her onyx eyes: she was the Black Rose, and the Rose was her. They were one and the same, living through and with her. Should she leave the decrepit bush, it would die.

But what use was life to either one?

Still, she had not the courage to answer the voices of the twilight song. Her rose bed would do for now - it had been enough for her since the beginning of time.

There is something South. South.
Why care now?

Dead Transparency

2009-01-14T23:26:00.002+02:00

My bones are made of glass
The transparency of which has
Undoubtedly paid its due.

Too long, too lonesome have I been crystal clear
I should towards mystery my charms steer
Hide furtively that I hold dear
The quality of your dew.

But should I to you act a dream
Of the lowest morality will I seem:
A deceitful merchant giving you for free
What in others you'll find is plenty.

Yet true, to you, were I
That will not your eyes satisfy
And my own graceful song, unheard

Will die.

Letters from under the Juniper Tree

2009-01-09T17:48:00.005+02:00

The faerie of the Juniper Tree was a lovely old soul. She had inhabited the world for many thousands of years, and seen how man's arched back was straightened into the ploughing, pillaging plank it istoday. With a small bush of curly dark hair and a green silk frock, she danced and pranced from twig to twing all day long, perchance pruning her home-tree of its dead leaves and scavenging worms. The life of
a worker is never dull, nor can it be entirely devoid of action and emotion. Our faerie felt happiness seep through the little veins in her glittering lace wings as if she were tossing worms off her own white marble arms. She had so much to love on her juniper tree, and so little to hate. The only thing she feared about her tree-child was his singular black thorn, like an apex of malice pointing north. Every morning she would sit on one of the berries surroinding the thorn and gaze in that direction: only twilight lingered there in ill mornings and lazy evenings. Cross-legged on the black sphere, she would feel the pus pulsating under her: she would stir. Something drew her to that apex, like a whirlpool of mystery on the line of the horizon. At times, she felt sick of the faerie catharsis she had been living in for so many millennia. Her pouted red lips pursed with desire, she would resolve she had experienced enough lust for the day, and move away to face the other side of nature from the more welcoming quarters of her Juniper. The shade of its prickling thorns was the mountain brook to the thirsty climber. When the gentler winds blew, the tree gave off a flavour of vanilla sticks and lemongrass.
That was the magic of faerie trees. This was the magic and curse of faeries: being bound forever to a flower of their soul, who could only flourish as long as she remained there. The tree was a twin soul of hers, lifting and lowering its messy leaves as her mood lifted or sunk. It would give her the berries she needed to eat as she got hungry, and shade her sliver skin from the boiling sun. An oasis of quiet, a spring of delight.

Except for the mystery of the thorn, pointing towards a forbidden fruit she sought to fly after. She let her soul leap where her body could not, and saw in her mind what treasures she could find North. North.

Frighful beginning

2008-12-21T01:32:00.004+02:00

A gem-like eye opens in the dark; 'tis waiting on a crude boat to embark. It fidgets, the being, and feels the walls of his dwelling push him out. Its translucent lips pout for fear of what it will be seeing. As blood vessels churn, our tiny little stranger starts to yearn.
The midget softly brushes hus thumb against his nose, and plays with the protruding hose that seems to sprout from his belly. How strange it all seems. What a few darks ago felt like an infinite vastness of dark liquid today felt cramped and suffocating. He was outgrowing his skin, that sweet wrapper he had nestled in.
And just as he was pondering his decision - rather inclined to find a way out of his crowded home - there occured the strangest thing.
The supple muscles of the warm cocoon contract: now, electricity racing through the human body, it's time to act! Our wanderer turns over, anligning himself with the bones of his owner. No time now for sweet reflection: the torrent of the river pushes him forward.
Pulses rush, and the small alien hears blood vessles all around him moan with the rapidity of the aforementioned liquid. He coils up, savouring for one last moment that small universe which he was the centre of. He let the warmth of the dark fluid world run over him again, give him strength. Then, with all his tiny, frail little might, he pushed, shattering to pieces the silver arch above his head which was holding him in. The sound of the rupture pierced the hero's ears as he made his way through a strangling tunnel.
After what seemed like forever, the tunnel ended, and his body found a million sensations at once, outside the engulfing blanket he had lived in. There was something from above, something white, something which made other things bright. There was a stinging flavour in the air, and there were about ten burning tentacles carressing his back. Then those were gone, and something more coarse than he'd ever felt touched him. In a flash of panic, the small lump discovered that his small sprout-tube was gone. He immediately realised it had been a mistake leaving that enrapturingly safe reality.
He was cold. Harsh metallic clanks roared around him, accompanied by low, wooshed hushes. Panic set into his rotating limbs as he desperately arched forward to once again feel the chiselled walls that had previously enclosed him. He touched nothing but air, and felt frightened.
Suddenly, his fear - to him an alien feeling - burst from his tight throat and into the air. He could not believe what sounds he was making, yet he sensed the shrill trills were his. He needed to call for help, he needed to keep on calling.
And he did so, shrieking helplessly in the numb silence outside, like a shaman beckoning the return of the spirit world.

