Once upon a time, there was a girl. There was nothing particularly special or unique about her, but she didn't mind--she was her own person, and she was happy with that.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who fell in love with the girl in a way she had never experienced and didn't know how to react to. She accepted it, though, and tried to return it, believing in the concept of love that grows in the heart.
And also once upon a time, the girl lost herself. The boy searched for her and brought her back, and upon that same time the girl fell in love.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Chapter Sixteen: The Final Moment of Eternity
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the nigh-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
There is a clock in the room. The room is in an old, creaking, cob-webbed house as old as Father Time himself, but that's not important. What is important, however, is the window straight across from the clock with its grimy glass that no one cares to clean.
Every evening, the sunset enters this room through the window, splashing its colors across the once-new walls, repainting them with hues of dazzling red, pink, orange, and yellow--then looks at the clock. It looks at the clock, touches and embraces it and brings back the shine that its wood used to hold, way back when the man who carefully carved the intricate designs still lived. The sunset always leaves as quickly as it came, slipping silently though the same window, slithering away into the approaching night, and the clock always stays.
This is the way things have always been.
Occasionally, the moonlight will enter the room through the same window that the sunset does. Unlike the sunset, however, it does not throw itself across the room, coloring everything in its path, but stays in the same spot, emitting an unearthly ethereal glow. The moonlight is much more sporadic than the sunset, doesn't change everything to gold, and gives a sense of coldness rather than warmth, but it comes through the window anyways. Now, under the moonlight's scrutiny, the clock isn't restored to its former beauty; rather, it becomes an unreal silvery form, its own ghost. The moonlight, like the sunset, always retreats in the end, though, and the clock always stays.
It stays as days pass. It stays through the seasons. It stays completely still, even the hands on its face unmoving, not recording the passage of time. And there it still stays, stuck forever in the final moment of eternity.
A poem should not mean
But be.
Ars Poetica written by Archibald MacLeish.
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the nigh-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
There is a clock in the room. The room is in an old, creaking, cob-webbed house as old as Father Time himself, but that's not important. What is important, however, is the window straight across from the clock with its grimy glass that no one cares to clean.
Every evening, the sunset enters this room through the window, splashing its colors across the once-new walls, repainting them with hues of dazzling red, pink, orange, and yellow--then looks at the clock. It looks at the clock, touches and embraces it and brings back the shine that its wood used to hold, way back when the man who carefully carved the intricate designs still lived. The sunset always leaves as quickly as it came, slipping silently though the same window, slithering away into the approaching night, and the clock always stays.
This is the way things have always been.
Occasionally, the moonlight will enter the room through the same window that the sunset does. Unlike the sunset, however, it does not throw itself across the room, coloring everything in its path, but stays in the same spot, emitting an unearthly ethereal glow. The moonlight is much more sporadic than the sunset, doesn't change everything to gold, and gives a sense of coldness rather than warmth, but it comes through the window anyways. Now, under the moonlight's scrutiny, the clock isn't restored to its former beauty; rather, it becomes an unreal silvery form, its own ghost. The moonlight, like the sunset, always retreats in the end, though, and the clock always stays.
It stays as days pass. It stays through the seasons. It stays completely still, even the hands on its face unmoving, not recording the passage of time. And there it still stays, stuck forever in the final moment of eternity.
A poem should not mean
But be.
Ars Poetica written by Archibald MacLeish.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Chapter Fifteen: A Normal Silence in Dimension #3.
I liked the quiet, because it was such a contradiction of itself. An oxymoron of orchestral cacophony. A paradox of piercing peace.
Even when there seemed to be no sound, no murmur, nothing at all, you could always hear yourself. Your heart beat--bm-bmp, bm-bmp, bm-bmp. Your breath--in, and then out, and then back in again. Once, I heard that if you held your hands over your ears, it would sound like lava. I tried it, and now it's a habit when I think. You can hear your muscles and bones bubble and hiss and pop as they shift ever-so-slightly against each other, creating your very own volcano.
I'm familiar with the silences in my life. I don't live in a city, or near one, and I like it that way. I look out my window and I see hills, lots of them, and when the winds blows and the tall grass waves the hills look like an ocean. I've never seen one, but I imagine that when I finally do, I'll take one look and say, 'You know, the way those waves rush over each other and ripple reminds me of the hills where I grew up.'
I live in the panhandle of Oklahoma, very close to the spot where our state line meets with Colorado's and Kansas'. Did you know that the view is amazing despite the amount of hills? I hear about views from the top of mountains, but I don't think anything is better than seeing for miles and miles and miles and never leaving the midwest.
I don't really have any friends, but I decided long ago that I don't really need people in general. I'm pretty sure that I started listening--and I mean seriously listening--to music around that time, too. Donovan has been, and will always be, my favorite. The Beatles are a close second, but that should surprise no one, considering one of their largest musical influences...
So, really, I don't mind the silence at all--because it's never there.
