I am lost, my love. I have told you so many times. Yet we can never seem to move past that certain point. You give up so quickly and I can only turn away. Why is it that we must always be caught in such a circle, such a cycle?
I cannot say why I am like this. I cannot tell you why I must always kiss your fingers and touch your lips. There are no reasons and I have not understood for such a long time.
Can you not reach out to me, beloved? Is the space that seperates us already too deep and too long to be spanned by the length of your arms? Have I fallen that far?
There are never any answers. I have done nothing. You have done less. It is as some strange play where no one quite knows their lines. The silent thunder of imagined music and the color of sunlight.
Where are you? I can't see.
Be still, darling. Let the time come as it will.
09:06 p.m. - Thursday, May 2, 2002 - [Comment?]
Bitter. The aftertaste of anger, of despair. The inability to heal or regenerate. Being caught in statis long after the rest of the world has moved on.
And all I can do is ask why.
Why do I have to explain this to you?
08:56 p.m. - Thursday, May 2, 2002 - [Comment?]
Absent. Like stains melting with the snow. I can never seem to reach quite far enough. Always elusive, just slipping from my grasp. My fingers are as water.
There is no meaning. Just endless endless searching.
06:42 a.m. - Wednesday, May 1, 2002 - [Comment?]
To see and to experience all that I can, to be and to do only what I dictate myself and not what others would expect of me. To live freely without reserve and to reach as high as possible. To overcome and surpass all barriers; to transcend the ideas of what is proper for those of my stature, to rise above all adversity. To stretch beyond doubt the knowledge and ability given to me. To free myself from constraints and limitations. Not to be fearless but to succeed in spite of fear. To accept differences and solve problems. To leave an indelible mark upon all I touch.
08:34 a.m. - Wednesday, April 24, 2002 - [Comment?]
Snow in April
"It looks like a uterus," my sister says as we watch a triangle of snow slide off the back windshield of my mother's car.
I shake my head.
"Too much sex ed," I tell her.
12:10 a.m. - Monday, April 22, 2002 - [Comment?]
There are times when I wonder if I would hurt you. If your sliding glances only hide the things you do not know. I am so quickly preoccupied with the play of light and shadow across your face. I cannot seem to focus on the shape of your sentences or the meaning behind them. I only hear the rhythm and cadance of your voice, the vibration of your throat. There is something so ethereal here, in the dark. Where the words melt swiftly on your tongue.
Speak softly, darling.
11:46 p.m. - Thursday, April 18, 2002 - [Comment?]
spectrum : crimson
He winced softly as her hands traced the lacerations on his back.
"I can heal this," she said.
He twisted to look at her, the pale hair obscuring her eyes.
"Healing is the inverse of killing. Healing would be an inversion of my power. If I can kill, I can heal." Pause. "I'm sure you don't doubt my abilities in that department."
He shook his head, silent.
"I haven't done it before. It might hurt."
Then her hands were on his back again. He shuddered at the feeling of her mind pressed against his skin, beneath his skin. It wasn't pain. It was beyond that.
Then it stopped, cut off abruptly.
"It's done," she murmured.
Her fingers trailed along his spine, then her lips. She shifted to rest atop him and he could feel her full weight, so very light. Her mouth continued slowly up along his neck.
"Cerulean," he whispered. "You're so strange."
"Does that change anything?" Breathed against his ear.
12:05 a.m. - Tuesday, April 16, 2002 - [Comment?]
There are times when I look at myself and my fragility and I am utterly repelled. Other times, I see my weak hearted attempts to push aside the dark and am only more discouraged at my lack of prowess.
I am hunting and hunting and not finding. I can't see beyond the tips of my fingers and my reach is so short. There is this vast space all around and it is empty. So empty. My breath echoes. It presses against me and calls my name. I cannot escape it.
Help me through this. Please. Please.
11:41 p.m. - Saturday, April 13, 2002 - [Comment?]
Cruelty rose in her like a black-winged bird, fluttering frantically in her ribcage. She smiled.
01:07 a.m. - Friday, April 12, 2002 - [Comment?]
A shrinking. The drawing in of the substance of dreams, the cramping of hopes. The faint echo of pain. Distant.
Wait for me. I don't think I can make it on my own.
10:48 p.m. - Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - [Comment?]
Together, yet apart. That is the nature of life, when you are close enough to share breath yet too far to see clearly. When you are closer than skin. When you are farther than sky. When the very air presses down and holds you to earth.
That is life, and perhaps it is death as well.
04:25 p.m. - Monday, April 8, 2002 - [Comment?]
The lights are low and so am I.
10:42 p.m. - Sunday, April 7, 2002 - [Comment?]
Upon seeing friends I have not beheld for long periods of time I often wonder if we are awkward because of the time apart or if we parted because we were awkward.
03:44 p.m. - Friday, April 5, 2002 - [Comment?]
