This is murmuring. This is a place for those vagrant scraps of writing that don't seem to fit any place else. I'll be posting here often, from home and from school, with things I've scribbled or just improvising entries.

elegantly wasted

This is a temporary layout (one provided by pitas itself, with a few modifications) until I have time to make one. I might just leave it like this for a while because I actually rather like it.

scented // wet ink
[ < ? # > ] into the void

mur·mur·ing (mūrmring) n. A low, indistinct, continuous sound. (i.e the murmuring of waves)

the loading
Frentic. The pounding of panicked feet. I am helpless.

Is there no saving this poor beautiful child?
03:01 p.m. - Thursday, March 28, 2002 - [Comment?]

"You villian," she cries. Her voice is exclamatory and false.
02:59 p.m. - Thursday, March 28, 2002 - [Comment?]

paper walls
She was small and hurt, curled into the corner as if trying to gather shadows. She didn't look up at me, didn't answer.

I sighed. Sometimes, I told her, that's all you can do.
09:10 a.m. - Thursday, March 28, 2002 - [Comment?]

"She is far warmer than I, no?" He spoke softly, mockingly. The shadows danced upon his face, parts appearing and disappearing.

I turned away, shivered. He didn't understand, and I supposed he never would. It wasn't in his nature. It shouldn't have been mine.

Though I couldn't see him I could feel him smiling. I knew his teeth would seem unnaturally bright in the semi-dark.

"Stop laughing at me," I muttered.
10:16 p.m. - Tuesday, March 26, 2002 - [Comment?]

Q & A
"I'm already broken." Such calm, so cold. Her eyes were green.

"Broken." A smile. A sound that might have been brief laughter.

"Already broken." Repeated again. Fine lines spreading in the mask.

"Do you hear me?" Voice rising, twisting. Cracking.

"I'm already broken." Near screaming. Hoarse.

Pause. Defeat.

The taste of tears in her raw throat.

I've won again.

02:02 p.m. - Sunday, March 24, 2002 - [Comment?]

It was insidious, the cold. Her bare legs trembled and flashed as she ran. She could feel the air streaming past, caressing flesh and pricking bone. It didn't matter. She could feel the sun somewhere far ahead and she rushed to meet it.
11:50 a.m. - Sunday, March 24, 2002 - [Comment?]

I am hungering in this space between fear and violence. I am so hollow and the air trembles between my lips. I know I can break you. There is glass moving beneath my skin, a heartfelt migration. The voices of silent lovers are clamoring in my head. I want...
11:06 a.m. - Sunday, March 24, 2002 - [Comment?]

tenesse waltz
I watch them dancing. With a sudden flash of insight I see her as he must - with her beauty and her sorrow - and it begins to dawn on me that I may have made a mistake.

Has he not always been attracted to the tragic, the lovely? Is that not what first drew him to me, my silence, my rages, my grace? I shiver as I watch him, them. For the first time since I met him I wish I could speak. I wish I could scream. Still the sound curdles in my throat.

Ridiculously the memory memory of an arguement months past resurfaces as they revolve slowly around the room.

"You," he'd said half-accusing, "are such a man."

I'd simply looked at him, not comprehending and annoyed.

"You're not a little boy anymore. There's no one to defend you, and you've got nothing to prove. Then, with all his imperial ice, he'd turned and walked way.

When I'd finally gone to him again (I always go to him - I doubt he even realizes there is a side to supplication other than recieving), gesturing hestitantly, he'd only embraced me silently. Silent as I.

Now, as I watch this person that I've known so long with the one - the only one - I've allowed myself to love, I feel fear. I should feel guilt for doubting him. I should.

But all I feel is the hollow ring of truth, rattling inside my chest.
12:17 a.m. - Sunday, March 24, 2002 - [Comment?]

assignment: emotionally driven writing
1.) Futility = lack of motion. Lack of emotion. Lack of energy. Stop doing this to me. 2.) Want: medication. Not a cure but a treatment. A denial and a delay.
3.) Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone alone Alone ALone ALOne ALONe ALONE.
4.) Lackluster - a lack. A void. A space that needs to be filled. Me.
5.) Pain is not fear. Pain is pain. Pain is a shrinking of the soul.
6.) Hurt = recoil. A withdrawl, a drawing back.
7.) Fear is accumulated pressure. A primal driving force.
8.) Hostility: Why are you still here?
9.) Disgust - don't touch me. Don't speak to me, don't look at me. Get out.
10.) Hate is fear turned back on itself. Love is fear contained.
09:59 a.m. - Friday, March 22, 2002 - [Comment?]

The sound of falling water and the cool tiptoe touch of dew. Droplets caught in eyelash brush. The skim of blue, the sky. Like falling in slow motion. The elusive illusion of things long lost dancing in the corners of vision. Long stretches and white-capped waves.

02:01 a.m. - Friday, March 22, 2002 - [Comment?]


The sound of breathing.

He turns from the window and I see that his face is blank.

"It's all right," he tells me. "I've made my peace."
08:25 a.m. - Thursday, March 21, 2002 - [Comment?]

lavender ink
Like violet fluid / Falling gently in / HER EYES / the color of rain / and the whisper of spring flowers / relinquished / to the arms of winter / frost like lace / and buttons from pearls / the helplessness of the bud / and the strength of the circle / the coiled white stars / hiding / within the veil / of covered passions and smothered lips / soaring with clipped wings / and the two-toned tongues / of ancient fires / time is never / quiet in earth.
12:01 a.m. - Thursday, March 21, 2002 - [Comment?]

Smooth. The keys beneath his fingers. The flow of hands over music. Fragments of the outside world flashing at the edges of awareness. He felt strangely detached as he played, watching the synchronized movements of his own hands as they flew over the piano. His conciousness had narrowed to the black and white confines of the keys. He did not use music. The notes only dropped from him one by one, slowly, than more and more quickly until the melody became a frenzied pulsing roar. It echoed his frantic heartbeat.

Anger seethed in some distant place beneath his skin, trickled from his fingers, infected the savage music. His hands were violent blurs. He wondered dispassionately if the keys would bleed if he pounded them long enough, hard enough. More likely they would remain cold, immune to his raging. Perhaps he would only wear his fingers to stubs. He could not remember why it mattered.

THIS, the notes cried, SHOULD NOT BE. Merely more thunder inside his head.
11:47 p.m. - Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - [Comment?]

& even in the darkest night she knows the winged ones are singing and soaring somewhere far above. She does not understand the extant or the possible or even what was. She sees only them. In the glooming there is little and in the sunlight there is even less. She lets words run rampant and spill like blood because she can hear their song in her head and who needs words when there is the song? Nothing is requisite. From the unrepentant to the devout. In the silent space of a breath there is fire and creation and destruction. It settles shimmery-shake on leaves like silver pollen. She feels as if breathing out frees her of tiny particles of death. There is a kind of jumbled peace in desperation. Leaf-like and silver gilded she trembles in the path of the moon. Repitition brings fulfillment.
08:25 a.m. - Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - [Comment?]