petals are lonely fingertips reaching out to you...
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accurately's LiveJournal:
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| Thursday, March 27th, 2008 | | 3:14 am |
plagued by somnolence, but i barely notice cause this city's dust in my wake that is to say, i'm on my way searching/looking for the closest paradise | | Sunday, June 11th, 2006 | | 4:22 am |
Everybody thinks they’re a writer these days. I don’t think about it anymore, I just write. You could say these are my memoirs, but I prefer to think of it as a series of events reconstructed, reinterpreted and remembered the way I choose to. I guess that’s basically the same thing. I I was born in the St. Mary’s, conceived in a Motel 6. Life always returns to where it began. I’m nervous and restless in the back of a cab on my way downtown. My fingers trail along a crease in the sweaty leather of the backseat. Intercity, urban, local, everything is a blur as we rush by. Me and this man I’ve never met, who I’ll probably never see again. He shares a moment so intimate he barely understands. Anyway, as I was saying, he drops me off a few blocks from the hotspot. There’s a song stuck in my head, like the kind you can listen to non-stop all night without realizing. Here comes the rain again... Raindrops fall on my cheeks, eyelashes, and I cover my head. The soundtrack to my life would include Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Clark Gable. I wish I’d been born before WWII so I could’ve experienced the birth of our modern world as we know it. They say that’s when plastic surgery exploded. Trench warfare, a lead facial. Doc’ll stitch you up right. Anyway, as I was saying… He drops me off a short walk from anywhere, everywhere. My sneakers scrape along the sidewalk, leaving my invisible footprints. No one will ever know where I’ve been. They say they did it so nobody would be an outcast. Fuck, I’m sure they all still looked like monsters. A lot of today’s survivors end up that way. They say it gives you some sort of high. Do you think it was the same back in the age of Fred and Ginger? A lead facial, do you think it was erotic in a smoky, black sort of way? Sometimes I wonder if it got them off, the bullets and gunpowder and boom boom, get the fuck down. It must’ve been inevitable, the dampness in their muddy crotches, ducked in the trenches, a fucking lead facial... I cough, clear my throat. It’s getting darker and colder with each step I take, though the building is much closer than it was five minutes ago. The great sign blinking in the distance advertises free internet, girls girls girls, XXX, relief. You’d think I was in fucking New York, and not downtown Quebec. What’s the difference anyway. My hands cup around a flickering flame, mortal and ephemeral. It fades just as I inhale, breathing life into a cigarette. I thank my mother for all I know including: how to argue, how to cry, how babies are made, that a wooden spoon can break if enough force is applied to its target, what the inside of a hospital smells like, how to count to ten in Spanish, that life is hopeless, and nothing is worth the pain of childbirth. It’s like she coughed and there I was, red and sobbing, lying in her arms. But I’m sure it wasn’t like that at all. I’m getting off track, I know. So I’m smoking and walking and it’s like BOOM and night is everywhere. Birds are asleep, as are children, old people and possibly my roommate. I could really care less. Yeah, I’m sure it turned them on. The puffy swollen, soft texture of their flesh after a good nip ‘n tuck. I know I’d want to fuck myself after. I stop, giggle and let smoke escape my lips in swift waves, little tendrils, wisps. My night was far from over. | | Saturday, June 10th, 2006 | | 12:52 am |
I lie about everything because everybody lies to me. | | Wednesday, May 24th, 2006 | | 9:45 am |
The city is covered in paper, paint and promise. I was born in the St. Mary’s, conceived in a motel 6. Life always returns to where it began. I loosen my tie, smiling nervously at the girl beside me. Her hair is too high and her lips are too rouge. She smiles quickly before looking back out the window at a world full of promise, patience, pathological liars, and some other P words… Hundreds of advertisements decorate the walls of building after building, after… garage sales, concerts, babysitters, prostitutes, old movie show times – everything from Footloose to Jumanji. Colours are exaggerated; bright blues, greens and reds. A single piece of white paper sticks out like a sore thumb. WANT TO OPEN YOUR EYES? The rest is a blur as I zoom by, headed for an older part of town. There was more, I’m sure of it, but what? | | Tuesday, May 23rd, 2006 | | 10:35 am |
