I had a lot of time to think on my way home from peterborough today.
Composition of my thoughts:
What is the basis of 'Likes' and 'dislikes'. I hate brussel sprouts, and seafood. Why do I like broccoli? Or Pears? Or peanut butter? Is it biology? I'm not sure. I'm confused by this. Why do I like pink more then red? Or sweet more then sour? what makes me an individual? I'd like to avoid waxing philisophical here. I'm not sao sure its biology, that would lead me to believe that we're more or less the same, and then we wouldn't have such a diversity. so, if its not that, what is it? A soul? what is a soul anyway?
I was discussing past relationships with a friend of mine, and a few came to mind. I really seem to have experienced everything along that spectrum. Abusive relationships, dominant relationships, passive partners. I keep thinking back to white oleander, where Ingrid tells astrid that her lover should be mild, and trembling with a flower for her. Instead, Astrid falls in love with a man, and she is the one trembling.
I think thats how I feel.
I described one relationship in particular where my mate worshipped me. He was the pleaser. He would tremble for me. As I spoke, I realized how much I hate this feeling. my friend said it was interesting that I percieved such behaviour the way I did, almost with contempt. Its true.
I've said it time and time again, I don't want to be a princess. If a man can't treat me as an equal then he isn't worth my time.
I'm trembling.
I've met someone recently and I'm ecstatic.
It feels good to finally meet someone that seems as crazy about me as I am him. I suppose I shouldn't gush too much, but it's good to be happy.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Turn me on
'Like a flower, waiting to bloom.
Like a lightbulb in a dark room.
I'm just sitting here, waiting for you
to come on home, and turn me on.
Like the desert, waiting for the rain
Like a schoolkid, Waiting for the spring
I'm jut sitting here, waiting for you
to come on home, and turn me on.
My poor heart, its so dark
Since you've been gone.
After all, you're the one who turns me off
But you're the only one who can turn me back on
My half eyes are waiting for a new tune
The glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes
I'm just sitting here, waiting for you
to come on home, and turn me on.'
Norah Jones.
Definately how i'm feeling right now. Its amazing how emotions can reduce a mature woman to a giggling mass of jello. I'm enjoying it definately.
Like a lightbulb in a dark room.
I'm just sitting here, waiting for you
to come on home, and turn me on.
Like the desert, waiting for the rain
Like a schoolkid, Waiting for the spring
I'm jut sitting here, waiting for you
to come on home, and turn me on.
My poor heart, its so dark
Since you've been gone.
After all, you're the one who turns me off
But you're the only one who can turn me back on
My half eyes are waiting for a new tune
The glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes
I'm just sitting here, waiting for you
to come on home, and turn me on.'
Norah Jones.
Definately how i'm feeling right now. Its amazing how emotions can reduce a mature woman to a giggling mass of jello. I'm enjoying it definately.
Friday, December 07, 2007
re-examining my roots
'He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar.
the only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star
He's the song in the car, I keep singing
Don't know why I do...'
I think perhaps I'm on the verge of knowing something deeper about myself. It feels good to turn the spotlight inwards and take a step back, I can see the map ahead of me. I see the twists and the turns before they come. But...
Its frightening too.
Can you change your own destiny? Can you alter the course? Can I erase my perhaps, predetermined route, and re-write my own future?
Is just KNOWING enough to change the way I think?
Sometimes I'm not so sure.
Okay. I'm talking in riddles. Lets take a step back.
Self actualization, Buddha said was the path to true happiness. Its not so much what you have, but how you feel about it.
I can preach and harp until my pretty little face turns blue. It doesn't change how I feel. I want to be loved. I don't think thats such a bad thing, but the choices I make in seeking such affection are. the hard part is I don't even think they're concious choices. I mean, if it were an issue of my behaviour I could easily change that right? Not EASILY but it could be changed.
So whats the million dollar question?
Can I chose what I'm attracted to?
There in lies the problem.
I'm attracted to certain types of men. Aggressive men. Dominant men. Passive men hold no key to my heart, I hardly give them a second glance. Passionate men with a 'Joix de vie' are the men that will catch my eye. Like a peacock showing off his fancy colours. However, I take a closer look, and those are the same men who aren't looking for a partner. A bed mate perhaps, but nothing more. So. in the past I've tried 2 solutions to such a quandry. I've stuck around under the false pretense in my head that I could make him love me. I'm worth loving, after all, aren't I? That always backfires in my face. I end up falling in love and he sees me as nothing more then a booty call. He gets tired or bored, or whatever, and moves on, and I'm left picking up the pieces.
Like a house of cards, one breath could shatter the foundation.
Or, second case I walk away with my head held high. I'll not be reduced to being a blowup doll for a man who can't possibly see how fabulous I am. And yet secretly I pine.
That can't be healthy.
What are the alternatives here? I'm way too boy crazy to be a lesbian. I don't want to stop dating altogether, sticking my head in the sand is hardly a solution. Obviously at this point I'm Jaded. I'm tired of thickening my skin so I don't bleed everytime someone so much as brushes past me. But I'm tired of being an island. I want someone to show me that the world isn't so scary. At the same time I do have men reaching out to me, but I'm not attracted too. Should I settle for these types of men? Passive men. Docile. Quiet, patient. Understanding, and weak?
'To make me notice, you started to shout.
Then you and all your minions started flapping your tiny arms all about
They said you were a wiseman, when'd they teach wisemen to pout?
I tried to forget you but you tied bells to your name
They jingled every time I thought of you, without shame
I tried to be unlovable, why couldn't you do the same?
Whats the matter, does your love need a home?
Alright then, Love me, Just leave me alone'
Its valuable to have some insight into myself, but I'm afraid without a picture to compare it too, its like having a one thousand piece puzzle with no idea where to start.
the only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star
He's the song in the car, I keep singing
Don't know why I do...'
I think perhaps I'm on the verge of knowing something deeper about myself. It feels good to turn the spotlight inwards and take a step back, I can see the map ahead of me. I see the twists and the turns before they come. But...
Its frightening too.
Can you change your own destiny? Can you alter the course? Can I erase my perhaps, predetermined route, and re-write my own future?
Is just KNOWING enough to change the way I think?
Sometimes I'm not so sure.
Okay. I'm talking in riddles. Lets take a step back.
Self actualization, Buddha said was the path to true happiness. Its not so much what you have, but how you feel about it.