["Congratulations, madam. It's a boy."]

99. Just a number.

2008-12-10T11:05:00.009+02:00

99 problems.

not.

(thanks Noelle>:D< Cony can subscribe!)
1.They say I'm geeky.
2.I hate my computer right now because it just magically deleted my first 13 things.
3.I have a temporary obsession with Grey's Anatomy.
4.I watch it on youtube.
5.I love Burke=P~
6.I love to read.
7.The first real book [novel] I ever read was The Wizard of Oz.
8.I can never praise myself for fear of sounding haughty or arrogant.
9.I'm not scared of many things - maybe just loss.
10.I love waterfalls.
11.I love being surrounded by water.
12.I seem to have just filled the void created by my infamous computer.
13.>>here goes a large number of rock bands<<
14. I like tapping and rippling the thin crust that warm milk makes when it's brought out into the cold.
15. But I strongly dislike eating it.
16. I'm supposed to be studying for my Chemistry test.
17. I'm blogging instead\:D/
18. Chocolate.
19. Fantasy.
20. Philosophy.
21. I planted wheat on St Andrew's and it's already 20 cm high.
22. I'm hoping to have a full-grown crop by the end of the next millennium.
23. I have absurdly fantastic friends.
24. All of which are elves:)
25. I'm one in a million, babe.
26. I'm a shooting star.
27. Who recognizes the above as Guns N' Roses lyrics please raise their left hand.
28. I want a pet dragon.
29. Blue, silver or green.
31. My net just got disconnected.
32. I want machines to be able to think.
33. Christ, that just means I want someone around 24/7.
34. Yey! My net went back up again.
35. This list is going to be horribly long.
37. I get bored quite easily sometimes.
38. I have a horribly long list of lucky songs which I try to listen to every morning.
39. I create my own system of superstitions.
40. I can't believe this is 40 already:-
41. The internet is for porn.
42. #41 was for my Fellowship strictly, but i reccomend everyone to youtube it:)
43. I regret not listening to more Nirvana.
44. Someone told me I shouldn't if I don't want serious emotional damage.
45. I'm already almost halfway:D
46. Why are there only 99 things?
47. Is it okay if I go the even hundred?
48. Bittersweet Symphony is officially one of my favourite songs.
49. Sleep. I love to sleep.
50. I love travelling alone.
51. Makes me feel free.
52. And independent.
53.I'm listening to You and Me by Lifehouse.
54. I find it very sweet:)
55. I don't really like Coldplay but I am currently obsessing over Viva la Vida.
56. Another Grey's Anatomy episode is loadiiing\:D/
57. I bought my parents Christmas presents.
58. I wish I were walking in Utrecht.
59. Or any Dutch city, really.
60. I am not exactly the cheerleader type.
61. I laugh.
62. I can't really help it.
63. Whenever i think it's inappropriate, I bite my lip.
64. Or I squeeze the closest friend's arm.
65. I can't stand people who can't talk right.
66. I can't stand inconsiderate people.
67. I pity the socially retarded.
68. Call me crazy.
69. I'm watching a makeup tutorial.
70. I find it quite reduntant.
71. I wouldn't normally be caught watching makeup tutorials, but hey, it's late, and I'm tired.
72. It's given me a cute idea, though.
73. Tomorrow is the last day of school.
74. I can't wait for Christmas to come.
75. Not really for the presents, but for the atmosphere.
76. I'm a million different people.
77. From one day to the next.
78. I can't change.
79. Who above recognizes the Bittersweet Symphony (The Verve) lyrics, raise their right hand, please.
80. I doubt anyone did:))
81. These really aren't 99 things about me.
82. I an defined by my thoughts, feelings and opinions.
83. My traits are really quite inconsistent.
84. They don't make me unique.
85. I find so many people who share my traits.
86. But I know I'm different.
87. I write rhyming prose.
88. I find I can't really manage my thoughts in verse.
89. It's just an oddity of mine.
90. I can't cry in public.
91. I can never overdramatize in public.
92. No offence, but people who do cry in public (I mean all the freaking time) aren't exactly what I would call wronged.
93. They just need attention.
94. I don't get those who change who they are for attention.
95. I don't get people who refuse any infusion of culture.
96. I'm close to the finish.
97. But I am more than 99 lines in a blog.
98. Bittersweet Symphony has ended.
99. And so have I.