Open the fridge door, close it. It’s empty. You weren’t that hungry anyway. You wonder: is it a philosophical principle or one of a more scientific nature? You can never truly determine that something does not exist – you can dig down to that 99.99% or even further, but you can’t ever be entirely sure. That is, until now. You blink, close your eyes. You are once more a blank canvas, the world an exquisite palette. You can choose the larger breasts, thinner waist you’ve always wanted. Life begins at conception, so you’d better get your foot in the door before it’s too late. Time is evaporating so we might as well float on with it. The secretary’s pantsuit matches the wallpaper. You blink, close your eyes. | | Sunday, May 21st, 2006 | | 1:34 am |
If self improvement is masturbation (as Tyler Durden once said), then we all must be sex addicts. But our self improvement is really self destruction, which Tyler suggests is 'the answer', so what are we?  | | Monday, November 7th, 2005 | | 7:09 pm |
It feels like it's been years. Function. Purpose. Raison d’etre. An empty apartment and a precious, sweet little girl. Open your eyes. Spinning tables and speeding trains; skyscrapers towering over the population like modern monsters. Gojira and King Kong. Computers and cell phones and a touch of blind optimism. Women tapping keys and asking you if you’d just think about making a donation at least. Much has changed since the days of Joseph and Mary. The little girl smiles, giggles and reaches her tiny hand out towards you. Her fingers graze your cheek; they’re warm. You think to yourself: function, purpose, raison d’etre. One day she will learn these words for herself. For now, she warms your heart as you warm hers. She rests against the denim of your jacket, wrapped up in a thin blanket like some sort of sleeping butterfly. A day when robots aren’t such a fantasy anymore, and pacemakers come with a free Big Mac. One day she will learn these things for herself. Soon enough, you think to yourself. Soon enough. Function. Pull on your uniform and wipe that grin off your mug, before I wipe it off for you. Fifteen hours a day, wooden dolls handmade and hand painted by the ‘artisans’. No one knows how this happened. You only listen because you like the story behind it all, not the cold hard facts. You want to know about the little girl whose family can’t afford shoes. You want to know about the man with eleven children, who work for little more than a cracker every now and then. A laughing girl boards a bullet train, waving farewell to her friends. Little does she know Gojira has already decided her fate. The fate of everyone involved, really. There will be a programming malfunction, and the train will basically self-destruct. There will be no survivors. Everyone weeps for her; a girl with so much potential. But time passes and time heals even the deepest wounds, or so they say. | | Sunday, July 10th, 2005 | | 2:44 pm |
an old story without a name
ian kavorkt and the grandfather clock pt i. expedition 1889 pt ii. richard's broken spyglass pt iii. lady luck ------- the time traveler's story will be told within the next month. | | Tuesday, June 21st, 2005 | | 11:12 am |
I irascible, camarilla, nepotism “Lina has never met her brother, and only occasionally sees her grandparents.” “Her chestnut brown hair comes down in chemically enhanced curls.” II the encounter “this weirdo who thinks he’s a cowboy” “I’m sorry, I'm sorry.” III a tear in the fabric of time; re-acquaintances “The scene suddenly became a field, with dandelions and daisies, birds and butterflies.” “The little girl reached her hand out to touch the boy, and suddenly felt the flesh of her arm tearing apart to form little gashes.” “Somehow she was happy.” IV alice and the tunnel “ What is there to be scared of when I’m with you? I’ll protect you… I’ll protect you…” “Suddenly, it dawned upon the girl that her real name was Alice.” Please take the time to fill in the blanks. The reunion of Alpha and Omega beckons. | | Friday, June 10th, 2005 | | 5:13 pm |
He tore through the book like a captive would run through a forest, pushing aside the foliage, trying to get as far away from them as possible. The eyes of his predecessors stared at him, taunting him, begging him to tear the book apart just a little more. They were laughing at him, he was sure of it. That was why he had to find it before it was too late. By now his sweat was coming down in bucketfuls. His shirt was soaked, apparently, but he didn't seem to notice. Suddenly, he stopped. The room remained silent; not even his asthma induced coughing had dared to defy his conscience. The pages had ceased to turn. Sweaty palms were grasping the book, spreading its pages apart to expose his target, his goal, his treasure. ΔxΔp ≥ h Oh, how this uncertainty brought such comfort to his anxious mind. | | Thursday, April 14th, 2005 | | 11:22 am |
