rina
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2007 28 February :: 9.20pm
:: Mood: busy
:: Music: beautiful never - mstu
confirmations/revelations
you don't know what you're doing here, really, or if it'll change anything. the sky above villengarde is bright, cloudless; different from how you left it. you can imagine factories smudging black against the skyline, the mirage fade-out of heat swelling over fields.
it's just green now.
the sun blazes down and you squint upwards, right hand covering your forehead as the other rests comfortably on your hip.
this is new. different.
you stare up so long that you feel like you aren't grounded, just seconds from floating up and away, away, away.
away, away, away. into the blue.
above even this you know its all just black, full of swirling gases and cosmic dust and stars waiting to die. but you still stare, almost longingly (re: desperately), and inside you know its an illusion of perfection.
(freedom hangs like heaven over everyone).
why? you ask, and you think you feel a breeze.
you try asking again, but there's no reply. the banana palms sway to themselves, casting intricate shadows on the grass below, potassium-rich and silent.
sweet words
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rina
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2007 27 February :: 3.50pm
:: Mood: contemplative
:: Music: torchwood
extreme ways to break your arm
later he'll blame it on the alcohol he hasn't been drinking and the hysteria he's never given in to and his own weakness for late twentieth-century science fiction films, which is legitimate, if illaudable.
long coats and too many guns and waking up from your own death - hell, a guy's allowed to identify, right? he's flying, he's out of his depth, he's alice down the fucking rabbit hole.
and as the air resistance becomes a painful crushing force against his ribcage he wonders, insanely, if the concrete will turn to rubber and bounce him upwards.
it doesn't.
sweet words
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rina
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2007 27 February :: 3.06am
:: Mood: pensive
i'm really sort of strange, and i think that's okay.
sweet words
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rina
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2007 25 February :: 1.27am
:: Mood: mellow
:: Music: les jours tristes - yann tiersen
(excuses)
we are not
wild as the wind, she says,
but constricted
to the distance between
passing glances (sighs).
i am struck by the inspiration to write in the simplest of situations: walking back from the kitchen, putting on socks, brushing my teeth.
i need the complete works of edna st. vincent millay, sylvia plath, john keats, and emily dickinson.
sweet words
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