I can preach and harp until my pretty little face turns blue. It doesn't change how I feel. I want to be loved. I don't think thats such a bad thing, but the choices I make in seeking such affection are. the hard part is I don't even think they're concious choices. I mean, if it were an issue of my behaviour I could easily change that right? Not EASILY but it could be changed.
So whats the million dollar question?
Can I chose what I'm attracted to?
There in lies the problem.
I'm attracted to certain types of men. Aggressive men. Dominant men. Passive men hold no key to my heart, I hardly give them a second glance. Passionate men with a 'Joix de vie' are the men that will catch my eye. Like a peacock showing off his fancy colours. However, I take a closer look, and those are the same men who aren't looking for a partner. A bed mate perhaps, but nothing more. So. in the past I've tried 2 solutions to such a quandry. I've stuck around under the false pretense in my head that I could make him love me. I'm worth loving, after all, aren't I? That always backfires in my face. I end up falling in love and he sees me as nothing more then a booty call. He gets tired or bored, or whatever, and moves on, and I'm left picking up the pieces.
Like a house of cards, one breath could shatter the foundation.
Or, second case I walk away with my head held high. I'll not be reduced to being a blowup doll for a man who can't possibly see how fabulous I am. And yet secretly I pine.
That can't be healthy.
What are the alternatives here? I'm way too boy crazy to be a lesbian. I don't want to stop dating altogether, sticking my head in the sand is hardly a solution. Obviously at this point I'm Jaded. I'm tired of thickening my skin so I don't bleed everytime someone so much as brushes past me. But I'm tired of being an island. I want someone to show me that the world isn't so scary. At the same time I do have men reaching out to me, but I'm not attracted too. Should I settle for these types of men? Passive men. Docile. Quiet, patient. Understanding, and weak?
'To make me notice, you started to shout.
Then you and all your minions started flapping your tiny arms all about
They said you were a wiseman, when'd they teach wisemen to pout?
I tried to forget you but you tied bells to your name
They jingled every time I thought of you, without shame
I tried to be unlovable, why couldn't you do the same?
Whats the matter, does your love need a home?
Alright then, Love me, Just leave me alone'
Its valuable to have some insight into myself, but I'm afraid without a picture to compare it too, its like having a one thousand piece puzzle with no idea where to start.
Monday, August 20, 2007
re-examination of my roots.
Melvin's right. I should start writing again.
Food for thought:
Cellular replication, more specifically the replication of DNA.
Question to answer: Can a virus re-write, or alter your DNA? I believe this answer is yes. Find out how. Can it change the basic shape? Would it he theoritically possible to rewrite it with different pairs, for instance. Adding lines of code?
Spawning from that, re read tess gerritson's 'Body double' and research how the pituitary gland affects cell degridation and aging.
Research: Djinn. Sections of the bible pertaining to prophecy. (revelations) 'documented' cases of possesion?
I feel like I'm on the verge of something big.
Food for thought:
Cellular replication, more specifically the replication of DNA.
Question to answer: Can a virus re-write, or alter your DNA? I believe this answer is yes. Find out how. Can it change the basic shape? Would it he theoritically possible to rewrite it with different pairs, for instance. Adding lines of code?
Spawning from that, re read tess gerritson's 'Body double' and research how the pituitary gland affects cell degridation and aging.
Research: Djinn. Sections of the bible pertaining to prophecy. (revelations) 'documented' cases of possesion?
I feel like I'm on the verge of something big.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Exquisite Agony
She was stunning.
Soft, inviting mocha lips seemed perpetually pursed. Long, lucious chestnut hair framed her flawles caramel complection, surpassed only by her warm brown, almond shaped eyes. He watched and ached for her, to touch her, hold her, -take- her. He'd never seen the likes of her before, but assumed she was with the other asians. There were more of them these days, and the dogs didn't seem to like the americans. They could go back to China for all he cared, but they paid well, so he kept his mouth shut.
She wore a soft rose tonight. Her voluptuous form was wrapped skin tight in the supple silk, it made him rock hard just to look at her. Her english was harsh and broken, not that he cared what she had to say. Women like her were good for only one thing, and he would get it, if he had to hold her down and take it himself.
She inhaled deeply, her lucious chest heaving as her dead lungs filled with stagnant air. To any it would seem completely normal, but to her, it ached. She longed to breathe, to live again, but such would not happen. Her life had ended violently over four decades previous, though the chi coursing through her undead veins kept her well preserved. She looked no more then twenty, and really she wasn't. Sold to a geisha mother at the tender age of eleven, it was not much unlike being sold into slavery. By twelve, her virginity had been taken, ripped from her along with her innocence. She lived the life of a whore, an entertainer. She had no freedom, no purity, no comfort. She was a product of her surroundings, and nothing more. Never had she known happiness, desire was a sin. She was a servant, and though paid well, freedom of choice was a luxury she could not afford. Love was a lie, passion was unforgivable. She was kept physically safe, for a time being.By her 19th birthday, she had been hired to perform at a certain business party. Having attempted to decline due to the attitude of the rather infamous host, she had been prevented by her Geisha mother. The night finally came, and proceeded rather pleasently, until the guests began to leave. The host, a Yakuza of rather high ranking, attempted to take her, unwillingly. She fought him, clinging dearly to her life and celibacy. Her soul became so enraged with his force that it split, and a demon inhabited her, though even he couldn't help her at this point. The Yakuza slaughtered her, heartlessly and dumped her lifeless, bloody body in the harbor, believeing it was to be the end of her.
He had never been so wrong.
Her soul had visited Yomi, the fabled hell of the Japanese. There, it had endured tortures to horrible to imagine. They ripped her to shreds, only to sew her back together to play the cruel game again and again. There is no pain like Yomi, its exquisite agony is burned within you forever.
Unless of course you escape.
She did, in time. Her split soul returned, clawing through the Yomi realms, avoiding the treacherous demons known as the Yama Kings, and in one final agonizing effort, her soul joined her dead husk, and gave her second breath.
When she retruned, revenge was hers. In a blind rage, she found her attacker, and for days feasted upon his sweet flesh, keeping the son of a bitch in a half state of life and death, she fed hungrily on his raw skin and bones. On the fourth day he slipped from the land of the living and she devoured the rest of his corpse.
She had been found by a local Japanese court and converted finally to a Dharma. She had become controlled, once again, and she found her place. After months of difficult training, she proved to be a particularly gifted student.