P.S.: These are "99 things about me", don't expect to be able to claim my friendship once you've read them. It take a lot more than that to crawl under my skin, I tell you.

A Tyrant

2008-11-25T11:49:00.011+02:00

As he stepped on the rickety stage, he frowned, displeased. The other band-members were waiting for him, in a semi-crouch, like lions ready to spring. He touched the microphone with his long fingers, and by uttering a single greeting to the teetering crowd, he had us all enraptured. Then, the harsh notes started playing, and we started yelling, biting, hitting, jumping and singing along with his words. As our melted souls grew into a unitary orb of pulsating energy, I could see him marvelling at our force. He coiled, bowing to us, and then sprung up again, holding a blood-red guitar like it was a sword. A weapon, to charm and kill, to empty and fill. I sat in front, in a trance like the rest, and saw every motion his Adam's apple made. I heard the magnified sounds of electricity roaring in his nerves as his fingers bent on the strings. The halls of my barren soul echoed with his mellow voice, and ruptured with his purr. A growl he then let slip, caught by the general chaos, with no consideration for the arcade of my heart; I now have none, for it was demolished by the demonic fluctuations of his voice. He was like the God of Wind should look like - the pitch-black hair, the uncannily breathtaking piercings, the discreet goatee, and the arms that could all weather bear. As inconstant as his name, his voice grew and settled down like a storm, leaving us open-mouthed and him drenched in the cold water of his toils. His beads of sweat rolled like boulders down his face, wetting the ground and guitar below. I imagine the blood-red instrument must have hissed like one possessed by the devils of music when the holy, icy water of his weaver struck him. It must have pierced a hole in the undulating body of the guitar, forever giving a scratched quality to the music - that's originality for you mortal souls.
A cascade of forked, black-nailed fingers poked his forehead as he leaned in to hear the growling of the crowd. He grinned, flashing white teeth - we covered our eyes and yelled, but not with distraught.
In the end, the music died, and we were left cold in our hides. With him gone, the sense of unity was once again free to fly away from the hoardes of restless teenagers. We backed away from the stage, still looking past the instruments and curtains, hoping to catch a glimpse of that torrent of electricity that had just sung to us. He was, apparently, gone, yet in our hearts the memory of his magic shone.
He is, after all, only human, and his tumultuous upsurges of tempestuous energy do not last for long...