You awaken; the sunlight drifting aimlessly across the bed sheets. The sun has also awoken, but lacks the disfunction of procrastination. Sighing, you exchange bedclothes for work clothes, as you do every morning. The clock reminds you of your responsibilities. There is a little boy in the next room who doesn’t understand the sun’s logic. So, you must teach him the ways of the working man. Hopefully, one day he will climb the corporate ladder as you once did. Or maybe he won’t. Either way, he still needs the guidance that his mother refused to offer. You knock on his door lightly, edging it open. A little boy lays asleep, bundled up in his covers decorated with airplanes. He looks like an angel, but you don’t believe in angels, do you? He’s just a little boy who isn’t ready for the World yet. Soon enough, you remind yourself, soon enough. Entering the room, you place your hand on his back. “Giovanni... it’s time for school,” you whisper gently into his ear. His breaths are weak and soft against the pillow. You know that he won’t answer you, that he won’t utter a word. In fact, you fully expect that he won’t speak for the entire day. He never does, really. He hasn’t in a long time. The teachers blame you, tell you to deal with it. We aren’t trained to deal with things like this, get him some professional help, Mr. Moretti. But there isn’t a quick fix. There never is, really. The little boy’s eyelids fluttered open, as he stared into his father’s eyes, pools of sorrow. But he doesn’t understand why they aren’t his mothers vibrant eyes staring back at him. Giovanni Moretti, aged seven years, climbed out of bed and exited the room. His father, Giovanni Sr., stared at the carpet for the next ten minutes. But the phone rings, and he has to answer it, doesn't he? He speaks lightly into the receiver, realizing that perhaps he is learning more from his son than his son is learning from him. It’s just your sister, who won’t stop blabbering at you about one thing or another. You tell her you have to go, and hang up before she can protest. The boy climbed into the passenger seat of his father’s vehicle; his large, once curious eyes fixed on the dashboard. A feeble attempt is met without response, “Are you excited about school today? Mrs. Brown tells me that you are having a field trip soon,” you say to him. But he doesn’t reply; he never does, really. You make the familiar stops without thought. The gas station, the newspaper stand, until you reach his elementary school. Knowing that his classroom is more easily reached by the side door, you ease the vehicle towards such an entrance. The boy climbed out of the passenger seat, dragging his backpack on the ground beside him. It was a pathetic sight, and you were sure that many parents were watching him as he pushed the doors open weakly, entering the weathered building. He hadn’t cared much for school lately, really. You were sure that you were to be the topic of gossip for the teachers yet again, today. The foreign car made it’s way to it’s destination smoothly, without having to stop at a single stoplight. Now you don’t know this part, but I’m going to tell the reader, anyway. Just close your eyes and ears, and let yourself drift asleep so you can become one with the sunlight. Just keep drifting, just drift across your empty bed dressed with dirty bed sheets. It’s sad, really. If only you lacked human flaw, as the aging sun does. But none of this matters right now. You are slowly driving to work, thoughts swimming around your head. As you park your car in the assigned spot, a little boy is staring up into the eyes of a near hopeless teacher, who is fresh out of ideas. Eventually, the recess bell rang, and the students ran out of the classroom excitedly. Giovanni Moretti, aged seven years, sat in his desk and stared at the old, worn wood. That is what he felt like, I’m sure. If it had been any other day, he might’ve ran his small hand across the wood, feeling the odd textures and noticing the many colours that it was composed of. But no, today Giovanni Moretti was too empty to use his talents. He was a smart boy, I’ll assure you. Perhaps too smart for his own good, though. Mrs. Brown was leaning back against the chalkboard, arms crossed, watching the motionless boy. She’d observed the changes in his behaviour; she knew his predicament well. Where this boy’s mother was, she really had no idea. Neither did the boy’s father, actually. The note had simply read that she was sick of everything, and had to leave. There wasn’t really much that they