Even when there seemed to be no sound, no murmur, nothing at all, you could always hear yourself. Your heart beat--bm-bmp, bm-bmp, bm-bmp. Your breath--in, and then out, and then back in again. Once, I heard that if you held your hands over your ears, it would sound like lava. I tried it, and now it's a habit when I think. You can hear your muscles and bones bubble and hiss and pop as they shift ever-so-slightly against each other, creating your very own volcano.
I'm familiar with the silences in my life. I don't live in a city, or near one, and I like it that way. I look out my window and I see hills, lots of them, and when the winds blows and the tall grass waves the hills look like an ocean. I've never seen one, but I imagine that when I finally do, I'll take one look and say, 'You know, the way those waves rush over each other and ripple reminds me of the hills where I grew up.'
I live in the panhandle of Oklahoma, very close to the spot where our state line meets with Colorado's and Kansas'. Did you know that the view is amazing despite the amount of hills? I hear about views from the top of mountains, but I don't think anything is better than seeing for miles and miles and miles and never leaving the midwest.
I don't really have any friends, but I decided long ago that I don't really need people in general. I'm pretty sure that I started listening--and I mean seriously listening--to music around that time, too. Donovan has been, and will always be, my favorite. The Beatles are a close second, but that should surprise no one, considering one of their largest musical influences...
So, really, I don't mind the silence at all--because it's never there.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Chapter Fourteen: Smash Upon the Silence
The first time Axel met Roxas, he was at a rock concert.
He didn't know the headlining band, or even any of the openers. Larxene had given him a ticket for free, though, and who was he to turn down a chance to damage his hearing? She'd said that originally she'd planned on going herself until Marluxia surprised her with "special plans for the two of them", but Axel was pretty sure that it had more to do with his birthday next week than Larxene's pink-haired boyfriend.
It was one of those concerts with a mixed audience; that is, half of the crowd was like him--noisy, college-aged, and just wanting to feel the excitement--while the remainder seemed to be too young to even be legally allowed into the building. Axel was almost starting to regret coming. No bands had taken the stage, the building itself smelt like several somethings had died in it and decayed, and he knew that sending him to a show practically stamped "unpleasant" was just the sort of sadistic, evil thing that Larxene would do, even to a friend.
Getting a little annoyed at the severe lack of music so far in his night, Axel decided to take a break from the people invading his personal bubble (despite his tendency to violate others' space, one of Axel's pet peeves was too many people, too close to him). He shoved past a short brunette girl--and holy crap there was no way she was even in high school--and made his way towards a promising-looking hallway that either led to fresh air (hurrah, no sweat!) or the bathrooms.
It turned out to be the former as he pushed through a set of doors and was smacked in the face with the biting cold air. Shivering a little, Axel folded his arms, and decided to lean against the brick wall next to the doors. Only then did he finally notice the only other person in the back alley.
He--Axel thought it was a he, at least--was about a head shorter than Axel (or so he guesstimated; it was hard to tell, what with the slouch the other had going on) with blond hair, wearing an outfit almost entire composed of checkers, and... had a lit cigarette between his lips.
"Blondie, has anyone ever told you that you're waaaaayy too young to be smoking?" This would be one of those moments where Axel was trying to be clever. Plenty of people told him it just made him sound stupid, but by then it was already a habit.
"Blondie" startled, as if he hadn't heard the door opening and someone else joining him outside, looked up, and ooooohhh my God, there was no way that eye color wasn't from contact lenses. Axel was, of course, way too preoccupied with staring into cobalt-blue eyes like a teenaged girl to notice that said eyes were being used to glare at him.
"How old are you?" To his credit, Axel did manage to snap out of his daze when he noticed that he was being questioned.
"Twenty-one," he replied, just glad that he could speak without faltering.
"I'm twenty, jack-ass," "Blondie" snarled, as he dropped his now-finished cigarette to the concrete and ground it out with his shoe.
"Uh..." Axel stared, and felt completely and totally embarrassed for the first time since his junior year in high school. "Sorry... It's just... y'know... you're kind of short."
"Oh, okay, so first you preach at me, and then you insult me?" The blond stepped forward from where he'd been propped against the wall, staring up at Axel with disbelief in his eyes. Great--so now the cutest guy Axel'd seen in forever didn't just think he was an ass, but also couldn't believe how much of one he was.
He scrambled to make up for his mistake. "W-well, your height makes you look cute!" The moment that last word slipped out of his mouth, Axel knew he was doomed. Shit! That was so not what I was trying to say!
Blue eyes narrowed, but this time their owner didn't say anything at all. Instead, he decided to move forward and go back inside--but not after elbowing Axel rather painfully in the ribs.
"Ow!" Axel exclaimed, whipping around and letting his slight anger and frustration get the better of him for a moment. "Watch it, blondie! Your bones are pointier than you probably know!"
Without ever turning, the blond simply lifted a hand and gave Axel the finger.
And as the doors slammed shut, leaving the red-head with his bruised ego and memories of how many times he'd fucked up that night, Axel heard the faint sounds of a song being played from inside.