Hangover

2008-11-25T11:49:00.009+02:00

I used to be sober. But then, you hung me over.
I had stepped onto the stage in a different era, it seemed. Fearful, frightful, an array of feelings bashing against the walls of my heart. The sickening, empowering music rang through the hall, and the crowd engulfed me in its wet, violently thrashing womb. I was surrounded by darkness and forgot that I was supposed to keep on holding your hand. We did enter the scene together, did we not? Yet the growing roar of the monster I found myself inside of deafened me. I know you cried my name; I suppose you felt just the same when you realized I'd forgotten our game.
You must give me your praise, though. I did succeed in remembering your face, and in that moment of epiphany, claws sprung from my fingers and I heroically slashed open the bars of my fleshy cage, jumping freely onto the blood-spattered floor. A distant riff reverberated in my eardrums.
My friend, I then searched endlessly for you and the warmth of your hand, tasting a hundred types of bland till I saw your face. I gave you a small embrace, and felt love exploding in my chest; that hung me above all the rest.
I let the sweating, swearing hoardes bang their heads to tuneless music, as we - the two companions of dignity - strode into the night, throwing our heads back with laughter and remembering that awful sight. Behind us, the walls began to fall - the monster had captured it all. Yet we ran to freedom, on a wise gust of wind, poised gracefully, dividing good and evil.
There came an awful time for you to depart, so we said goodbye and waved with heavy hearts.
In the morning, my head ached with the night's sounds. I woke up smelling of rainbow rum and feeling sweet smoke and crisp ash on my tongue, and remembered my previous michievousness. I used to be sober, refraining from the sweet pleasures of life. You, with your sweet, stinging dew made me once more hung over the world, in a state of grace. I thank you for honouring me with your companionship; I would not have spent that awful night with another.
And thank you for making me see that there's really no point in sobriety.

I Am My Own

2008-11-23T00:46:00.005+02:00

You once asked of me, dearest Elder, to make you proud. I have tried my best, I have borne your crest and gave your withering old crown throughout the world renown. But as the years go by, the sharper grew my eye, and it spotted, through glasses dotted, a total surrender - typical for your gender. I saw deep in your soul, in that putrid, lurid hole, how Pride and Integrity, former models of Solemnity, bowed dutifully to the laughing deceit. I had thought in my earliest youth how such a pillar of truth as you I shall never meet. Now I see that the true model I have lies in me, where my Honesty and my rightful Vanity still act the bridges to my cells, so I do not squeak, as you, at the hinges. You have grown old, teacher, I understand, but 'tis no excuse for your backbone to turn to sand. I remember still, while stealing a glance, I saw the fox of corruption prance upon your greying skin.
What I recalled to be of marble, I found had started to crumble, and saw the thorned tentacles engulf what the crude iron manacles could not. In shackles were you, awaiting your sentence, when I virtuously came to denounce your false repentance.
It may seem odd, how I spotted the marsh; I had spoken to a God, who told me it stuck so harsh to your bones and your veins, your fibres and brains. Intellect-deep in mud, with muck instead of blood, you are condemned to a barren eternity.
The true believers will now sing: "What, no redemption for the Christian thing?" Seeking an answer in the old, 'tis the new that will his judgement unfold: "None, for his web of lie is like a ring."
You are now too old, too poor, to rotten to be saved; your tongue ought to be shaved - it bears white, thick hairs of ugly song. Your brain ought to be filtered, smashed into a pulp, then poured back into your skull, though I doubt it there belonged. The fragile clay of your frame should be melted and scuplted anew, for only rebirth could give your heart another hue. Yet to all these changes - monstruous, I'll admit - we cannot an old, learned bodice submit. Your spirit - the wreck that's left, I mean - will crack and break, never remembered, never seen.
So, you see, 'tis best to leave thee in thy rude, ungraceful form, for if we dissolve your trace upon this land, you will have not existed. And, after all, 'tis better to exist in infamy than to surrender to anonimity.

Forgive me, thus, for not taking you at your word. Your false pride shall end up a broken sword - I remember naught but my own ideals, what I go through are my own ordeals. Your name shan't be written under any knitted mitten I have touched. I fear, you see, that your long, green finger will prick even me. Forgiveness for my weakness I do beg of thee.

My teacher, you should know I hate you not, I only hate that you have not fought. The devils of your possession, who rule your being in progression, were not hard to repel - you had to know Morality's simple spell. Yet, the past is in the past, though the repecrussions of your actions hurt and last. For the future, the empty forever, I'll try your wounds to suture with something clever. But, as wit seemingly escapes me, I can only resort to what you next see: rudimentary words for you, from me. Though I know what follows will be night, do pray that the Gods by some miracle grant you true sight. May your reckless, shameful sins be light, and may you never forget my right to say "nay" when you try to model my clay.

What Say You To The Night?

