Who. Melcena. 16. Oblivious.

What. Murmuring. Freewrite log. Bits and pieces of myself. The things that tease and whisper but wisp away in my grasp. The promise of things to come. Mystery.

Who is the 'beloved' I appeal to so often? A stimulus to bring on inspiration. I feel as if I speak to someone who will never exist.

Version / Archive One
Version / Archive Two
Version / Archive Three

How. Version Four. Notepad. Silkscreen and Velvet. Arial Narrow. Brushes from Brushy, Starfish, Varisnya, and nocturna.net. Shoutbox from Active Topic. Powered by Pitas.com.

elegantly wasted
dirty yaoi girls

scented // wine
imagine [ < # ? > ]
[ < ? # > ] into the void


the flight
Crying. There's always that crying. Not loud, not intrusive, but just there with the sort of finality that makes you want to back away. Background music for the third-rate drama that is my life.

I have a lot of trouble remembering whether or not it's always been like this. Long long stretches of sun-filled peace and quiet contemplation with only that gentle, endless sobbing for company. And then the escape, the wild rush, the been-there-done-that new begining. Starting it all over again.

There's always this sort of knowing that tickles at me when I start it again. It's only there for a second, and I can never quite grasp it, yet I know that that's where all my answers are. But it's strange and it's fleeting and I can't place it. It's not the breathless familiarity of a lover's skin and it's not the warm recognition that comes with the rediscovery of old well-loved places. It's only a teasing spark, a whispered touch, a half-spoken word before it's gone.

So few things are certain. Only the departure. And pretending that I don't notice you running along behind, crying all the while.
05:03 p.m. - Thursday, August 29, 2002 - [?]

Summer. The taste of a crackling blue sky. The breathless wind, a humid half-felt touch. Green green grass prickling against skin and the pure silence a soundless roar.

This is my place in the sun. This is bliss.
12:26 p.m. - Tuesday, August 27, 2002 - [?]

work in progress
Birds taking flight at dusk. That is what she reminds me of, with her dreamlike gait and startling wakefulness. The sand is white and shifts beneath her feet.
01:26 a.m. - Friday, July 26, 2002 - [?]

And it seems so, in the starved sunlight, her hair a veil, pal and translucent across her forehead. So very quiet that the air sighs as she moves. She only gestures silently, her hands like birds, movements fluid with grace. Yet her lucid eyes speak still more clearly, a latent melody. And I am strangle moved by this sylvan waif, this exiled nymph.
01:20 a.m. - Friday, July 26, 2002 - [?]

Excoriation. like a red bird at dusk. The hint of color in the whirr of wings and the trilling notes.

Happiness. Flying away.
01:48 p.m. - Saturday, July 6, 2002 - [?]

all that you leave behind
it is in the silence that the whispers come, pressing against skin like small gaping mouths. The holes they leave behind are round and smooth-edged, perfect wounds in imperfect flesh. The spaces behind are dark and lightless, as if I am hollow, filled only with an echoing lack. I long for you then. I am suffused wtih wth want of the possession of your presence. Intoxication is a drug within itself and I find your absence unbearable at these times. But I will not ask you to return, love.

Even as my restless eyes shift once again to your still-empty window, I know you are far beyond my grasp. My voice is lost long before it reaches you and we are left only that terrible, lucid silence. And it is then that the whispers devour me.
01:44 p.m. - Saturday, July 6, 2002 - [?]

The inability to let go. This is all that I have become.
03:32 p.m. - Monday, July 1, 2002 - [?]

missing persons
It's in that moment when you realize you've fallen. Far far and forever away. You cannot reach out beyond the twilight space and salvation seems to have vanished without a trace. Is it simple vanquishment or something deeper, more permanent? Is this a final judgement, a laceration from which there is no recovery? Moving through the world with a hollow chest and vacant breath. As if all the traces of the elegic and graceful have melted to litte more than bitter scraps that scratch and bleed. Twisting like live things beneath the skin.

I see you then. And all that is left are little paper packages, wet with snow.
03:06 p.m. - Monday, July 1, 2002 - [?]

to have and to hold
I am as a strange flower blooming in midnight soil. I am the sound of broken promises and hidden tears. The taste of dark mornings. All these things, my love. I am the burning beneath your skin, the shiver sliding down your spine. You cannot escape me. Your flesh has already closed around my thorns.
10:21 p.m. - Wednesday, June 19, 2002 - [?]

When I cannot seperate imagining from history, or dreaming from reality, is when I know that I have finally fallen through.

I cannot discern the edges and I cannot gauge the distance. Everything seems too far away.
12:14 p.m. - Thursday, June 13, 2002 - [?]

Beauty is like water. Ephemeral, sometimes elusive, but always there. At times it hangs in the air, like the promise of rainbows after rain. The expectance of a waiting lover.