Words fall from my mouth
Like plates from shaking hands
Smash upon the silence
Of the smooth naked canal
Axel and Roxas (c) Square Enix
Evil and a Heathen by Franz Ferdinand
He didn't know the headlining band, or even any of the openers. Larxene had given him a ticket for free, though, and who was he to turn down a chance to damage his hearing? She'd said that originally she'd planned on going herself until Marluxia surprised her with "special plans for the two of them", but Axel was pretty sure that it had more to do with his birthday next week than Larxene's pink-haired boyfriend.
It was one of those concerts with a mixed audience; that is, half of the crowd was like him--noisy, college-aged, and just wanting to feel the excitement--while the remainder seemed to be too young to even be legally allowed into the building. Axel was almost starting to regret coming. No bands had taken the stage, the building itself smelt like several somethings had died in it and decayed, and he knew that sending him to a show practically stamped "unpleasant" was just the sort of sadistic, evil thing that Larxene would do, even to a friend.
Getting a little annoyed at the severe lack of music so far in his night, Axel decided to take a break from the people invading his personal bubble (despite his tendency to violate others' space, one of Axel's pet peeves was too many people, too close to him). He shoved past a short brunette girl--and holy crap there was no way she was even in high school--and made his way towards a promising-looking hallway that either led to fresh air (hurrah, no sweat!) or the bathrooms.
It turned out to be the former as he pushed through a set of doors and was smacked in the face with the biting cold air. Shivering a little, Axel folded his arms, and decided to lean against the brick wall next to the doors. Only then did he finally notice the only other person in the back alley.
He--Axel thought it was a he, at least--was about a head shorter than Axel (or so he guesstimated; it was hard to tell, what with the slouch the other had going on) with blond hair, wearing an outfit almost entire composed of checkers, and... had a lit cigarette between his lips.
"Blondie, has anyone ever told you that you're waaaaayy too young to be smoking?" This would be one of those moments where Axel was trying to be clever. Plenty of people told him it just made him sound stupid, but by then it was already a habit.
"Blondie" startled, as if he hadn't heard the door opening and someone else joining him outside, looked up, and ooooohhh my God, there was no way that eye color wasn't from contact lenses. Axel was, of course, way too preoccupied with staring into cobalt-blue eyes like a teenaged girl to notice that said eyes were being used to glare at him.
"How old are you?" To his credit, Axel did manage to snap out of his daze when he noticed that he was being questioned.
"Twenty-one," he replied, just glad that he could speak without faltering.
"I'm twenty, jack-ass," "Blondie" snarled, as he dropped his now-finished cigarette to the concrete and ground it out with his shoe.
"Uh..." Axel stared, and felt completely and totally embarrassed for the first time since his junior year in high school. "Sorry... It's just... y'know... you're kind of short."
"Oh, okay, so first you preach at me, and then you insult me?" The blond stepped forward from where he'd been propped against the wall, staring up at Axel with disbelief in his eyes. Great--so now the cutest guy Axel'd seen in forever didn't just think he was an ass, but also couldn't believe how much of one he was.
He scrambled to make up for his mistake. "W-well, your height makes you look cute!" The moment that last word slipped out of his mouth, Axel knew he was doomed. Shit! That was so not what I was trying to say!
Blue eyes narrowed, but this time their owner didn't say anything at all. Instead, he decided to move forward and go back inside--but not after elbowing Axel rather painfully in the ribs.
"Ow!" Axel exclaimed, whipping around and letting his slight anger and frustration get the better of him for a moment. "Watch it, blondie! Your bones are pointier than you probably know!"
Without ever turning, the blond simply lifted a hand and gave Axel the finger.
And as the doors slammed shut, leaving the red-head with his bruised ego and memories of how many times he'd fucked up that night, Axel heard the faint sounds of a song being played from inside.
Words fall from my mouth
Like plates from shaking hands
Smash upon the silence
Of the smooth naked canal
Axel and Roxas (c) Square Enix
Evil and a Heathen by Franz Ferdinand
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Chapter Thirteen: Textile craft.
Dipping, bowing,
Up and down;
Weaving, threading,
Restless hands.
Threads meet,
Greet,
Fall at their master's feet.
Feet that press the pedal,
Feel the metal;
Ringing softly,
Hum even softer.
Chk-chk-chk-chk,
The needle singing,
Clacking its way through life.
Such a way is hard,
But not so hard,
Not so hard it can't be soft.
Soft as silk--
The silk stitched together,
Joining hands and folds and bolts of cloth.
Pleating, hemming, tacking, knitting...
Until it's done.
Up and down;
Weaving, threading,
Restless hands.
Threads meet,
Greet,
Fall at their master's feet.
Feet that press the pedal,
Feel the metal;
Ringing softly,
Hum even softer.
Chk-chk-chk-chk,
The needle singing,
Clacking its way through life.
Such a way is hard,
But not so hard,
Not so hard it can't be soft.
Soft as silk--
The silk stitched together,
Joining hands and folds and bolts of cloth.
Pleating, hemming, tacking, knitting...
Until it's done.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Chapter Twelve: C'est la vie.
Life's not fair; live with it.
He was told that all the time, beginning with his toddler years. You know, the two- and three-year olds that you see in the grocery store being dragged by their mothers and whining for this or that, screaming "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" when they're told no.