could do about it, though. She had left in the night, with the family’s savings. A little jar in the cupboard, decorated with finger paint and stickers, had once been full of bills and coins. Now it sat there empty, without the reassuring embrace of monetary value. The little boy coughed, and the teacher’s gaze was brought straight to his thin, small lips. He was just getting a small cold. “Giovanni, don’t you want to play outside with your friends?” Now, there were a few problems with that statement. First of all, she shouldn’t really expect an answer. A week ago he might’ve shook his head, but now he was in too deep. Secondly, the little boy didn’t really have friends anymore. They had abandoned him as his own mother had. He didn’t entertain them anymore. Was that why his mother left him? Was he not good enough? Holding back a sarcastic laugh, he continued his daily ritual. His eyes stared at the desk, at the window, at the chalkboard. It was like this for the rest of the day, until his father came to pick him up. Giovanni Moretti Sr. pushed the vehicle door open, urging the boy forward. He just climbed in, offering the dashboard his gaze, once more. His father knew this ritual well. The boy would seat himself carefully in the computer chair, turning the blasted machine on. Surely, he would spend the remainder of his day on it. His father had been tempted to remove it from the house altogether, but what would that leave the child to do? The man just didn’t want to think about that, so he let the boy have his games - his only comfort, really. The clock watched the boy, eagerly awaiting the time to strike nine o’clock. That was when his father would tell him it was time for bed, and the time keeper could finally relax. Anticipation was literally eating the contraption alive, as the numbers burned into him. An admirable, but exhausting job. Eventually the time came, and all motion within the house itself ceased. No one was awake to hear the clock sigh in relief, as the numbers held it in a comforting embrace. The next few days had played out in the same way, the both of them getting worse and worse. On the seventh day, your sister called again. This time yelling at you, demanding an answer to an unanswerable question. Why haven’t you called me? Oh, I don’t know, because I’ve been too busy with life? Because my son whom I ignore needs the attention? This time she is the one to hang up. | | Thursday, March 3rd, 2005 | | 11:03 am |
This is where the story begins. No, this is not a story of two courageous lovers who defy the odds; and no, there is no happy ending. If you are already starting to feel the need to put this book down, you should feel free to do so. This chapter starts off with a cough. A girl has been sick in bed for weeks; the doctors say that there isn’t much hope. Sadly, she doesn’t live longer than a week more. No, she doesn’t get a chance to tell her estranged father that she loves him. And no, she has never experienced her first kiss. Judith Borden was only twelve years old when she died. If you’d so kindly turn the page, then I’d tell you how it all began. | | Monday, February 21st, 2005 | | 9:11 pm |
| | Sunday, February 20th, 2005 | | 5:46 pm |
Unedited Version--- So I look your way and realize something. Apparently I miss you even when we're in the same room. Or perhaps it's more so that I miss who we were together. I, an innocent girl - aspiring writer; you, a man discovering himself through slow bouts of self-exploration. Or maybe I missed the way we spoke with one another, our conversations and the way the words rolled off of our tongues so easily. How I didn't need to stutter or slur the incessant phrases you encouraged me to mumble. When our conversations didn't always end with a smirk and a swift smack to my behind. When we were equals, and I could tell you how I felt, and you wouldn't reply with a sarcastic retort that felt like a slap to my face. I didn't feel nervous around you. I suppose we weren't the best of friends, but we were close, perhaps in many more ways than we are now. I suppose the fact that our bodies fit together like jigsaw pieces isn't an appropriate reason to let them stick together like glue forever. We get the desire for others, for new things. As I feel the scent of this notebook's leather binding seeping up towards my nose, I notice your eyes are glancing my way. And it feels like someone's turned on a light and my eyes begin to burn. It's a searing pain that could only be compared to tiny needles scraping skin. Gathering my belongings, I throw a tattered twenty-bill onto the tabletop, eager to escape from your skilled mental clutches. I watch you shift in your seat, praying that you won't summon the courage, the