2008-11-19T23:26:00.007+02:00

If I have ever met someone so grand, it must be the one with the cigarette in his hand. The mysterious stranger, giving us an inkling of danger, charming us with our fear, making us draw near. As he lifts the collar of his dark overcoat, a chill thrills my spine, clogging my throat. The tip of lit ash lights his brow in a flash. With the slithering smoke rising from his mouth, a cold sharp wind comes from the south. My silly, wild eyes, naught recognize. My bare, white chest bears innocence and fear as its crest. As I approach the dark body timidly, I see the sparkle of his eyes but dimly. And in the strange, unnerving blackness I see that familiar human harness. I think to myself the night has embodied an elf and sends him forth to me, for my unsettled imagination to see. He has leaned against the wall, his body curving withall, his long, lean hands serving as iron-brands. Grasping the vibration of my curious damnation, he springs forth, ducking his chin, as I ready myself to bear the horror within. I expect a monster, a beastly behaviour my approach hath fostered. A wry smile touches his lips, as he traces my shoulder with his fingertips. I would never understand how that moment could fly out of my hand. Nothing was left in my head, just the concept of feelings long dead. I stood stock still as his membres abruptly sent a chill, turning to stone on my collarbone. I tasted the bile, it felt futile. A gratuitous passing of long caged feelings, a mercifully releasing explosion of forgotten dealings. It passed, and then he gasped.
Taken by surprise by the plan his mind was to devise, he took a sharp breath of air, sliding his hand in my electrified hair. Sanity was a distant echo, to me.
"What say you to love tonight?"
"What say you to a stranger and his plight?"
"What one feels."
"...Assuming one is head over heels?"
"Ah, Romantic ordeals..."
And as he crushed the tobacco under his foot, my heart in his caught root. With fear I came closer, with my spirit next to its original composer. Such a feeling of delight gripped my head and held it tight, as I wandered with my Stranger in the dark, never knowing if he will depart. I dared not speak a sound, for he seemed pleased with us silent-bound. And in fear for myself I then dwelled, having my spirit callously impelled, to act as a protective glove for my Stranger's withering love. I took the blows and scratches of the cold to keep alive the fire of old. Knowing it would too soon die, I gave myself no time to cry. So there I went, from one cage to another and if it was of fear or love I ceased to wonder.
With a knot I was tied to the ground, having a dry, sandy soil found. I felt jarred, my knuckles swelled, for having all those threats repelled. My purpose was gone, my phantasmagorical battles were won. The earth I had found for my rooting love was shrunken like a dying dove. The mystery of the Stranger was gone, being now replaced by a want of none. I despised his obscureness, my heart convulsed at the sight of his dark dress; hopelessly I wished to brighten his tress.
Though on first sight, the warm, flowing night was all alight, digging further into his heart one found naught but a playing card, bending as the wind, an opaque glass shard. His skin was so terribly hard.
That, my friends, brings us to the day; yes, I'm still trying to get away. Do not judge me for giving my consent for the love that came and went.
If he, for a moment, had noticed your graceful flight, what would you have said to the alluring night?

Luminously Youthful Chaos

2008-11-17T23:23:00.010+02:00

Of many teachings I remember one simple thing, in my mind like an ember. A dying flame of knowledge sparkled my awareness; I remember now that we see things because of the light which falls upon them. If that light falls not, does our conscience also keep our brothers in the dark? If naught shines, does it not exist? If all is dark, there sings no lark? No trees to swoon, no leaves to rustle, not one creature moving a muscle, if that shines not.
So those who truly are and can be seen, must have acquired some sort of sheen. Their skin must glow, their hearts pureness show. A mystery, still, this treachery of Gods, who have given us quality by the odds. A tilted wheel with a rusted reel is what they spin, spreading sparkle across my kin.
But here comes a happy thought - they exist, the ones that shine not. Only our human, lowly eyes, are not worthy of the plan the Fates devise. You say I jest when I affirm that the ones to shine will squirm, and darkness will flow into them. There will come a time for the mighty to fall, to arm shall we, the dark, hear call. For it is in us that the real light dwells, and nothing is to you what your perception tells. All reality is like the wind, and that they do not see, for their eyes are too filled with normality for them to spot you and me.
'Tis not our skin that glows, but our soul, be it filled with woes. Our eggshell - what you call a skin - merely gives a constant shape to the spirit within. In that is the true light reflected, warmth is deflected, love is connected, malice intercepted.
Fear not, for we exist, in our invisible, intangible universe, wrapped in our quantum of darkness. But when the drums shall ring, our birth will burst so sweetly in the day that the false light from before shall fall into dismay.
We, the dreamers, bring disarray.