Broken, the melody. The taste of defeat and the elusive color of night. When nothing is quite real and I am impaled upon amorphous lances. There are no explanations and I cannot articulate my feelings. It is just the sense of sorrow, of sadness, of things lost and passed by. The hint of beauty, just below the surface. Untouchable.
These are my wax wings. Why must they melt?
10:07 a.m. - Friday, April 5, 2002 - [Comment?]
It's a shapeless thing, vague and vast and empty. Like so many white rooms stretching out, one leading to the next. I wander through them quietly, searching for some sign of change. I never seem to find anything and I'm lost in all the sameness.
10:55 p.m. - Thursday, April 4, 2002 - [Comment?]
Spectrum : Cerulean
Ivory woke to small familiar fingers nimbly opening the buttons on the front of her dress.
"You're back?" she said quietly.
There was no answer but she could see the pale hair shining in the dark. Ivory surrended with practiced ease. Cerulean would, of course, have her way. How else would this strange creature she loved so much and knew so little behave? What else could she be?
09:55 a.m. - Thursday, April 4, 2002 - [Comment?]
Fustration: an angry spill of venom and the frantic fluttering of wings too long bound. The impatient desire to run when one can barely crawl. The inability to supress and hold still what has always been locked away.
When the dark wings flutter against my bones I am lost.
11:36 p.m. - Wednesday, April 3, 2002 - [Comment?]
And it is only times like this when I'm bleeding between the lines that I can hear your voiceless cries. The waves are beating against my ears like thunder and I know you are waiting somewhere in the depths.
I can only reach out with ink and blood, my love. There is nothing I can do.
03:41 p.m. - Tuesday, April 2, 2002 - [Comment?]
young things - possession
The drive, the need. The scent of sweat and the slide of skin. The blind passion and rising heat.
The unexpected intrusion of a displaced too-familiar sound. The casual cruel slash of his mouth as he moves away to answer the call.
The sudden cooling of interrupted skin.
10:41 p.m. - Monday, April 1, 2002 - [Comment?]
A lack of inspiration is like a gap in the soul. There is no repair and no patch capable of closing it. It's like the mythical black hole that sucks one into muffling darkness and never lets you go.
It's like drowning in the absence of light.
09:36 p.m. - Sunday, March 31, 2002 - [Comment?]
It is like music when I am drowning in silence. Intrusive yet welcome. The times when I float in the black sea only to find I cannot quite touch the water. The liquid years and paper throats.
Pages speak if given the right tongues. They will whisper and wonder in their dry little voices until you cannot stand to hear them any longer. You may cry or scream but you cannot escape them.
In the cracks between history and reality there are desirous spaces that swallow all that is forgotten. Thousands of people swim through the air there, searching for familiar faces. They find none for they can never quite remember that longed-for smile or the beloved sweep of brow and eye.
There are many kinds of chains. Some tremble and break easily and others hold for eternity. All of us are held by some of these and their natures are hidden to all but oursevles and the ones who hold us. Sometimes they are merely not noticed and worn but lightly.
The tender leaves of new growth are always overshadowed by those older and wider. The scope of potential is never fully assessed until the ability to overthrow manifests and by then it is often too late.
In time you will see, beloved.
I wish you well.
12:52 p.m. - Saturday, March 30, 2002 - [Comment?]
What is the weight of secrets? How many can one bear before succumbing to the invisible press of silence?
12:49 p.m. - Saturday, March 30, 2002 - [Comment?]
I can still taste the aftermath. Sometimes I catch memories on the tips of my fingers. It's a struggle then, to keep them from slipping away and sometimes I grasp vainly, trying and trying and all I have in the end is a faint residue under my fingernails. Precious dirt that refuses to wash away.
It builds up sometimes and then it feels like my hands are on fire. I wonder if my fingers will burn away or fall off some day, dragged down by the weight lost memories.
12:45 p.m. - Saturday, March 30, 2002 - [Comment?]
Twilight. The shivering place between day and night. The time when the shadows creep and the wind whispers. When the very air trembles with anticipation of the night.
This is when we prowl, my love. This is when we hunt.
Be still, darling. The time draws near.
05:24 a.m. - Saturday, March 30, 2002 - [Comment?]
and the dust settles
They bore him slowly to the camp, doing their best not to jar their fallen leader.
She was there to recieve them, sinking to the ground even as they laid him down. She took him, cradling his golden head in the curve of her legs.
"I - " he began, the remnants of his voice cracking.
"Hush," she said softly. "Rest, great heart. You have fought enough."
He looked up at her for a long silent moment. His eyes slid shut. She eased the lax form from her lap, stood. Dusting off her dress, she turned to face the assembled officers calmly.
"The king," she said softly, "is dead. And in his absence... I must lead."
05:09 a.m. - Saturday, March 30, 2002 - [Comment?]