Another demarcation of time. (click) Another month has slipped beneath these fingers. Sand. All of it. I feel like flying off into the sky, out into the heavens. I want to take tea in the light of Sirius, and have an evening stroll on Europa. I'd go diving from the cliffs of Neptune and swim in Venus' gaseous atmosphere. Stretch my wings that have been given to me. This will work only once though. It's like I said earlier. Or never said. My days are still stretched thin between sleepless nights and unhappily bright mornings. Everything is happening too soon.

The moon pulls viciously at my flesh. It is gravid, must be bled to continue these treacherous days and nights scheming for the dreams of babes. Twenty-third cycle has been completed around the day star. I find myself content with the simple things in life. I need not what my society has been told to give me. Now, hopefully, I can keep it in my head that all things are transient, especially humans. These are my wings. I use them to travel and understand, but most of all I use them so I can learn what and who I am.

Trips are always a good thing. No horrid memories about arduous family trips long summers past. We never traveled together, well.. at least not as far as, say, a half day's drive. I have traveled, courtesy of a marching band, chamber ensemble, raving cannibals.... friends.. that type of thing. One of the oddest ones might be coming up. One car, five people, one Anime Robot, one day. Oi. So... being the designated driver ^_^ I am left to my own devices not for long, I have ferrying to do.. Perchance this is what The Ferryman of the Styx feels like.

Insensitivity isn't always the best way to approach things. But, sometimes one does not notice the delicate nature of the situation. I arrived today with egg on me.. literally. Fine and happy mood, but then someone decided to launch an uncooked egg, (chicken ova) through the open window of my car. After several seconds of confusing darkened feet I realized that it had splattered me, the dash of my car, and sent me over a delicate edge of unhappiness and rage. I dislike this time of the month, moon be damned. Awaiting the reprisal? The gravid one has been bled.

Ah, art as therapy. First the hair, purple and blond to blue and blue. Then the hands.. flesh to blue and everything I touch turns as well. Then my arm... black of marker and swirls, wings, lines... bars. spiral down. Solid colours. Fading all out into greys and whites, blacks. Newsprint in a foreign language. Clouded words, smudged by a sweaty palm as the man runs down the street after his connecting bus, desperate for the chase of a missed opportunity. Perhaps talking or drugs will lift me out of my spiral? I don't know, but something is going down.

I can't reject people.. or let them down. I have trouble with rejections myself. I don't know how not to give a cold shoulder. Perhaps I'm just sending vibes out that say "I don't want you here, go away please." or "I don't want to deal with this so I'll pretend that nothing is happening." Waiting for my repetitive stress injuries to kick in so I can wander around in a drug-induced haze. I can't believe that I'm actually leading people on. Well. That's what it feels like. I just want the truth, but can't even say it myself. argh.

Who would have thought blood technician would have sparked a conversation about internet porn whilst a drawing of blood was happening. Quite humourous, this. Especially because he kept on talking about such things. You can fool people if your skin is slightly tinted blue. It makes you look pale.. not a cool thing to be at a blood drive. Heh. If I wasn't as a fair as I am there is some concern for the lack of pigmentation. Ah well..snarky people :P Tweaking with people's minds is never fun at their expense, but it's thrilling when you actually do it.

Touch. Physical contact. It's something I've lacked more often than not, and I'm not happy about it. Unfortunately I've become paranoid of the same thing. Caught. Ah well. Perhaps pain can not diminish the want. It certainly is touch, but because it hurts you mix it into some sort of pleasurable sensation of the two. Ah, well.. blood and tears, the twain shall meet and I will laugh with pain and delight, the same time. Encapsulated in air and smoke. Arrival awaited by dragons and mischievious bored imps. My pathways are blocked, I must destroy that which hinders me... Perhaps.

Isn't a touch enough? Having spent so much time wishing for contact, I can not function beyone such an event. Always wanting to be distracted so I can disregard the actions all around. Hypereality is a feeling when you become so engrossed in an activity that all else is disregarded, blocked out. Not so. This is not what I feel. Please. White me out. I'm so pale anyways. It would blend in "Because so much is riding on this," Totally new? No, it isn't. Entertaining ideas, yes. Realistic, yes. Feasible for me, perhaps not. Bruises coloured beautifully. Blood, ah, yes.

Shadows creep in, washing over me. The pain I leave behind is greater than the love I produce. These lies I believe to no end. I cannot stand myself, yet I am not cruel for it pains me to bring this to others. Ideas I cannot understand, so they are dismissed as heartless actions. Fates have driven what has come to pass. Ancient dust of souls breathed in for my pinnacle of destruction, distraught, unbelief. Is it these things that make me normal? Others believe that there surely must be something wrong. Times like these I feel normal. It hurts.