"Life's not fair" is the generally accepted, and used, parental response, leaving the toddler grasping for arguments. Finding none, they proceed to throw themselves on the floor and wail despairingly. Yeah. That was him as a child.
He couldn't comprehend the intensity behind the words that so effectively halted all his begging, but later in life he thought he understood. The odd thing, though, was that he still didn't agree with it. Well, only to a degree. Life was most certainly unfair, and that was undeniable.
But there was always this nagging feeling in his stomach that told him no, life wasn't fair, but there was something especially unfair about his situation. Like, he didn't know, he was supposed to be somewhere else with someone else doing something else, but by some twist of fate that life didn't decide (life knew how to be unfair in a fairly fair way) he was directed wrongly.
There wasn't any actual proof for this theory, and it was a stupid theory to begin with, but that didn't help. He still had that sensation, and sometimes it grew and sometimes it waned. When he laughed with his friends, it grew until he was SURE that life's intent was for him to be laughing with other people, and when he was alone it waned, because life had always intended him to be hermitical.
And then... then, there were the times that he thought for a split-second that he was living the life meant for him. He'd turn to look behind him, opening his mouth to say something to the person who was always there, but it was empty space. He never knew what it was he was going to say or who he was going to say it to, but when he realized that he couldn't, his chest hurt. His throat tightened and his eyes burned, but he refused on principle to cry for something that he never had--at least, that he couldn't remember.
Sometimes he called people the wrong names, names that he'd never heard before. As this tended to happen most often when he felt emotional (an uncommon occurrence for someone as stoic as him), he assumed that it too had to deal with the life that he didn't lead.
One day, as he wandered aimlessly as he always did on Saturday afternoons, something else happened.
Browsing his way slowly through the outdoors art fair being held that particular day, something possessed him to stop at a jewelry stand. It wasn't the girly, sparkly type that was infused with gems, but rather a masculine collection with fierce pendant designs and thick rings sculpted into shapes. As his eyes scanned the table, they latched onto a circular pendant that was sitting father back and slightly hidden behind a gaudy metal wrist-band (that honestly looked more like a gauntlet, he thought as he mocked its creator for their lack of taste).
Extracting it from the pile of accessories around it, he admired it closely. It was about the size of his palm, made with silver (or something similar-looking) but with some parts coloured red to accent the ridges and curves of the piece. The shape itself was complicated; a circle containing a smaller circle, with spokes and even smaller circles connecting the two. Around the outer edges were spikes, and when he ran his finger over them he felt that they'd be able to cut his skin with enough pressure put behind them.
A sense of familiarity came over him as he looked the pendant over, and he quickly passed the $25 necessary to buy it over to the seller without a word, and she nodded at him before moving away to help others. Still examining the object in his hands he slowly turned his head and shoulders, and inside he knew that he was instinctively turning to the person-who-was-never-there.
"Hey, doesn't this remind you... of..." his voice trailed off when he tore his eyes upward and instead of the consciously expected empty space, he saw a subconsciously just-as-expected person standing there.
The man was tall, taller than him by a head, but it didn't feel awkward or intimidating. There was fire-truck red hair that couldn't be natural, and green eyes that had to be contacts, but he also knew that they were completely hereditary. Two triangular teardrop tattoos (he almost laughed out loud when the alliteration flew through his mind) lay upside-down on his cheekbones, and he didn't begin to think they were out of place.
Even the large grin that the man's mouth twisted into, both predatory and gentle, didn't alarm him.
"Roxas," the redhead greeted. Roxas nodded hesitantly, wondering why it wasn't creepy that this person knew his name.
"You know, you took your damn sweet time. I thought we agreed we'd meet up?" the other continued. Roxas gave him a confused look, which sent a disappointed frown to replace the man's grin. Sighing, he reached into his pocket with long fingers and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette.
The moment the engraved lighter clicked open and a flame flickered to life, though, Roxas' mind either shut down... or lept into overdrive.
Fire. Fire was red, red was like his hair but he'd always said he liked Roxas' hair more with green eyes flashing over him that he had left and forgotten and never came back because he vanished and then he saw him die.
The sensation of memories that felt like his even more than the ones he'd thought were his (until less than a second ago) left Roxas feeling like he'd been run over. Blinking multiple times in surprise, he looked back up at the redhead. "...Axel?"
To be continued...?
Roxas and Axel (c) Square Enix
He was told that all the time, beginning with his toddler years. You know, the two- and three-year olds that you see in the grocery store being dragged by their mothers and whining for this or that, screaming "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" when they're told no.
"Life's not fair" is the generally accepted, and used, parental response, leaving the toddler grasping for arguments. Finding none, they proceed to throw themselves on the floor and wail despairingly. Yeah. That was him as a child.
He couldn't comprehend the intensity behind the words that so effectively halted all his begging, but later in life he thought he understood. The odd thing, though, was that he still didn't agree with it. Well, only to a degree. Life was most certainly unfair, and that was undeniable.