Of course, in death her passions blew sky high. Everything that she had been denied in life, Lust, greed, hunger and passion became all consuming in death. They ruled her. She became messy and vulgar, rude and confrontational. A restless dragon in the truest sense, she was never the less a powerful opponent. Though her understanding of the arts seemed great as well as her ability to learn, she was not exactly wise. Having feasted near Nagasaki, the demon child had ingested defiled chi, a curse that haunts one for the rest of her unlife.
She left Japan 10 years after her re-birth, in search of conquest in the Americas. Land of oppurtunuties, they called it. Though she didn't believe it. She had arrived there and wandered for many years, streching her imagination and experiencing everything she could find, such was the way of the Thrashing dragon. Reality is a rainbow. Illusionary, but too colorful to ignore. Half life was an abominable state, their goal is to become alive as possible.
And here she was, thirty years later, still fighting for conquest and enlightenment.
She grinned faintly, her eyes sliding up his form as he served her a drink. She smelled sweet, the faint haunting scent of lotus blossoms seemed to follow her, he found that enticing. Her eyes sparkled with musky excitement, and he guessed she wanted him. She would have him, he knew, whether she wanted it so or not.
He wasn't an unattractive man, and he had his own share of women. Sandy brow hair and dark emerald eyes gave him that 'all american' appeal so many woman seemed to chase, and though his face was pockmarked from adolescent acne, women didn't seem to notice. A large built frame from years as a varsity quarterback hadn't hurt his game either. She wet her lips and he stirred, tilting his own head as she leaned in, whispering close.
'I want you..'
He nodded, grinning widely. So it had begun, the chase was underway. He nodded again finally, his hungry green eyes molesting her supple form, down her hips, murmuring in response. His breath was hot, and acrid. He probably smoked, she noted.
'I know you do baby. I get off in an hour.'
She nodded, pleasently as he leaned back, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust. She would buy him mints, or something. Anything to make it more pleasurable.
Soft, inviting mocha lips seemed perpetually pursed. Long, lucious chestnut hair framed her flawles caramel complection, surpassed only by her warm brown, almond shaped eyes. He watched and ached for her, to touch her, hold her, -take- her. He'd never seen the likes of her before, but assumed she was with the other asians. There were more of them these days, and the dogs didn't seem to like the americans. They could go back to China for all he cared, but they paid well, so he kept his mouth shut.
She wore a soft rose tonight. Her voluptuous form was wrapped skin tight in the supple silk, it made him rock hard just to look at her. Her english was harsh and broken, not that he cared what she had to say. Women like her were good for only one thing, and he would get it, if he had to hold her down and take it himself.
She inhaled deeply, her lucious chest heaving as her dead lungs filled with stagnant air. To any it would seem completely normal, but to her, it ached. She longed to breathe, to live again, but such would not happen. Her life had ended violently over four decades previous, though the chi coursing through her undead veins kept her well preserved. She looked no more then twenty, and really she wasn't. Sold to a geisha mother at the tender age of eleven, it was not much unlike being sold into slavery. By twelve, her virginity had been taken, ripped from her along with her innocence. She lived the life of a whore, an entertainer. She had no freedom, no purity, no comfort. She was a product of her surroundings, and nothing more. Never had she known happiness, desire was a sin. She was a servant, and though paid well, freedom of choice was a luxury she could not afford. Love was a lie, passion was unforgivable. She was kept physically safe, for a time being.By her 19th birthday, she had been hired to perform at a certain business party. Having attempted to decline due to the attitude of the rather infamous host, she had been prevented by her Geisha mother. The night finally came, and proceeded rather pleasently, until the guests began to leave. The host, a Yakuza of rather high ranking, attempted to take her, unwillingly. She fought him, clinging dearly to her life and celibacy. Her soul became so enraged with his force that it split, and a demon inhabited her, though even he couldn't help her at this point. The Yakuza slaughtered her, heartlessly and dumped her lifeless, bloody body in the harbor, believeing it was to be the end of her.
He had never been so wrong.
Her soul had visited Yomi, the fabled hell of the Japanese. There, it had endured tortures to horrible to imagine. They ripped her to shreds, only to sew her back together to play the cruel game again and again. There is no pain like Yomi, its exquisite agony is burned within you forever.
Unless of course you escape.
She did, in time. Her split soul returned, clawing through the Yomi realms, avoiding the treacherous demons known as the Yama Kings, and in one final agonizing effort, her soul joined her dead husk, and gave her second breath.
When she retruned, revenge was hers. In a blind rage, she found her attacker, and for days feasted upon his sweet flesh, keeping the son of a bitch in a half state of life and death, she fed hungrily on his raw skin and bones. On the fourth day he slipped from the land of the living and she devoured the rest of his corpse.
She had been found by a local Japanese court and converted finally to a Dharma. She had become controlled, once again, and she found her place. After months of difficult training, she proved to be a particularly gifted student.
Of course, in death her passions blew sky high. Everything that she had been denied in life, Lust, greed, hunger and passion became all consuming in death. They ruled her. She became messy and vulgar, rude and confrontational. A restless dragon in the truest sense, she was never the less a powerful opponent. Though her understanding of the arts seemed great as well as her ability to learn, she was not exactly wise. Having feasted near Nagasaki, the demon child had ingested defiled chi, a curse that haunts one for the rest of her unlife.
She left Japan 10 years after her re-birth, in search of conquest in the Americas. Land of oppurtunuties, they called it. Though she didn't believe it. She had arrived there and wandered for many years, streching her imagination and experiencing everything she could find, such was the way of the Thrashing dragon. Reality is a rainbow. Illusionary, but too colorful to ignore. Half life was an abominable state, their goal is to become alive as possible.
And here she was, thirty years later, still fighting for conquest and enlightenment.
She grinned faintly, her eyes sliding up his form as he served her a drink. She smelled sweet, the faint haunting scent of lotus blossoms seemed to follow her, he found that enticing. Her eyes sparkled with musky excitement, and he guessed she wanted him. She would have him, he knew, whether she wanted it so or not.
He wasn't an unattractive man, and he had his own share of women. Sandy brow hair and dark emerald eyes gave him that 'all american' appeal so many woman seemed to chase, and though his face was pockmarked from adolescent acne, women didn't seem to notice. A large built frame from years as a varsity quarterback hadn't hurt his game either. She wet her lips and he stirred, tilting his own head as she leaned in, whispering close.
'I want you..'
He nodded, grinning widely. So it had begun, the chase was underway. He nodded again finally, his hungry green eyes molesting her supple form, down her hips, murmuring in response. His breath was hot, and acrid. He probably smoked, she noted.