audacity to follow me out onto the sidewalk. Maybe you forgot about me. I don't feel your familiar hot, sticky breathe against my neck as I plunge out into the winter air. Relief. Maybe you were eyeing the voluptuous redhead in the booth adjacent to mine. Maybe I was already jealous. And maybe my thoughts began to swim around in my head so quickly that I began to feel lightheaded. The only thing I knew was that I needed you - one way or another. Though why, I asked myself, did it have to be in such a crude, emotionless way? It was of course the only way that you wanted it anymore. Did I like this? I sure enjoyed it while it was happening, but afterwards I always felt guilty, used. Was this healthy? Apparently I miss you even though you hurt me more than anyone else ever could. I need to cool off, just relax and take in the winter air that saved me from you. Your name was Arthur; fifteen years my senior with a beautiful smile. I could venture to guess that this was what first drew me to you. A year ago I attended one of your classes at the community college. You were brilliant, you still are - why you had settled down in such a small, hopeless town was still a mystery to me. With my entire being I sincerely believe that you could be anywhere or anyone you wanted to be. A professor at Harvard; a writer rivaling the idolized King. You were the finest writer I'd ever met, and I'm sure that you always will be. You'd waited until the schoolyear had ended to approach me. It was at the blossoming of summer that you first flashed me that infamous smile. I couldn't resist you; how could anyone? I told myself that I wasn't about to be the first girl to deny you herself. Thus, I dove right into you. We spent that entire summer well immersed in one another; we discussed everything from philosophy to music to sex. It was the latter that soon dominated our conversations. Our entire lives, perhaps, for a number of weeks. But eventually, even the most esteemed psychologist would have to argue, I felt the need to pull myself away from you. And this I did - we didn't speak for nearly two months. I wouldn't answer your calls, your persistant smutty love letters I received via the post. I avoided you at all costs. I even strayed from my preferred coffee shop during the length of all of this; for I knew that you would linger there awaiting my swaying hips to enter through the old wooden door. But one day in mid-autumn, I am not sure what possessed me to return there. In all honesty, I longed for your calming smile and your strong hands and maybe it was well worth it. You saw me, but pretended you didn't. You didn't want me to know how eager you were to see me. I spent that entire weekend in your bed, my knees still nearly collapse from underneath me when I think about it. This is a cycle that has been repeating itself for nearly a year, and I am sure that there have been other girls squeezing their tiny figures into your eyesight, into your bedroom within this time. You were just playing the same part you had been all along, you were teasing me with the memories of your soft lips and your open arms and forgiving nature. You were grinning as I walked out of the coffeeshop; you knew I'd be back soon enough. We were both well accustomed to this dance. There is another journal in my bag, the one where I documented our adventures together. It's full now though, so I took it upon myself to purchase another journal, the one that I am writing in right now. It's bound tightly with smooth, soft brown leather. Almost identical to the one you'd purchased for me, the one which is filled with sexual fantasy and emotion. The one which was meant for the book I was writing. But I got distracted; I get distracted quite easily. By your grin, the way you walk, the coarse whiskers of your cheeks... And the only question I have for you is, "Why are we so distant?" | | Monday, February 7th, 2005 | | 10:28 pm |
A Falling Man - An Interlude
And as I feel myself falling at a quickening pace, and soon begin to realize my deepest and darkest secrets. Lately I have been finding myself feeling the simple desire to live, and experience all that may be experienced on such a vast planet as our earth. I find myself seeking knowledge in all forms and flavours, for knowledge in itself is the guiltiest pleasure of all that I possess. The desire to know everything and all that my eager mind may possibly sustain. Such a mind often dwells upon the slim chance that the blankness between life and death (and/or possibly sleep and awakening); purgatory, the tunnel; may be observed by human eyes in my own time. Perchance the ability to manipulate this, to use the time or space between two points for my own personal advantage or