this is the way the world ends
getting fucked with some of your best friends vs. coming home early to finish preparing for an ap art exam the next day.

guess which one i picked, and which one i regret not doing.

i cannot guess what we'll discover.
i love the way sleep smells when you've just woken up from a nap: it's like warmth and comfort wrapped into a new, glowing sensation.

cinematic expressions of inner self-loathing if there are no mirrors to smash
she breathes. pauses.
cloth brushes against her calves calmly,
and clouds are building and boiling over the water.

wind scoops up the fabric of her skirt,
sways and twirls it, an invisible semaphore,
signaling to the tiny faint stars half-erased by the imminent rain.

the dull, greasy feel of a night storm is creeping up under her sleeves,
smearing her cheeks.

she closes her eyes, gathers her karma, and prays for lightning.

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.

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.

(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.

it's odd to have your name used so casually between strangers. sharing something that's just a word, but is really the whole of your being, something that describes you, is you, but simultaneously is just a way of identification.

i want to know if every other person with my name shares my traits, or my ambitions, or my strange tendencies. if we have friends with the same names, if we like the same books, wear the same clothes.



imagine if we didn't have names for things. words made up to express something we feel, even though they're mostly inadequate and they push emotions into little restrictive sentences. it's all so strange.

and i could stay there (make my home there)
alone, again, but it isn't a new sensation.

how everything keeps fitting together and the way things turn to dust are intriguing, at best. but i'm adopting a new policy.

how things were, or are, is no longer the point. ahead of me it feels like a gauzy fabric is wrapped around future packaging; a fog, the kind that drifts and smoothes over the long grasses of fields and leaves dew in its wake.

hopefully, about now, transpiration/condensation/evaporation is still in effect.

i'm not waiting. i'm memorizing the shape of things to come.

transposition
she is unsure how to begin, and tries, inexpertly, to bring all the pieces together, finding how mapped hearts can draw lines from one place and tangle in another. strings, crossing paths, and then forever expelled in the opposite direction.

she is too young to feel this old, and she sighs, and the dim light from the windows are making the room glow at the edges.

it's a long way home

sneezing with a thermometer in your mouth = uncool.


(i am not dependable. these responsibilities of mine give me both purpose and the ability to fail.)

postcards from the beach
she stands quietly (fidgeting, fingers curling against the hem of her shirt) and listens to the breeze rushing by. she thinks it might be like a whisper against her skin (cliched/overrated/underused), like fingertips trailing across her cheekbones, and rippling against her clothes like a lover's careful touch.

the sand is whipped from the ground, and the crashing of waves is like cymbals, heralding a coming storm, a coming end, a coming something. (her ears are ringing; there were fireworks the night before).

she is waiting (forever waiting, the kind that makes her chest ache with the force of it) and she is accepting (not really) and she is understanding (impossible). she is calm.

(her heart is pounding.)

maybe. maybe, but lost, but hope is still within her. (just this once, just this once, just this once.)

she breathes, and the cold rushes in, crushing her lungs, inflating her doubt. (i thought you'd come this time).

the wind wraps around her slowly and she leans into it, feeling for something that is not meant to be.

(maybe next year, she decides.)

i love you, she says into the air, and she closes her eyes against the salty breath of the sea.

i hope that you make it
life is good.

it's hectic and frustrating and stressful, causes loss of sleep and gain in exhaustion, perpetually stays a lightyear ahead of where you ought to be, and is continually full of surprises.

and it's good. i've had more work this week than almost any other, but i have laughed more in the past few days than i did in the past two months.

i accept the trade-off, life. thank you.

are you happy, with your life?
i am more popular with people thousands of miles away!


in other news, i am already itching for summer. i'm going to try to stay in sweden for as long as humanly possible, because i have been aching desperately for it.

(jag längtar efter blå himmel, och gröna skogg, och att känna helt perfekt.)

you want to see what lies can set you free
it always seems to happen this way.
the only difference is i'm not going to waste any time on it.


(i don't really have many friends. closeness is belied by selfishness.)

merry christmas, guys. :)

WHAT IS GOING ON?
i created a deviantart account not fifteen minutes ago. i uploaded three of my most recent pieces (two vectors and a sketch i did in class) and i've already got 3 favorites! within ten or so minutes!

the universe is imploding, i swear to fucking god.

there is life, and there is love, and i think i'm just beginning to understand that.

i feel i must warn you, you've just kissed a sick-y mouth.
i've watched so much that it's come to the point where every thought in my head is said in a rather london-type accent. (it happens to range from billie piper to tasmin greig, depending how long its been since i've thought of either doctor who or green wing).

and it's not even the fact that its english accent in my head, its the fact that i can now somewhat distinguish certain dialects.

london, for example, has a habit of exchanging their th's with f's, while the more northern accent is better at dropping consonants near the end of words. leeds is a bit broader, really, and manchester has a bit of scottish since it's so close to scotland (obviously).

i also use more british-type turns of phrase which i feel almost accustomed to. and when mentioning if something's gone a bit pear-shaped, normally folk just give an arch of their brow and ignore me.

odd, really.