'I know you do baby. I get off in an hour.'
She nodded, pleasently as he leaned back, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust. She would buy him mints, or something. Anything to make it more pleasurable.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Its sickening how comforting the privacy of the mind can be,,,
People are just about as happy as they make their minds up to be.
Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
The leading cause of unhappiness is trading what you need for what you want.
Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more then the next man.
If who I am is what I have, and what I have is lost, who am I?
Better keep yourself clean and bright, you are the window through which you see the world.
Whether I succeed or fail, is no man's doing but my own.
Life's most urgent question is 'What are you doing for others?'.
One kind word can warm 3 winter months.
From the air, things look so ridiculous. Our fears so small, our fights so vain. I wanna pilot a plain with you, so all our problems look small too. Its just an inch from me to you, depending on which map you use.
All successful people have the habit of doing things that failures don't like to do. They don't like doing them either, but their dislike is subordinated by the strength of their purpose.
Love is not a relationship, it is the quality of one's own heart.
Its gonna be alright, no matter what they say. Its gonna be a good day, just wait and see. Its gonna be alright, cuz I'm alright with me. Its gotta be, Its gotta be, Its gotta be.
There are happy singles, and there are unhappy singles. There are happy marrieds and there are unhappy marrieds. there are happy living aloners and there are unhappy living aloners. Regardless of status, chose happy.
It takes a mighty good man to beat no man at all.
Where-so-ever you go, go with all your heart.
Zen masters say god is found in chopping wood and carrying water. That every tiny moment is as it should be. Life is not to be studied, it is to be lived.
Nothing makes a woman more beautiful then the belief she is.
Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
The leading cause of unhappiness is trading what you need for what you want.
Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more then the next man.
If who I am is what I have, and what I have is lost, who am I?
Better keep yourself clean and bright, you are the window through which you see the world.
Whether I succeed or fail, is no man's doing but my own.
Life's most urgent question is 'What are you doing for others?'.
One kind word can warm 3 winter months.
From the air, things look so ridiculous. Our fears so small, our fights so vain. I wanna pilot a plain with you, so all our problems look small too. Its just an inch from me to you, depending on which map you use.
All successful people have the habit of doing things that failures don't like to do. They don't like doing them either, but their dislike is subordinated by the strength of their purpose.
Love is not a relationship, it is the quality of one's own heart.
Its gonna be alright, no matter what they say. Its gonna be a good day, just wait and see. Its gonna be alright, cuz I'm alright with me. Its gotta be, Its gotta be, Its gotta be.
There are happy singles, and there are unhappy singles. There are happy marrieds and there are unhappy marrieds. there are happy living aloners and there are unhappy living aloners. Regardless of status, chose happy.
It takes a mighty good man to beat no man at all.
Where-so-ever you go, go with all your heart.
Zen masters say god is found in chopping wood and carrying water. That every tiny moment is as it should be. Life is not to be studied, it is to be lived.
Nothing makes a woman more beautiful then the belief she is.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Wouldn't know hat to do with another chance, if you gave it to me...
I'm sitting here listening to Fiona apple, pissed off out of my mind.
2 men I considered friends abandonned me this week. Its really been fantastic all around. No, really, I mean it.
I spilled the full story to Angie tonight. Felt good to let it out to a sympathetic ear. I'm still moody and indecisive though. I try to shrug it off like it doesn't matter.
I still feel the sting of rejection. Why isn't my friendship enough for some people? Why does it have to be more? I guess really, the fact that they want more should be flattering, but the fact that they turn down contact at all with me because I won't be 'theirs' is reason enough to walk away with my head high. I won't be someone's property. I can't.
Out of sight out of mind I guess.
I feel full of rage and depression right now.
Why doesn't my happiness matter to my 'friends'?
2 men I considered friends abandonned me this week. Its really been fantastic all around. No, really, I mean it.
I spilled the full story to Angie tonight. Felt good to let it out to a sympathetic ear. I'm still moody and indecisive though. I try to shrug it off like it doesn't matter.
I still feel the sting of rejection. Why isn't my friendship enough for some people? Why does it have to be more? I guess really, the fact that they want more should be flattering, but the fact that they turn down contact at all with me because I won't be 'theirs' is reason enough to walk away with my head high. I won't be someone's property. I can't.
Out of sight out of mind I guess.
I feel full of rage and depression right now.
Why doesn't my happiness matter to my 'friends'?
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Big black horse and a Cherry Tree.
You should be stronger than me
You been here 7 years longer than me
Don't you know you're supposed to be the man,
Not pale in comparison to who you think I am,
You always wanna talk it through - I don't care!
I always have to comfort you when I'm there
But that's what I need you to do - stroke my hair!
Cos' I've forgotten all of young love's joy,
Feel like a lady, but you my lady boy,'
I love this song. Love love love. I'm sitting here, listening to it. It reminds me so much of my past relationships its scary. Is it bad that I want someone to sweep me off my feet? I guess I shouldn't add fuel to the chauvanistic fire, but neither should I lie to myself about the kind of man I want.
I'm tired of feeling alone.
I managed to get some time off work. Plans for the weekend. I should be smiling.
./sigh
You been here 7 years longer than me
Don't you know you're supposed to be the man,
Not pale in comparison to who you think I am,
You always wanna talk it through - I don't care!
I always have to comfort you when I'm there
But that's what I need you to do - stroke my hair!
Cos' I've forgotten all of young love's joy,
Feel like a lady, but you my lady boy,'
I love this song. Love love love. I'm sitting here, listening to it. It reminds me so much of my past relationships its scary. Is it bad that I want someone to sweep me off my feet? I guess I shouldn't add fuel to the chauvanistic fire, but neither should I lie to myself about the kind of man I want.
I'm tired of feeling alone.
I managed to get some time off work. Plans for the weekend. I should be smiling.
./sigh
Monday, July 02, 2007
Who the fuck is Alice?
I'm tryng to expand my horizons. Its working fairly well I think.
I'm getting really tired of being that shy, forgettable girl. I have a hard time showing people who I really am because I'm so mortified of rejection.
You know what I realized?
It doesn't fucking matter.
Who cares if so and so doesn't like me? Is the world going to implode? Will the planets stop revolving around the sun? Will mars crash into the earth?
No? So what the fuck have you got to be scared of then?
I'm Bright. I'm pretty cute (I think?) I'm passionate, and mature, and a genuinely good person. It took me 25 years to figure this out, but not a day too late I'm sure. So what does that mean to me? well for starters, I don't have to settle for the crappy relationships I have in the past. I know in my head what kinda guy I want, but in most cases I'll convince myself that particular flaws can be overlooked because of other things.