But there was always this nagging feeling in his stomach that told him no, life wasn't fair, but there was something especially unfair about his situation. Like, he didn't know, he was supposed to be somewhere else with someone else doing something else, but by some twist of fate that life didn't decide (life knew how to be unfair in a fairly fair way) he was directed wrongly.
There wasn't any actual proof for this theory, and it was a stupid theory to begin with, but that didn't help. He still had that sensation, and sometimes it grew and sometimes it waned. When he laughed with his friends, it grew until he was SURE that life's intent was for him to be laughing with other people, and when he was alone it waned, because life had always intended him to be hermitical.
And then... then, there were the times that he thought for a split-second that he was living the life meant for him. He'd turn to look behind him, opening his mouth to say something to the person who was always there, but it was empty space. He never knew what it was he was going to say or who he was going to say it to, but when he realized that he couldn't, his chest hurt. His throat tightened and his eyes burned, but he refused on principle to cry for something that he never had--at least, that he couldn't remember.
Sometimes he called people the wrong names, names that he'd never heard before. As this tended to happen most often when he felt emotional (an uncommon occurrence for someone as stoic as him), he assumed that it too had to deal with the life that he didn't lead.
One day, as he wandered aimlessly as he always did on Saturday afternoons, something else happened.
Browsing his way slowly through the outdoors art fair being held that particular day, something possessed him to stop at a jewelry stand. It wasn't the girly, sparkly type that was infused with gems, but rather a masculine collection with fierce pendant designs and thick rings sculpted into shapes. As his eyes scanned the table, they latched onto a circular pendant that was sitting father back and slightly hidden behind a gaudy metal wrist-band (that honestly looked more like a gauntlet, he thought as he mocked its creator for their lack of taste).
Extracting it from the pile of accessories around it, he admired it closely. It was about the size of his palm, made with silver (or something similar-looking) but with some parts coloured red to accent the ridges and curves of the piece. The shape itself was complicated; a circle containing a smaller circle, with spokes and even smaller circles connecting the two. Around the outer edges were spikes, and when he ran his finger over them he felt that they'd be able to cut his skin with enough pressure put behind them.
A sense of familiarity came over him as he looked the pendant over, and he quickly passed the $25 necessary to buy it over to the seller without a word, and she nodded at him before moving away to help others. Still examining the object in his hands he slowly turned his head and shoulders, and inside he knew that he was instinctively turning to the person-who-was-never-there.
"Hey, doesn't this remind you... of..." his voice trailed off when he tore his eyes upward and instead of the consciously expected empty space, he saw a subconsciously just-as-expected person standing there.
The man was tall, taller than him by a head, but it didn't feel awkward or intimidating. There was fire-truck red hair that couldn't be natural, and green eyes that had to be contacts, but he also knew that they were completely hereditary. Two triangular teardrop tattoos (he almost laughed out loud when the alliteration flew through his mind) lay upside-down on his cheekbones, and he didn't begin to think they were out of place.
Even the large grin that the man's mouth twisted into, both predatory and gentle, didn't alarm him.
"Roxas," the redhead greeted. Roxas nodded hesitantly, wondering why it wasn't creepy that this person knew his name.
"You know, you took your damn sweet time. I thought we agreed we'd meet up?" the other continued. Roxas gave him a confused look, which sent a disappointed frown to replace the man's grin. Sighing, he reached into his pocket with long fingers and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette.
The moment the engraved lighter clicked open and a flame flickered to life, though, Roxas' mind either shut down... or lept into overdrive.
Fire. Fire was red, red was like his hair but he'd always said he liked Roxas' hair more with green eyes flashing over him that he had left and forgotten and never came back because he vanished and then he saw him die.
The sensation of memories that felt like his even more than the ones he'd thought were his (until less than a second ago) left Roxas feeling like he'd been run over. Blinking multiple times in surprise, he looked back up at the redhead. "...Axel?"
To be continued...?
Roxas and Axel (c) Square Enix
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Chapter Eleven: Lost in these words.
Sharpies in all colors of the rainbow.
A cold, bubbly soda to sip at through the hours.
Inside jokes between friends.
Thoughtless doodles of lines forming an intricate design.
Knowing that you can do something.
Making a fool of yourself.
Pleasant silence between friends-that-are-siblings.
Understanding the joke.
The pounding of shower water against your back.
Vibrations from the speakers playing music way too loudly.
Straight-edge punk.
Trusting in others.
Fog, low to the ground.
Really bad horror movies.
Realizing you were just smiling unconsciously.
The Kitten Treatment.
A work of art with emotional value.
Goosebumps when you hear an inspirational song.
Early morning meditation.
Feeling at peace with the world.
The fleeting joy of reading a fanfiction.
Sharing a viewpoint.
Standing at the top of a mountain, alone.
Assigning theme songs.
Rhyming and reasoning.
Rhythm and syncopation.
The urge to dance.
Laughing with others.
Reading of love.
...These are a few of my favorite things,
like warm summer-winters
and green-kissed life springs.
Like seeing yourself
scattered love-letter flings,
or awe in the fearsome
war nature's love brings.
As wedding bells toll
so Seraph ere sings,
as surely light spreads
so birds take to their wings.