One can never be too sure of the resiliance of others. The possible failures or down falls shift too readily beneath the feet of the unaware. Be on your guard. Be ready.

The illusion of tranquility is thin, contained within the fragility of a mirror. Strange, scintillating, siren-like. The breath of angels or demons. The faint upward curve found in the corners of satisfied mouths that says You cannot hide.

Reeds grow thick at the banks of rivers. The current is sluggish there, and warm. Paper boats leave shore only reluctantly for they know that can never return. All that is left is to sail on and away, fading into the proverbial sunset.

Time. Deceptive in it's movements. Stealthy. Seductive. One can never tell that it's gone until it's too late.
11:44 p.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

It falls away, my love, it falls away. Like scales, the blindness flakes away.

Again, I can see lines and shapes and color. I can see you. I am not bound by the haunted landscape any longer. The thorns have fallen from my eyes.

We are free, beloved. We are free.
03:45 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

You've given in. I don't need your half-coherent mumblings while you shiver and snarl in your sleep to know. It shows in the echoes of your eyes and the taste of my name on your lips. You've abandoned me, forsaken me. You've forsworn yourself.

How far apart are we now, dearest? Your trailing wings are long beyond my sight. Still, your shape lingers beneath my fingers. Your skin still beckons my breath.

Are you still waiting? Do you still yearn for my scent?

It's grown cold without you, but I am easy with the lack.
03:42 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

She is the night in the shape of a woman.

Everything about her speaks of power and she moves with the grace of a dancer, a warrior.
03:42 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

We have been so long apart, beloved. No longer do I recall the exact notes of your voice or the play of light in your eyes. My impressions are fading and I do not remember your touch.

Why are you so distant? To speak of you is to speak of the sun. Lovely and aching and beyond my grasp. The faltering image of the once well-known, dying rays on the faces of the blind.

My reach is far too short. The mirror behind my eyelinds is blank and facless.

Please do not leave me wholly. I know I cannot bear the desolation or the thirst of abandonment.

I know I am not that strong.
03:38 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

Fathomless, the depths, the color of sleep. Desireless and haunted. I know these corridors, these winding ways. The yearning wind that breathes against my flesh. The light is faint and silent. Steps that are not mine echo and reverberate through my bones. The hunter draws near. Time is shaking and frays along the edges. Vagrant tendrils brush my face like the fingers of phantom lovers. Violent air shivers and trembles between my lips. It has come.
03:36 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

I have seen the ocean. It is a restless roiling mass. The blue is depthless and shifts with the irridescense of a thousand butterfly wings. Waves rove and roar, reaching prism peaks before sinking and relinquishing their holds. Nothing is so inexorable as the tide.
02:44 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

And it is when I'm dizzy with longing that I cannot see the sky. The color is too close to their smiles for me to touch. Far beyond comprehension is the taste of stars. Years and fears melting on my tongue. Soft-spoken, melodious, and low. The piper lies still in earth.
02:42 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

In the deepening places inside myself I am often drowned in the shadows. Behind the everyday confusion outside there are silent tangling spaces within that bind me willfully. I am not able. I cannot break these self-imposed bonds nor the walls that seperate us.

I am never sure of the location of dreams. Perhaps that is where you rest.
02:40 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

We are like smoke when we drift away, my love. I have not the strength to hold myself here and I don't know when I stopped caring.

Must it always end this way? These are the words I speak endlessly and achingly. There is no escape from this place or this cycle and I have grown desperate. I know you cannot help me.

At times I wish nothing more than to sink peacefully through the waves to the deep dwelling. I do not understand the bubbling speech of fish but perhaps I can learn.

Perhaps the stars are closer there.
02:38 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

Not oft, but once. This place calls to me. It is like the song of white birds returning home. The sound of sunshine in her hair. The ambiguity of the fallen flower. Petals. Soft, but sharp.

I feel it seeping slowly into my pores. Like water, lucid and inexorable. I wonder if I will evaporate.

Vociferious. The thunder of the outpour. The tumble of words. The corners that scrape as they fall from my throat. X is a sticky letter.
02:36 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

It's lonely where you are. I am unimpressed by your suffering and I know you care as little for mine. The scars on your back are like careless graffitti. They map a path that leads nowhere.
02:34 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

Anticipation sizzles through me. It tightens my skin and makes my bones ache. I can taste fear. I can taste you.

The air is laden with your scent. It trembles with your breath. I wonder why the farther away I am, the more clearly I can see.

How are you feeling? Are you afraid? Can you hear my heartbeat?
02:31 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]

An aching, burning twist. Disorientation like water.

The soft slide to Neverland.

I am come home, love.
02:26 a.m. - Saturday, June 8, 2002 - [?]