They can't.
I don't need to be in a relationship to be happy. I've known men who cheat. Men who lie. Men who steal. Men who make you love them, and then change their minds. Why do I need a person like that in my life? I'm just starting to build up my self esteem for really, the first time in my life. I'm confident. I'm smiling. I'd rather be on my own and lonely, then laying next to someone and being lonely.
I value everything every one of my relationships has taught me, and I try to walk away with my head held high, but looking back, I put up with a lot of shit because I didn't think I was worth it.
That changes today.
I've been working very hard the last week to push myself out of my shell, and bask in the joy of being content. I'm not all the way there, I still tend to be meek at times, but all in all its going very well. Hell, I even went down to the tattoo parlour last week to get my tattoo priced. I was SO terrified but proud of myself afterwards. I went on my own, before I wouldn't have ever done that. (they'll call me in a week or so when its ready, she had to play with it) Of course, Angie's coming with me to have it done. They didn't build Rome in a day.
I'm reading about buddhism. I like what I'm reading so far.
I guess this is enough for today. I'll make more posts soon.
I'm getting really tired of being that shy, forgettable girl. I have a hard time showing people who I really am because I'm so mortified of rejection.
You know what I realized?
It doesn't fucking matter.
Who cares if so and so doesn't like me? Is the world going to implode? Will the planets stop revolving around the sun? Will mars crash into the earth?
No? So what the fuck have you got to be scared of then?
I'm Bright. I'm pretty cute (I think?) I'm passionate, and mature, and a genuinely good person. It took me 25 years to figure this out, but not a day too late I'm sure. So what does that mean to me? well for starters, I don't have to settle for the crappy relationships I have in the past. I know in my head what kinda guy I want, but in most cases I'll convince myself that particular flaws can be overlooked because of other things.
They can't.
I don't need to be in a relationship to be happy. I've known men who cheat. Men who lie. Men who steal. Men who make you love them, and then change their minds. Why do I need a person like that in my life? I'm just starting to build up my self esteem for really, the first time in my life. I'm confident. I'm smiling. I'd rather be on my own and lonely, then laying next to someone and being lonely.
I value everything every one of my relationships has taught me, and I try to walk away with my head held high, but looking back, I put up with a lot of shit because I didn't think I was worth it.
That changes today.
I've been working very hard the last week to push myself out of my shell, and bask in the joy of being content. I'm not all the way there, I still tend to be meek at times, but all in all its going very well. Hell, I even went down to the tattoo parlour last week to get my tattoo priced. I was SO terrified but proud of myself afterwards. I went on my own, before I wouldn't have ever done that. (they'll call me in a week or so when its ready, she had to play with it) Of course, Angie's coming with me to have it done. They didn't build Rome in a day.
I'm reading about buddhism. I like what I'm reading so far.
I guess this is enough for today. I'll make more posts soon.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
angels
Last night the angels cried for me..
their beautiful faces hung low
heavenly voices sobbing softly
tears drifting like snow
They looked at me and murmured
"Why must you act this way?"
I looked at them and winced a little
I wasn't sure what to say.
"How can you understand me
How can you hope to know
How can you even hope to see
the darkness which my mind goes?"
They looked at me and shook their heads
They even moved away
"How can we reach a girl like this?"
they had the nerve to say
I may find comfort in my world
But that doesn't mean to say
That you couldn't reach me if you tried
If you cared that is, anyway.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Astrud Gilberto. The girl from ipanema.
Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gently
That when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
Oh, but he watches so sadly -
How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead – not at he…
Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
Oh, but he sees her so sadly -How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead – not at he…
Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
She just doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
But she doesn’t see…
She doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gently
That when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
Oh, but he watches so sadly -
How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead – not at he…
Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
Oh, but he sees her so sadly -How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead – not at he…
Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
She just doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
But she doesn’t see…
She doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Serenity prayer
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Blue's your hue, you tiny thing...
Eyes as ebon as charred coal. She stared at me from across the room, soft bangs tumbling over her face, pale and transparent as silk. Her hair, mimicked her eyes in hue and texture. It was strange to see her staring at me like that. There was no shame in her eyes. When they met mine, she didn't turn away. Tendrils formed from the shadows. Hooking me. Praying on me. I was her feast. She was my predator. And yet, there was nothing sexual about the way her hungry eyes probed me. Hypnotic maybe.
Maybe something else entirely.
Soft blue gauzy fabric clung to her like a cloud. Of course, even without the gown the woman seemed to have an unearthly quality about her. The french had a saying for it, but I don't know what it is. Regardless, I found quickly I could not turn away. Music throbbed like a vein, giving life and oxygen to the masses starving for something. Alcohol, sex, love. Did it matter, really? The music fed them, nourished them. It protected them under its wing. It soothed their wounds, and it didn't care who you were. Lyrics didn't discriminate the way people did.
I could understand why people practically lived here.
There was something for everything after all. A beer to nurse your broken heart away, and if that didn't work, there was always a whore to be had, who was happy to listen as long as you kept her glass full. I wondered if the woman in blue was a whore. I doubted it though. She was an artist. I could see it in the way she looked at me. She was commiting every line of my flesh to memory. She would savour it later with a pencil in one hand, and a canvass in the other. I knew, I looked at people the same way.
If she was a whore, she would be an expensive one.
I tried to imagine what it would be like, to be her. She would have suitors, I imagine. Wealthy men, with wives at home. Would she care for them? Of course not. Women like her didn't love. They cared, perhaps, but not enough to tie them down. Women like that were strong. They were brave. They needed nothing more out of life then the company of a man, better left a stranger for all intents and purposes. They didn't need to marry, they needed only stability.
I wondered what would happen to her when her beauty faded.
A husk. A mere fragment of what she was. I could see her now, standing in front of the bar, twenty years hence. Her face, once smooth as porcelain was now wrinkled as yesterday's clothes. Eyes sunken in, accented with bags, dark crescent moons that could not have been darker had she painted them on herself. I imagine her in the same blue dress, hideous sagging breasts hanging low now, despite the wonder bra. She pretends to not notice how much she missed, how she passed her entire life away for mere cash. What had she now? A nice house? A nice car? Certainly no steady income now, unless she'd reduced herself to whoring, but she wouldn't have made enough money doing that anyway.
Would I be any better off?