And lost evermore in these words shall I be,
but simple pleasures return and set our souls free.
A cold, bubbly soda to sip at through the hours.
Inside jokes between friends.
Thoughtless doodles of lines forming an intricate design.
Knowing that you can do something.
Making a fool of yourself.
Pleasant silence between friends-that-are-siblings.
Understanding the joke.
The pounding of shower water against your back.
Vibrations from the speakers playing music way too loudly.
Straight-edge punk.
Trusting in others.
Fog, low to the ground.
Really bad horror movies.
Realizing you were just smiling unconsciously.
The Kitten Treatment.
A work of art with emotional value.
Goosebumps when you hear an inspirational song.
Early morning meditation.
Feeling at peace with the world.
The fleeting joy of reading a fanfiction.
Sharing a viewpoint.
Standing at the top of a mountain, alone.
Assigning theme songs.
Rhyming and reasoning.
Rhythm and syncopation.
The urge to dance.
Laughing with others.
Reading of love.
...These are a few of my favorite things,
like warm summer-winters
and green-kissed life springs.
Like seeing yourself
scattered love-letter flings,
or awe in the fearsome
war nature's love brings.
As wedding bells toll
so Seraph ere sings,
as surely light spreads
so birds take to their wings.
And lost evermore in these words shall I be,
but simple pleasures return and set our souls free.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Chapter Ten: Agree to agree to disagree to agree.
Repeat until it makes sense, over and over and over like waves. Waves across what I liked enough to show to you in a moment of love, moment of bonding, breakingdownthesewallstoreachandunderstandyou...
Across The Universe.
You know what? I had hoped, stupidly maybe, that you might've ended up liking this movie. That you might see the same things in it that I do.
Instead, you say that it blatantly supports drug culture and only represents a small fraction of the population in the U.S. during the Vietnam war. "Where's the story?" you ask.
Where's the story? What do you mean where's the story? Did you fall asleep? Were you not paying attention as it told the story of a brit looking for his father and found something more, of the good girl who just wants peace, of the lesbian that wants to be accepted, of a guitarist and a singer who lose what they had and find each other? Why is that not a story?
And why is it that I cannot say these things to your face? I go from shock to speechlessness to anger to disbelief to hurt to helplessness. What help is there for those who cannot help what they know they help, they cannot, they don't know?
"It's a love story," Mom says a little disbelievingly to you.
"Love isn't a story," you reply, a little scathingly I think. I can't tell 'cause I'm trying not to cry. "Love is an event."
I don't hear anymore because I'm already gone, gone from the room and the next one over and moving as far as possible towards my refuge with tears and a face that scrunches itself unpleasantly when truly upset.
And I don't even know why what you said hurt so much, or why it feels like my hope has been crushed.
Why are you unable to accept something at face value? Why can't something be wonderful just because it is? Why is it you can't see the theme and the plot and separation and happy ending? Why does it have to present some higher statement? Why do you have to make derogatory comments on what I like? Why is it that you say that the only worthful, useful, meaningful part of the movie is when the moment is broken and her hope and trust and naiveté gone?
"I thought it was the other side that dropped the bombs."
You're fighting. I can hear. For once, I don't want to sit in the hallway and listen quietly. But it doesn't matter, because now you're both screaming and I can hear every goddamn fucking word. Can't you go somewhere else? Can't you agree to disagree? Just for once?
Now there is quiet, quiet but no crickets or birds or sound but the clacking of the keys and my heart, clacking through my heart to the keyboard to the screen to the internet of people who exist in reality. Now there are dried tears on my face and I can tell because when I blink I can feel the dried salt on my skin.
But I don't want your anger. Please?
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Across The Universe, directed by Julie Taymor, musically produced/composed by Elliot Goldenthal. Sony Pictures, Revolution Studios, Colombia Pictures.
Across The Universe.
You know what? I had hoped, stupidly maybe, that you might've ended up liking this movie. That you might see the same things in it that I do.
Instead, you say that it blatantly supports drug culture and only represents a small fraction of the population in the U.S. during the Vietnam war. "Where's the story?" you ask.
Where's the story? What do you mean where's the story? Did you fall asleep? Were you not paying attention as it told the story of a brit looking for his father and found something more, of the good girl who just wants peace, of the lesbian that wants to be accepted, of a guitarist and a singer who lose what they had and find each other? Why is that not a story?
And why is it that I cannot say these things to your face? I go from shock to speechlessness to anger to disbelief to hurt to helplessness. What help is there for those who cannot help what they know they help, they cannot, they don't know?
"It's a love story," Mom says a little disbelievingly to you.
"Love isn't a story," you reply, a little scathingly I think. I can't tell 'cause I'm trying not to cry. "Love is an event."
I don't hear anymore because I'm already gone, gone from the room and the next one over and moving as far as possible towards my refuge with tears and a face that scrunches itself unpleasantly when truly upset.
And I don't even know why what you said hurt so much, or why it feels like my hope has been crushed.