pleasure. At first, this may seem a greedily impossible task to be imposed on a single man, or any number of men for that matter. But through many nights of careful calculations I have come to the conclusion that it may (through some stroke of luck or science) be possible to delve deep within the human mind (or soul if you so wish to imply); in fact I am nearly positive in my assumptions. This, I've come to realize, is the only solid reason why I have grasped onto this fragile tree limb to cease my descent. If I actually possess the means of psychological (or religious, if you will) travel, why ever would I desire to halt the progression of such a pseudo-science in our modern age. Earth, I've pondered, may only be a resting ground until we are chosen for our deliverance to a truly greater place. Or perhaps Earth is where we shall feel our most realistic pleasures - this journey to 'purgatory' as I shall call it - may in fact be a hellish journey and nothing more. Does one rest in this eternal waiting room, does he/she choose their next path; is it a number of doors any human may choose from? If so, does this mean that it is not a solid choice: Heaven or Hell? One may truly end up in a place where they should be engulfed by flames and forced to work day and night, with no rest, no nourishment and everlasting torture? I daresay I am fully and entirely right in the latter theory. Yet, if my previous theory (first mentioned in this paragraph) is correct, then is it not possible for one to alter their own eternity? Is it possible to enter this 'Heaven' - or whatever your religion (or lack thereof) may authorize you to call it - of one's own accord? Although entirely debatable, I feel that I must stick firmly to my beliefs and/or theories until the day comes that I am proven wrong. This may be through the experiments I shall conduct, or through the conclusions another scientist brings forth to me. Though, in all modesty, I should be sufficiently surprised if another scientist (of any sort) could prove a similar, or perhaps deviating theory to contrast my own. Just an interlude of jumbled thoughts until I may regain my composure, along with my breath, and climb back up the height of this damned mountain... | | Thursday, February 3rd, 2005 | | 5:18 pm |
The piano alone composed this symphony. And this is why we are destined to burn together. I awoke one cloudy morning to find my apartment in shambles. The ghost had finally found his way to the piano. Scattered across my floor were many pages, and many notes. Pages that had once been blank, notes that had once been only symbols gossiped of. And so I rearranged these pages, and these notes in many ways. I struggled until they played off the page in an endearing way. And then I placed the pages in a formidable fashion atop the piano and bent my wrists. But the familiar melody started before my fingers had even reached the keys. And this is why we are destined to burn together. And as I hear this melody played again and again, I feel my mind dragging me towards these piano keys, and my heart pulling me away from your photograph. Now my thoughts are swaying me in a direction that I don't care to seek. But I need to serenade you one last time before this apartment burns down. I need you to hear this symphony that I've composed for you before we burn together. And so I cleared my throat in a formidable fashion and bent my wrists. But the familiar melody started before my fingers had even reached the keys. It was loud and it was violent and I'm sure that it could be heard throughout the entire apartment complex. But my neighbours had grown tired of complaining; or perhaps my thoughts were so jumbled that I simply could not hear their unpleasant complaints anymore. My fingers shook above the alabaster keys in a confused dance. My pressed suit became a mess of wrinkled fabric hung upon my flesh. And I'm sure that you knew I was a fake by then. You lifted the screeching kettle and you threw it in my face. And sadly this is why we are destined to burn together. The student, the ghost, the insanity. One way or another. | | Tuesday, February 1st, 2005 | | 4:58 pm |