Red tipped stylus, Has what transpired been fated to pass? Caught in a web, the shadows creep in.
I think the good book is missing some pages, Thank you.. Tori Amos. Oft I have spoke these words.. Perhaps too often, always silent. Critics of a faith are not particularly listened to here. Sorrow. Just a possibilty of something else waited for a spell too long, Too hard. I ache.
When you go you'll ask: Which one of us do you believe is the beloved? Which one is the beloved? just listen to me breathe, but that proves nothing.

compassion
sorrow for the sufferings or trouble of another or others, accompianied by an urge to help; deep sympathy, pity
honesty
the state or quality of being honest; specif., (a) honor (b) a refraining from lying, cheating, or stealing; a being truthful, trustworthy, or upright (c) sincerity; fairness; straightforwardness
cruelty
the quality or condition of being cruell inhumanity; hardheartedness 3 willful infliction of physical pain or suffering upon a person or animal, or of mental distress upon a person
silence
the state or fact of keeping silent; a refraining from speech or from making noise
pain
love
tears
air

Unsure. Timidity. These things I do not want to hold on to. I have lived in fear of such thing for too long. I must escape. I build the walls and I will be the one to knock them down (courtesy written by R.E.M.) I want to be reminded of what it is to be alive without fear. Why have I shackled myself to such things? I have hindered my progress for so long that I can no longer venture out steadfastly. The world crashes about my ears and the only way out is down. black, shadow, pain, tears, air....

sorrow

1 mental suffering caused by loss, disappointment, etc.; sadness, grief, or regret 2 that which produces such suffering; trouble, loss, affliction, etc. 3 the outward expression of such suffering; mourning; lamentation 4 earnest repentance

tears

1 a drop of the salty fluid secreted by the lacrimal gland to lubricate the eyeball, kill bacteria, etc.: in humans, tears my flow for emotional reasons due to the tightening of muscles near the glands 2 anything resembling this, as a drop of transparent gum; tearlike mass 3 [pl] sorrow; grief

In too deep, it's the climb out that hurts, not sliding down.

What price should a friendship or love hold? All things come with pain, and great joy. In balance they serve each other well. But when one overwhelms the other things can go awry, causing destruction and sorrow. Endings are as tumultuous as beginnings. Sometimes starting things up is scarier than the actual end. Open, close. Prelude, Finale. Words carry so much weight, expressions doubly so. All of this is for what purpose? At least I know that I'm alive. I can honestly say that my emotions, for the most part, are intact. -This- is what life is..... a tear. Blood.

Ah, gentle caress. Winds glide across my skin. I float up and beyond, transcending all that this world has wrought. The sight of a smell, the taste of a sound, synaethesia. A process in which one type of stimulus produces a secondary, subjective sensation, as when some colour evokes a specific smell. Dreams arise, rememberances old of spice shops, dusky interiors thick with sage, rosemary, cinnamon... The creak of an old wooden floor, swept daily with a hard bristled broom. Windows sheeted over in plastic with rudimentary greenhouses, sheltering organically raised produce under heat lamps. Dust. Wind. Simplicity and happiness.

A step taken back, a step regained. Hope does amazing things for people. Tracks of tears are still felt, some self induced. A great glimpse into the beyond brings me hope, light, life. I know that thing will change, some for the better. It's the lighter times I hope for, darker times are always expected though. The ruins of the things I cast upon myself have yet to sink in and truly take hold. I will feel it someday, down the road, caught unawares. Brief caresses of pain and sorrow, drifting on the wind. Here we rest our heads, today.

These things I cannot purge from my mind. Self-doubt, loathing, anger, distrust. These things I struggle to hold onto. Love, honesty, happiness, delight, joy, laughter. These things I try to destroy. Myself, and others. Many times my lists get confused, causing me to lash out at the things I hold dear and hold in the things I hate. Vexing and tiresome this is, especially because I try to make everyone happy, and forego those same principles myself. I ache for other people, just a simple touch, but I make things impossible for myself. Ultimately, it is I who is hindered.

Falling between the cracks. The chills are setting in, I sit languidly by... hoping for a change. Action taking is not something I'm prone to do. Some days, when it is forced out of me...I make all decisions (hate). Imminent danger sweeps by, I stare out the window, wanting to be somewhere else. They drift by, waving hands in front of faces... hoping for some sort of twitching response, anything physical. Memories of freak, wierdo. Perhaps I strive for these things to make my reality a kind that waves its hand in front of my face once in a while.

Violently alone.
Perhaps this is disturbed... I know not. Violent... catagorized as 1(a) acting with or characterized by great phyiscal force, so as to injure, damage, or destroy (b) acting or characterized by force unlawfully or callously used 2 caused by violence 3 (a) showing, or resulting from, strong feeling or emotion; vehement; furious (b) emotionally disturbed to an uncontrollable degree 4 extreme; intense; very strong 5 tending to distort the meaning

So close. Near to me is this. I am vexed by such behaviours I exhibit. I am powerless to stop them. Meaningless words are poured out for this.

There are silences that are comfortable. They feel like they belong. Easily found in a library, churches, museums, graveyards. Grounds that are hallowed, for rememberances of things bygone. Silence can be felt. The uncomfortable moment where no one is speaking, words are not found. You can feel the tension between.... the space and time. Everything sinks in. Distances are not breached by silence. It only serves to distort. I cringe from these things. Running through the field I find trinkets and baubles lost in my childhood, come to rest in a landing spot for others. Beyond. Shirtwaist Fire. burning hairs?