Why are you unable to accept something at face value? Why can't something be wonderful just because it is? Why is it you can't see the theme and the plot and separation and happy ending? Why does it have to present some higher statement? Why do you have to make derogatory comments on what I like? Why is it that you say that the only worthful, useful, meaningful part of the movie is when the moment is broken and her hope and trust and naiveté gone?
"I thought it was the other side that dropped the bombs."
You're fighting. I can hear. For once, I don't want to sit in the hallway and listen quietly. But it doesn't matter, because now you're both screaming and I can hear every goddamn fucking word. Can't you go somewhere else? Can't you agree to disagree? Just for once?
Now there is quiet, quiet but no crickets or birds or sound but the clacking of the keys and my heart, clacking through my heart to the keyboard to the screen to the internet of people who exist in reality. Now there are dried tears on my face and I can tell because when I blink I can feel the dried salt on my skin.
But I don't want your anger. Please?
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Across The Universe, directed by Julie Taymor, musically produced/composed by Elliot Goldenthal. Sony Pictures, Revolution Studios, Colombia Pictures.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Chapter Nine: Tamper with my Brain.
5.30 in the morning really wasn't a good time for thinking about difficult topics, I mused. My eyes crossed and began to slowly close without me even noticing, but I soon jerked them back open and attempted a half-hearted glare at the bottle that sat not two feet away from me. I failed.
I liked my medicine, I really did. It helped. When I took it I actually felt the drive to complete things, all sorts of things. Things that normally I'd pass over in favor of more interesting (to me) pursuits. I actually completed my homework on a daily basis, and felt the energy necessary to attempt to write something, even when nothing came.
It was the side effects I wasn't so fond of. Appetite suppression caused by dry mouth? I'll pass. My stomach would grumble demandingly all day long, but every time I looked at food I had no urge to eat, not unless a soda or some water was offered to take sips of as I ate in order to get rid of the "dry mouth". There was also the constant talking; starting at about ten in the morning, I couldn't stop having conversations, and my mouth would run ahead of my mind by miles per minute.
The worst of all was the... depression? No. It wasn't depression. It was more of a lack of outward emotional displays. While I could talk and listen better than ever, the smiles that I remember used to be so frequent had almost dried up. Where was my laughter, the one that people knew? Where were the spouts of giggles when my mind thought of something hilarious, and everyone else would be left asking, 'What? What? What's so funny?' Where was the old me?
That was why I didn't like my medicine. I liked the new me, but I didn't want to lose the old me. I didn't want to let go of the late nights that were later than any before, or the attacks of 'Fangirl Epilepsy', as I liked to call it, that had me running into my brother's room giggling and babbling like an idiot before shaking my head until it rung.
It was then that an equally disturbing notion reached me. What if... people actually liked the new me better?
Sighing, I wiped away the unshed tears that had gathered in my eyes and popped open the small container. Removing one blue-and-red capsule, I swallowed it dry and replaced the cap. It didn't matter, did it? In the end, it was my education and motivation and completion of work that mattered most. Even if the cost was me.
Now, I was glad I had dyed that indigo stripe in my hair. It was a reminder of who I was, who I would have to pretend to be... for now.
After all, Mom said the side effects weren't supposed to last forever.
I liked my medicine, I really did. It helped. When I took it I actually felt the drive to complete things, all sorts of things. Things that normally I'd pass over in favor of more interesting (to me) pursuits. I actually completed my homework on a daily basis, and felt the energy necessary to attempt to write something, even when nothing came.
It was the side effects I wasn't so fond of. Appetite suppression caused by dry mouth? I'll pass. My stomach would grumble demandingly all day long, but every time I looked at food I had no urge to eat, not unless a soda or some water was offered to take sips of as I ate in order to get rid of the "dry mouth". There was also the constant talking; starting at about ten in the morning, I couldn't stop having conversations, and my mouth would run ahead of my mind by miles per minute.
The worst of all was the... depression? No. It wasn't depression. It was more of a lack of outward emotional displays. While I could talk and listen better than ever, the smiles that I remember used to be so frequent had almost dried up. Where was my laughter, the one that people knew? Where were the spouts of giggles when my mind thought of something hilarious, and everyone else would be left asking, 'What? What? What's so funny?' Where was the old me?
That was why I didn't like my medicine. I liked the new me, but I didn't want to lose the old me. I didn't want to let go of the late nights that were later than any before, or the attacks of 'Fangirl Epilepsy', as I liked to call it, that had me running into my brother's room giggling and babbling like an idiot before shaking my head until it rung.
It was then that an equally disturbing notion reached me. What if... people actually liked the new me better?
Sighing, I wiped away the unshed tears that had gathered in my eyes and popped open the small container. Removing one blue-and-red capsule, I swallowed it dry and replaced the cap. It didn't matter, did it? In the end, it was my education and motivation and completion of work that mattered most. Even if the cost was me.
Now, I was glad I had dyed that indigo stripe in my hair. It was a reminder of who I was, who I would have to pretend to be... for now.
After all, Mom said the side effects weren't supposed to last forever.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Chapter Eight: The Soothsayers' contrapasso.