Maybe something else entirely.
Soft blue gauzy fabric clung to her like a cloud. Of course, even without the gown the woman seemed to have an unearthly quality about her. The french had a saying for it, but I don't know what it is. Regardless, I found quickly I could not turn away. Music throbbed like a vein, giving life and oxygen to the masses starving for something. Alcohol, sex, love. Did it matter, really? The music fed them, nourished them. It protected them under its wing. It soothed their wounds, and it didn't care who you were. Lyrics didn't discriminate the way people did.
I could understand why people practically lived here.
There was something for everything after all. A beer to nurse your broken heart away, and if that didn't work, there was always a whore to be had, who was happy to listen as long as you kept her glass full. I wondered if the woman in blue was a whore. I doubted it though. She was an artist. I could see it in the way she looked at me. She was commiting every line of my flesh to memory. She would savour it later with a pencil in one hand, and a canvass in the other. I knew, I looked at people the same way.
If she was a whore, she would be an expensive one.
I tried to imagine what it would be like, to be her. She would have suitors, I imagine. Wealthy men, with wives at home. Would she care for them? Of course not. Women like her didn't love. They cared, perhaps, but not enough to tie them down. Women like that were strong. They were brave. They needed nothing more out of life then the company of a man, better left a stranger for all intents and purposes. They didn't need to marry, they needed only stability.
I wondered what would happen to her when her beauty faded.
A husk. A mere fragment of what she was. I could see her now, standing in front of the bar, twenty years hence. Her face, once smooth as porcelain was now wrinkled as yesterday's clothes. Eyes sunken in, accented with bags, dark crescent moons that could not have been darker had she painted them on herself. I imagine her in the same blue dress, hideous sagging breasts hanging low now, despite the wonder bra. She pretends to not notice how much she missed, how she passed her entire life away for mere cash. What had she now? A nice house? A nice car? Certainly no steady income now, unless she'd reduced herself to whoring, but she wouldn't have made enough money doing that anyway.
Would I be any better off?
The one and only.
'Miss...?'
The little voice drew Andromeda out of her reverie. Her head twisted, pulling her eyes precariously from the window, to the child standing at her feet. Little fingers clutched her pant leg, pleading brown eyes upturned. Innocence incarnate. She smiled gently and nodded, leaning down to scoop the little boy into her arms.
'Yes, Samuel?'
'N-N-nofin...' And with that he flung his arms around her shoulders and buried his little face into her neck. She sighed. Everything that she'd done, had been precisely for this moment. She'd done everything to save humanity, but lost the one person who'd ment the most to her in the process. She felt the familiar pain in the back of her throat and bit her lip to quell the rising emotions.
Not here. Not now.
He was gone. The One. She'd watched him as he was destroyed with her own to eyes, but suddenly, it didn't seem like it was enough. She smoothed her hand over Samuel's back as the student clung to her, her eyes shifting back to the window. She scanned the horizon. She could feel him. He was dead, but he was gathering strength.
You can't kill the antithesis of life.
She realized that now. It had seemed all fine and dandy at the time. They'd been clustered there together. She remembered it well. She'd been foolish then, to think it would last. He was older then humanity itself, how naive had she been to think that they, a ragtag band of mortals could destroy... him.
She wished Cyprien was here now. She could use his arms around her.
So much had happened since then. They'd all grown apart regardless of what meaningless promises they'd made. She'd moved away, out of the city. It had been too hard to stay there with the memories of him haunting her every waking moment. She couldn't bear to sleep in their flat, let alone their bed. So she'd picked up, and moved on. She was outside of the city now, living in the outskirts. She'd opened up a school, for the 'gifted'. Samuel here, was her prize student. Even at the tender age of 4, his learning abilities surpassed even her own. He would certainly be an asset.
Assuming the poor child had time enough to grow up.
Irritated clouds, bloated and heavy bore their way across the sky, inch by painful inch. It would storm soon, she knew.
It was starting all over again.
The little voice drew Andromeda out of her reverie. Her head twisted, pulling her eyes precariously from the window, to the child standing at her feet. Little fingers clutched her pant leg, pleading brown eyes upturned. Innocence incarnate. She smiled gently and nodded, leaning down to scoop the little boy into her arms.
'Yes, Samuel?'
'N-N-nofin...' And with that he flung his arms around her shoulders and buried his little face into her neck. She sighed. Everything that she'd done, had been precisely for this moment. She'd done everything to save humanity, but lost the one person who'd ment the most to her in the process. She felt the familiar pain in the back of her throat and bit her lip to quell the rising emotions.
Not here. Not now.
He was gone. The One. She'd watched him as he was destroyed with her own to eyes, but suddenly, it didn't seem like it was enough. She smoothed her hand over Samuel's back as the student clung to her, her eyes shifting back to the window. She scanned the horizon. She could feel him. He was dead, but he was gathering strength.
You can't kill the antithesis of life.
She realized that now. It had seemed all fine and dandy at the time. They'd been clustered there together. She remembered it well. She'd been foolish then, to think it would last. He was older then humanity itself, how naive had she been to think that they, a ragtag band of mortals could destroy... him.
She wished Cyprien was here now. She could use his arms around her.
So much had happened since then. They'd all grown apart regardless of what meaningless promises they'd made. She'd moved away, out of the city. It had been too hard to stay there with the memories of him haunting her every waking moment. She couldn't bear to sleep in their flat, let alone their bed. So she'd picked up, and moved on. She was outside of the city now, living in the outskirts. She'd opened up a school, for the 'gifted'. Samuel here, was her prize student. Even at the tender age of 4, his learning abilities surpassed even her own. He would certainly be an asset.
Assuming the poor child had time enough to grow up.
Irritated clouds, bloated and heavy bore their way across the sky, inch by painful inch. It would storm soon, she knew.
It was starting all over again.
Madre De Dolor
There is no beginning.
No fraction of time where everything simply existed. No millisecond when something decided to live. No minute when the seas awoke, when the sun shone, when the mountains rose.
It is illogical to assume any story has a beginning. Any tale can be traced along its roots, to threads woven before it. Ideas, like matter, aren't created. They simply change form. Gas to liquid, revolutionary to renaissance. The art was always there, shifting, molding, melting, existing.
It seems unimportant then, where we choose to begin our tale.
Here, lies our 'Madre'. A woman named for the trauma that she would solely bring to pass, on humanity. The mother of sorrow. A beast, a burden, a flower.