I put on my suit. I had to get out of this apartment. And then I entered an old bakery. But I couldn't eat while I was feeling like this. And then I got to thinking. One way or another, I was going to rid myself of this piano and the ghost that came along with it. This was a reality that I was doomed to face. I ran home in a hurry. The piano remained untouched. The familiar melody started before my fingers had even reached the keys. The tears fell. It was as if a river drained itself through my eye sockets. The shallow water was slowly rising. Before long, I was up to my knees in regret - my waist, my chest, my cracked lips. I couldn't drown like this. No, I couldn't die this way. It wasn't meant to end this way. I never really learned how to swim. Being thrown headfirst into a lake doesn't teach you how to live a healthy life. It doesn't make you brave, or confident, or desirable. I haven't gone near water since my 10th birthday. My father hasn't even tried to make me. Each time he dwelled on this thought, he would be reminded of the heart wrenching screams of a ten year-old boy. His lungs soaking up the regret until they could soak no more. You just waste your days away in a restroom, ridding yourself of regret. The uncalled girlfriends, the broken promises, the unfinished symphonies. And this is how I waste my days away. With a finger down my throat and the piano in the next room. And then I got to thinking. Perhaps the piano would drown with me. One way or another. | | Monday, January 31st, 2005 | | 6:33 pm |
I was wondering why the sky looked so gray today. But then I realized that the hues and tones had left my vision quite a long time ago. And then I realized that the vibrant colours had been traded for dimly lit figures. Dimly lit people, not quite strangers to a place like this. And then my fingers swayed with the motion of the clouds; it wasn't long before I was back to where I had started. And then my fingers met the piano keys. I played a song that lasted all through the night. The neighbours complained; what they wanted was not a symphony. When I slept I had the strangest of dreams. I dreamt that we were flying hand in hand through an open sky. The clouds had parted to let us through. And then my fingers intertwined with your own fingers, tighter than ever. And then I awoke in a deep sweat, my arms were at my sides and the piano remained untouched. I couldn't fall back asleep. Before long winter's icy charm had swept over the town. The piano remained untouched. I couldn't play while I was feeling like this. Every morning I woke up to a world devoid of colour, patience and forgiveness. All I had left was a number of scattered shades. Black, white, gray in all unnerving forms. I was fighting not to become one of the strangers I so despised. But I knew that sooner or later the light that filled my apartment would diminish almost entirely. I would stare at my dimly lit piano all day and all night, and my fingers would sway with the motion of the falling snow. And then I remembered something I had been told long ago by someone dear. I chuckled for the first time in years. One fateful morning I awoke to the sound of girls talking. I attempted to seclude deeper within myself, but they broke down my door and pried open my chest. They released my emotion in all its hopeless forms. I lay an empty shell on my own bedroom floor. I, a man of nearly 25 years, stripped of pride in all noticeable forms. My enemies were my only friends. I offered them a cup of tea; they threw the kettle in my face. And then my fingers slammed against the piano keys. I played a song that lasted all through the afternoon. The critics complained; what they wanted was not a child's sonata. My feeble voice in all it's former glory was not a compliment to the tapping of my shoes and the banging of my fists. And then I awoke in a deep sweat, my arms were at my sides and the piano remained untouched. I couldn't sleep while I was feeling like this. And in the end, my fingers never could reach high enough to feel the smooth alabaster of those piano keys. | | Sunday, January 30th, 2005 | | 7:41 pm |
she opened her window to let the flowers bloom in awkward ways an entertainment for days spent alone in a room with not much more than a microphone and she expressed herself in awkward ways which would be the beginning of a career overseas now we reminisce and stare at her photo and her voice reminds me of... oh, i don't know maybe an old friend, maybe my own mother but it's probably someone else altogether she opened her door to let a man enlighten her in awkward ways and this is why we say, she was just going through a phase | | Saturday, January 29th, 2005 | | 8:21 pm |
I am sorry my promise hasn't been fulfilled as of yet. But now, I speak to you as another human being. I am not a robot, I am not a scholar, I am not some sort of villain. And I feel sick for a world where expressions aren't fed with the same interest as emotions. It's tragic; there is no one/nothing to lean on in a windowless apartment. A place where the vermin outnumber the occupants. But I'm sure, a girl will skip a step and fall onto a sidewalk soon enough. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. -- The way fingers prick like needles.  |
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