It is almost an absolute rule of the universe that whenever more than two teenagers, especially friends, are gathered in a room, there will be conversation. Lots of it. At moment, though, it seemed that that particular law would have to take a break; five teenagers--two girls, three boys--were sitting in a bedroom, all in various positions and locations around it, being completely silent.
Terra's eye twitched as she stared at her book. Who had started the idea of a Saturday study group to prepare for the finals, again? Dan, she thought, and on her mental to-do list she added 'poison Dan's cereal'. Dragging her imagination away from the idea of laughing over his twitching body, and then being able to do whatever she wanted for the rest of the day, Terra again tried to continue reading Dante's Inferno before finally giving up and shutting it as forcefully as you can shut a paperback.
"This is such bull!" she growled, glaring at the cover. Stupid Dante. What kind of a name was 'Dante', anyways?
Jim and Calais looked relieved at the sudden interruption, not having enjoyed "study time" very much either. Dan just sighed, while Ellie looked up, frowned at Terra for breaking her concentration, and tried to continue studying for her European History final on Monday.
"I thought you liked that book, though?" Calais asked.
"I did..." Terra said in frustration.
"And what's wrong with it now, that you had to distract us for?" Dan asked. He really didn't want to fail his Pre-Calculus class, and was taking extra precautions to memorize all of the formulas necessary.
"Well," Terra began to explain, "I didn't really want to do anything else, so I decided to read a few cantos ahead. Have any of you read Canto XX?" Everyone shook their heads.
Terra flipped open her copy of Dante's Inferno to the page she had been on, and began to read:
"And when my gaze moved down below their faces,
I saw all were incredibly distorted,
the chin was not above the chest, the neck
was twisted--their faces looked down on their backs;
they had to move ahead by moving backward,
for they never saw what was ahead of them."
When she finished reading the two tercets, the others were quiet. "And... why does that make you upset?" Jim raised an eyebrow.
Terra sighed, flipped a few pages, then read an excerpt from the translation notes, "'15. for they never saw what was ahead of them: Note the appropriate nature of the punishment: the augurs, who, when living, looked into the future, are here in Hell denied any forward vision. See lines 38-39.' Yep. Well, I'm basically going to hell."
Once again, silence met her quotation. "Does it say anything about turning into a moth being a sin?" asked Calais. He smirked, obviously the only one to find it funny.
"No, but apparently turning into a beast is related to the sins of Violence," Ellie pointed out. "And Terra, just remember that that was written in the Middle Ages, a time when personal opinions greatly influenced how people interpreted God's words."
Terra sighed. "Yeah. I know. Whatever." She turned her attention back to the Inferno, and decided for once to just skip that canto. She could always get someone else to summarize it for her, later.
The Inferno by Dante Alighieri, translated by Mark Musa.
Terra's eye twitched as she stared at her book. Who had started the idea of a Saturday study group to prepare for the finals, again? Dan, she thought, and on her mental to-do list she added 'poison Dan's cereal'. Dragging her imagination away from the idea of laughing over his twitching body, and then being able to do whatever she wanted for the rest of the day, Terra again tried to continue reading Dante's Inferno before finally giving up and shutting it as forcefully as you can shut a paperback.
"This is such bull!" she growled, glaring at the cover. Stupid Dante. What kind of a name was 'Dante', anyways?
Jim and Calais looked relieved at the sudden interruption, not having enjoyed "study time" very much either. Dan just sighed, while Ellie looked up, frowned at Terra for breaking her concentration, and tried to continue studying for her European History final on Monday.
"I thought you liked that book, though?" Calais asked.
"I did..." Terra said in frustration.
"And what's wrong with it now, that you had to distract us for?" Dan asked. He really didn't want to fail his Pre-Calculus class, and was taking extra precautions to memorize all of the formulas necessary.
"Well," Terra began to explain, "I didn't really want to do anything else, so I decided to read a few cantos ahead. Have any of you read Canto XX?" Everyone shook their heads.
Terra flipped open her copy of Dante's Inferno to the page she had been on, and began to read:
"And when my gaze moved down below their faces,
I saw all were incredibly distorted,
the chin was not above the chest, the neck
was twisted--their faces looked down on their backs;
they had to move ahead by moving backward,
for they never saw what was ahead of them."
When she finished reading the two tercets, the others were quiet. "And... why does that make you upset?" Jim raised an eyebrow.
Terra sighed, flipped a few pages, then read an excerpt from the translation notes, "'15. for they never saw what was ahead of them: Note the appropriate nature of the punishment: the augurs, who, when living, looked into the future, are here in Hell denied any forward vision. See lines 38-39.' Yep. Well, I'm basically going to hell."
Once again, silence met her quotation. "Does it say anything about turning into a moth being a sin?" asked Calais. He smirked, obviously the only one to find it funny.
"No, but apparently turning into a beast is related to the sins of Violence," Ellie pointed out. "And Terra, just remember that that was written in the Middle Ages, a time when personal opinions greatly influenced how people interpreted God's words."
Terra sighed. "Yeah. I know. Whatever." She turned her attention back to the Inferno, and decided for once to just skip that canto. She could always get someone else to summarize it for her, later.
The Inferno by Dante Alighieri, translated by Mark Musa.
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