Humankind. A strange breed. So afraid of ambiguity, they shun it. Rigid, uncaring, and essentially a dying race.
And so their god sent this woman. To heal them, to lead them, to bear their saviour, his son, who'd in turn, rescue them from their earthly shackles. But the Madre decided to delay her task.
Bolero. Ravel's Bolero
She knelt. Arms horizontal, palms up, head back. Naked as the day she was born, mutilated by helter skelter, frightening scars. Lacerations down her back, covering her spine and ribs. Incisions through her arms, burns on her legs, lesions on her breasts.
Now, the question arises. Why on earth would anyone do this to themselves? What would posses this woman to be consumed by her desire to bleed?
Mortal sin. Immortal sin. Riteous decisions. Deluded thought. Perhaps, if you asked her, she might tell you. She might... but then again she'd most likely attack you for spying.
Shame on you, mortal brother. Let not your curiosity sway you from your purpose.
She shifted, attention torn. Tears of blood crept down her face.
She sat, palms in the air, head tilted back. Raven locks tumbled down the marred flesh of her back. Skin pale, amber eyes closed, breathing steady. Quiet. Nude. The dark cotton that so often hugged her thin form was gone. Blood, puss, open wounds. Dark scars, crusting flesh.
Why would she do that? You wonder. An ache, a pain, a need to belong. She hurts. She bleeds. She is purity, and she is death. She is life, and she is evil. A contradiction in the truest sense, brings conflict within oneself. To live, or to die? Neither choice seems reasonable, or attainable. One who cannot feel, cannot live. And to forsake her life force now would be tragedy for humanity. To bleed is to feel, and to die. Life force escaping, pain becomes real, and the twin souls may once again unite.
Lies, truths, fiction, reality. In a world such as this, they become inseparable. Undeterminable. A world as this, filled with passions unfelt by mortals. A world of realities so incomprehensible its frightening. A wonderland, filled with loves more authentic than you've ever felt, of passion, intensity, amour, but contradicted by frightening shadows. Heralding from the darkness, beasts larger then fiction, with teeth that bite and claws that scratch. Beware the Jabberwock my son!
This, dying woman comes from the world. The wonderland, the world of dreams. A reality that you mortal, yearn for. You might as well recognize her spirit. Magdalene. Mother. Nurturer. Race to her, child before she wakes! Cling to her, love her, but despise her. She is a beast, a danger, a scourge. Slay her child, before her time is near, and before she slays you!
Quick, child. Quick. Don't watch her, act. Act now. She'll find you, and she'll slay you.
She stirred, a tongue darted from pale lips, caressing the dry flesh. She moved, gently. Amber eyes flickered towards you.
She knelt, before the black altar. Deep in the home of her crypt, the stench of decay assaults you. Bare knees cupped together. Spine arched, palms raised. A receptacle. Raven locks swung, pushed by an unseen attender. Dark eyes shifted beneath pale lids. Porcelain skin marred by tears of blood. Lashes curled, clotted. Puckered wounds danced along her flesh. Pain. Scarring, blood, puss, infection. Gaping, reaching, desperate flesh, mourning, hating, loving. Nude but for the ribbons in her hair. You wonder where she got them..?
Scars, wounds, pain. They're of her own doing, her own making. Talented with the knife, the eternal medication. If your hand does sin, cut it off, he said. She attempted to fillet off the offending flesh, to no avail. In the limbo of life and death, she did what she could to remain balanced. Too much life, too much death. Neither would do. To exist, one must dance precariously between the two, an art that humanity had yet to master. Perhaps Asia came closes, but the western world seemed oblivious to the concept of balance. Life and death, pain and joy. Each tugged on each other for dominance. Each pained her equally. To remain indifferent was a much easier task then to live. To exist is simplicity. To be -real- was a challenge. The key to this, was unity.
Ambiguity. A concept most of us hide from. An ideal so incomprehensible that we stick our heads in the sand and feign ignorance. If there was no life, there'd be no death. No shadows if not for light. No happiness if not for tragedy, no feeling if not for numb. Humanity attempts in many cases to ignore half of the equation. To run from sin, to hide in the light, to strive to be happy, and to live, disregarding that to truly be living, unity has to be attained. And so, in this world, mortals face loves that are bland. Diluted by an ignorance of loss. Lights that could be far much brighter if they dwelt in the dark. Lives that would attain harmony if they indulged in sin, and to truly live, unafraid of death. That fair child, is the key to eternity, to immortality, to true freedom. Love and life, death and hate, each emotion more powerful when experienced to its true potential, with its partner.
This woman, a dying, frail beast. Shunned and revered. Hunted and worshipped. A living expression of life, an escaping expression of death. She is essence, spirit mind and body. Confidence, paranoia, bittersweet. You want her, you hate her. Confused, conflicted. Reality is a rainbow, and your duty my child, is to savour, each of these colors. Cry, laugh, sing, mourn. Each is to be experienced in sequence, rather then half. You will find young one, if you listen to the words of the Madre, your life with take on new colors. You too, will arrive in wonderland. That secret society you've been searching for all your life.
Listen child. Open your ears. Cease to exist, and begin to live. I beg you.
And this story, having no beginning, will neither have an end.
No fraction of time where everything simply existed. No millisecond when something decided to live. No minute when the seas awoke, when the sun shone, when the mountains rose.
It is illogical to assume any story has a beginning. Any tale can be traced along its roots, to threads woven before it. Ideas, like matter, aren't created. They simply change form. Gas to liquid, revolutionary to renaissance. The art was always there, shifting, molding, melting, existing.
It seems unimportant then, where we choose to begin our tale.
Here, lies our 'Madre'. A woman named for the trauma that she would solely bring to pass, on humanity. The mother of sorrow. A beast, a burden, a flower.
Humankind. A strange breed. So afraid of ambiguity, they shun it. Rigid, uncaring, and essentially a dying race.
And so their god sent this woman. To heal them, to lead them, to bear their saviour, his son, who'd in turn, rescue them from their earthly shackles. But the Madre decided to delay her task.
Bolero. Ravel's Bolero
She knelt. Arms horizontal, palms up, head back. Naked as the day she was born, mutilated by helter skelter, frightening scars. Lacerations down her back, covering her spine and ribs. Incisions through her arms, burns on her legs, lesions on her breasts.
Now, the question arises. Why on earth would anyone do this to themselves? What would posses this woman to be consumed by her desire to bleed?
Mortal sin. Immortal sin. Riteous decisions. Deluded thought. Perhaps, if you asked her, she might tell you. She might... but then again she'd most likely attack you for spying.