Another Monday for the Downtrodden

2008-11-15T23:58:00.003+02:00

Long gone are the days of solitude of the droplets of rain. They all come in armies now, fighting the rigid poise of our windows like there was no tomorrow. Ever since she went to bed, meaning ever since she was born, it has not stopped raining.
She wakes up, pulling a paper-thin sheet of fragile glass from her feet. Glass keeps no warmth, yet it gives her what people seek: transparency. That sheet she could so easily break represents the crush of her human spirit, with all its mysteries and shady charms. No living thing, no matter how pure, will ever be translucent.
In getting to her feet, she cracks open her own skull, inserting the cotton brains that she had put on her night-stand when going to sleep. A smiling mouth is tattooed on her face, her muscles all wired up in the mechanical effort to smile. But she feels nothing.
Behind her, there is a two-way mirror. Behind that, is a middle-aged lady who has been monitoring the cotton-brained girl for nineteen years. She pushes a lonely button, opening a door, then commands the girl to go out. The beast is thus released into the harmless wilderness, sent to go about her daily routine.
With a wry smile, the middle-aged lady takes out a file from a cabinet. It holds the records of the last traces of cerebral activity in the girl: a dream. She had dreamt that her body had crushed the glass sheet and, without using the given brains, she had set the cotton ones on fire before starting to dance around the room, finally falling dead from the exhilarating exhaustion.
The scientist snapped the file shut in anger and frustration. She took a deep breath and decided that nineteen years were nineteen too many: she would not partake in this tomfoolery anymore.
She took her badge and let it drop to the floor, walking out of the room-behind-the-mirror, leaving behind a white coat and a shard of metal inscribed: TH. SOCIETY, CHIEF BRAINWASHER.

Hymn for the Dying Poet

2008-11-15T17:46:00.002+02:00

Bullets tearing, biting claws, the words of a preacher, a lash falls. I thrash around, screaming for help, my hair gets caught in the teeth of a kelp. A fireman rushes past me, a bird in his hand. I smell the sugar, I taste bland. And my face is painted by the fingers of the earth, and the sonnets of my infancy reverberate, as the chrinocles of my deeds are being written and the sky of my youth is lit. My mother, my father - all are away, and I unconsciously seek the road to take me astray. My words flow with the lightness of feather, dangling on my lips, smelling of heather. I could pour my soul into this cup, yet who would drink it and not throw up? I'm green inside, blue on the tips of my long lost fingers and my strange, bare lips. Unerringly so, in my place I shall stand, along with the crowd, I'll eat the sand. The water will leave me, the green will fade, my hair will settle, my teeth go gray. Your purple nose will fall off, too, leaving your orange bones to turn into goo.
Does one wonder anymore, why we fear the eyes that prejudice bore? What's coarse and small will not be given attention at all, as that which is incomplete. To be boring and accepted, a beast must find its way into the bush that hides them all.
And, yet, I wonder, when my turn will be to crawl, after the crowd has maimed my pleading call. When my song hears the approach of its death, may it hide within me and feed the red. May you be forever spirit, flowing darkly by the minute. May we be unclear, the mystery, to turn their small lives blissfully.
I release you, with my young powers, from the menacing threat of the aging hours. Fly, sing and speak, become not one of the meek. For in our destiny true tales await - the world has never seen something so great!
So take my hand, and let us jump from this cliff - watch out for that stump - and let us escape the wiff of an elderly land. For only airborne will we be free, with the groping hands of normality far behind you and me...

My Trial Transcripts

2008-11-15T17:24:00.001+02:00

I have just entered the plea for "not guilty".
Charges: becoming another dummie with a blog.
Motive for attacking the plaintiff, also known as "a Blog": i was bored, and needed a place to store my ideas other than my comp, which is already overloaded with temporary files.
Sentence: keep on writing till you die (I actually find a masochistic pleasure in that).
Date of execution: starting NOW.
Any last words: Welcome to the jungle.