Confounding. Amazement. What strangeness be this, where I can tilt my head and see into the stars? I have yet one thing to say to all of you. I have not come to perish, to rot away underground. There are things that must be conquered while I still breathe. Man needs his own private space, "rightfully" his. Possessions are numbered, I feel the need to cast them away. Make room for space and my mind. Not of this earth I crave. Sit back, enjoy these times. She had collapsed at the bed, muttering all that has been placed down before.

Years hence, I see melted hills of sand. Me staring into a glory hole, spinning my cane of the blowpipe, blowing glass, shattering crunch under feet. Smell of sweat and work greasy hands

Perhaps a maker of mirrors. Those curious things, silvered backs Fire tracking, bouncing lights off of my "multicoloured mirrors" affixed to what, hobnail boots? I know not of these boots anyways. I'll stick to books, sandles, and tattoos.
Tie dyeing face and hands, a walking art exhibit. I accept that people have other things to do. Perhaps I'm too aloof. Stay in contact, I'm just aimlessly yammering.

I, coward. Punching holes in my own theories and paper. I prolong nothing. Enough of this navel gazing though..

I once created a page. It was all of black and green, if it were a plant it would be an old tree with vines growing up, wrapping the branches. Symbiotically living, of course. Gold-edged leaves, and bright birds to alight in its branches occasionally. Graveyards would be visible from high up in this tree. (The perfect climbing tree, no less) Out into the edges of a town, perhaps near a secluded park, forgotten by the hustle of now. Content. Relaxed.

I notice, amongst my wanderances of the day, a jar of toothbrushes, poised for cleansing. They, five of them, are placed in such a way on the bathroom counter that the heads and bristles are raised up towards the electric toothbrush purchased by an elder inhabitant. It is, perhaps, a type of idol, for the brushes. They have realized (if these inanimates could think) the awesome nature of electric brushes. And so, have devoted days to such ramblings devoted to the "god" of cleansing, the rotor brushes lauded for spherical wonders. So I have been driven to transcribe these things.

The breath of night air, I took.. glancing out through my windows into the night. So this is what it is to be a night owl. Sleeping in torrents of sweat as the day star breaches my eyelids... prying into my surreal dreams. So many of these times have been spend, waiting. Days spend waiting. Pathetic... me? yes. I must say. Lightning strikes, a deluge comes from the sky... It's raining blood. I await reprisal for my inactions, standing at the edge of a great cliff. Cellists play in the background, slowly luring me forward, over the edge. I wake.

Everything that ends begins again. Like a progression of sorts, feeding back into itself, evolving and flourishing onwards. How can you make the same song sound different twenty times over? Minutiae. Background alterations, just a bit deeper. Raise this pitch a half cent. Yes. There. The perfect resonance. Something that makes your head vibrate deliciously with tones, rich, vibrant. Colour my music, emote. The vocals of a choir as you sit amongst them. Warmer tones can be reached by altering the position of your tongue in mouth. Same goes for euphonium. The sound is shaped in your ear, and mouth.

A spectrum of light, refracting from the surface of... water? Some semi-viscous liquid creating pools of light - bouncing crazily into the cab.

I sit furiously behind the wheel, splashing along at a mundane 70 miles, ripping through backroads, feeling numb Empty...disheveled.
"We wail insane. Where were you, Jack? While we were waiting so long... dallying in the sitting room. I hold a glittered girl, breathe." Ah me. Stolen lines from a dead hand, died in ‘69. Vexed and warped tongues, splintered in anger. I roar into the wind, almost tumbling into the ravine/open wound of earth. Killed engine, doorslam.

Weaving through, over, under. Going around and enmeshing with all around. Cohesive patters arise. Knots are wonderful, but sometimes they get stuck, you can't get out unless it's absolutely destroyed. Broken knots, on the other hand.. are simple to leave, if you pull away enough and slowly until freed. Perhaps that's why there's one on my wrist...waiting to fall apart.. slip away from things. The thing that's odd about this is that it means something else everytime I look at it. Perhaps it's a mirror of life, not me. It feels right. For the others, they're in air, not ink.

Pendant on thin strands of silk, two spirits play in the wind. They frolic and dive, carress the tall grasses below with phantom hands. Chittering back and forth, the spirits are devising some mischievious fun involving the pair of young children who are wandering on the small dirt path. They strike up a brisk breeze, freeing the young girl's straw hat from its perch on her golden tresses. The girl cries of alarum bring the industrious young boy to her aid, but to no avail. The spirits have prevailed, and now hold a pretty, ribboned straw hat as their prize

Cicadas are buzzing in the trees, a languid breeze plays with the branches of an old sand birch outside my window. I can hear the death knell of a bell from some church in the town, the tone sounds of St. Mary's by the Lake, the local Roman Catholic church. Sultry, not really. Nor doggedly hot. Just an average saturn's day, during an awkward summer. Pretty soon this will be gone, I'll have leaves pooling at my feet, I'll shiver into my hooded sweatshirt and grin, I love season changes. "It's the simple things that make you smile" Dirty Vegas