Shame on you, mortal brother. Let not your curiosity sway you from your purpose.
She shifted, attention torn. Tears of blood crept down her face.
She sat, palms in the air, head tilted back. Raven locks tumbled down the marred flesh of her back. Skin pale, amber eyes closed, breathing steady. Quiet. Nude. The dark cotton that so often hugged her thin form was gone. Blood, puss, open wounds. Dark scars, crusting flesh.
Why would she do that? You wonder. An ache, a pain, a need to belong. She hurts. She bleeds. She is purity, and she is death. She is life, and she is evil. A contradiction in the truest sense, brings conflict within oneself. To live, or to die? Neither choice seems reasonable, or attainable. One who cannot feel, cannot live. And to forsake her life force now would be tragedy for humanity. To bleed is to feel, and to die. Life force escaping, pain becomes real, and the twin souls may once again unite.
Lies, truths, fiction, reality. In a world such as this, they become inseparable. Undeterminable. A world as this, filled with passions unfelt by mortals. A world of realities so incomprehensible its frightening. A wonderland, filled with loves more authentic than you've ever felt, of passion, intensity, amour, but contradicted by frightening shadows. Heralding from the darkness, beasts larger then fiction, with teeth that bite and claws that scratch. Beware the Jabberwock my son!
This, dying woman comes from the world. The wonderland, the world of dreams. A reality that you mortal, yearn for. You might as well recognize her spirit. Magdalene. Mother. Nurturer. Race to her, child before she wakes! Cling to her, love her, but despise her. She is a beast, a danger, a scourge. Slay her child, before her time is near, and before she slays you!
Quick, child. Quick. Don't watch her, act. Act now. She'll find you, and she'll slay you.
She stirred, a tongue darted from pale lips, caressing the dry flesh. She moved, gently. Amber eyes flickered towards you.
She knelt, before the black altar. Deep in the home of her crypt, the stench of decay assaults you. Bare knees cupped together. Spine arched, palms raised. A receptacle. Raven locks swung, pushed by an unseen attender. Dark eyes shifted beneath pale lids. Porcelain skin marred by tears of blood. Lashes curled, clotted. Puckered wounds danced along her flesh. Pain. Scarring, blood, puss, infection. Gaping, reaching, desperate flesh, mourning, hating, loving. Nude but for the ribbons in her hair. You wonder where she got them..?
Scars, wounds, pain. They're of her own doing, her own making. Talented with the knife, the eternal medication. If your hand does sin, cut it off, he said. She attempted to fillet off the offending flesh, to no avail. In the limbo of life and death, she did what she could to remain balanced. Too much life, too much death. Neither would do. To exist, one must dance precariously between the two, an art that humanity had yet to master. Perhaps Asia came closes, but the western world seemed oblivious to the concept of balance. Life and death, pain and joy. Each tugged on each other for dominance. Each pained her equally. To remain indifferent was a much easier task then to live. To exist is simplicity. To be -real- was a challenge. The key to this, was unity.
Ambiguity. A concept most of us hide from. An ideal so incomprehensible that we stick our heads in the sand and feign ignorance. If there was no life, there'd be no death. No shadows if not for light. No happiness if not for tragedy, no feeling if not for numb. Humanity attempts in many cases to ignore half of the equation. To run from sin, to hide in the light, to strive to be happy, and to live, disregarding that to truly be living, unity has to be attained. And so, in this world, mortals face loves that are bland. Diluted by an ignorance of loss. Lights that could be far much brighter if they dwelt in the dark. Lives that would attain harmony if they indulged in sin, and to truly live, unafraid of death. That fair child, is the key to eternity, to immortality, to true freedom. Love and life, death and hate, each emotion more powerful when experienced to its true potential, with its partner.
This woman, a dying, frail beast. Shunned and revered. Hunted and worshipped. A living expression of life, an escaping expression of death. She is essence, spirit mind and body. Confidence, paranoia, bittersweet. You want her, you hate her. Confused, conflicted. Reality is a rainbow, and your duty my child, is to savour, each of these colors. Cry, laugh, sing, mourn. Each is to be experienced in sequence, rather then half. You will find young one, if you listen to the words of the Madre, your life with take on new colors. You too, will arrive in wonderland. That secret society you've been searching for all your life.
Listen child. Open your ears. Cease to exist, and begin to live. I beg you.
And this story, having no beginning, will neither have an end.
Andromeda
Panting.
In. Out. In. Out.
Short, shallow, ragged breaths.
Cold steel pressed against the side of her face, she struggled to get her breathing under control. Peering around the corner, she held the weapon close. Eyes narrowing, she pushed herself up off of her knees, cautioning herself against any sudden movements. Creeping, slowly, with painstaking caution. Suddenly a series of shots are rounded off into the air. Count them.
One… Two… Three… Four…
A gargling sound, and a loud thump. A body drops to the floor, but in the darkness its impossible to tell whom it belonged too. Two more. She cursed, silently. There’s no telling who heard them, and she supposed it was safe to say her cover had been blown. The siren began to throb.
She rolled her eyes. Just great, just… fucking… great…
Suddenly the lights flickered on. She pushed herself up onto the balls of her feet, and rounded the corner. He was standing there, hands on his hips, eyeing her. She grunted, shoving the pistol home into the holster pressed against her thigh. Her hands dropped awkwardly to her sides, and she shifted her weigh uncomfortably on her feet. His gaze always made her self-conscious. Resisting the urge to fold her arms protectively across her chest, she knew he hated that.
"Three out of four. Not bad, but not brilliant either, considering you’d be dead by now on the field."
She grunted, obviously unappreciative of his analysis. Always treating her like a puppy, or a child. She’d like to see him to better, sometime. Avoiding eye contact just in ‘case’. He had a creepy way of knowing which direction her mind leapt in some cases, and the last thing she needed right now was to give him any provocation. She stood stiffly and uncomfortably, staring at the floor. Silent, she waited. Andromeda never wanted to be the first to speak; especially with the way things had been lately. He let her off the hook.
"Right, well that’s enough for today. Go clean yourself up and come down for dinner."
She cast him a seething glare, but remained silent. A subtle nod of her head, she spun on her heel, stalking towards the door. Stepping carefully over the mannequins now littering the tile floor she moved like quicksilver. He called to her and she waited, tilting her head over her shoulder as he spoke.
‘You did well tonight, Thirteen."
She paused for a moment, and continued her trek without a response.
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