Write.
March 3, 2013

“I think I need to write again. I need to feel words roll through my brain and hesitate at my lips and then fall down out of my fingers and into the blank foggy space stretching ahead of me. Because lately there’s just so much blank space out there and the fog is getting thicker and I lost my lantern and I’m thinking and thinking and thinking about each step, analyzing every consequence that can arise from this small nudge of my cumbersome leaden feet against the earth below me.” 

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Strangers.
March 3, 2013

It hits the ground with a finality I didn’t know could exist.

The residual flames burn amber against the grit.

Your eyes trail my every move.

Those eyes.

The damn eyes that linger in my mind like a scalding touch on an ice cold skin.

It’s a dance.

A dance we’ve danced since the day we met.

The freight of being caught only heightened the attraction.

We used it, reveled in it.

And to think it began as a game. A challenge.

Nothing more than an exciting play.

But things turned real too soon.

A little too fucking real.

A little too fucking scary.

Clasped hands and stolen kisses and pressed bodies.

The secrets, the lies, the cloak and dagger, it let doubt cast its shadow over us.

A doubt that brings nothing but pain.

A pain that ultimately leads us.. away from one another.

In the game of secrets and seduction there is only one rule; Don’t fall in love.

And at the end of it, it all leaves us nothing but.. strangers.

“I love you also means I love you more than anyone loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that no one loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that I love no one else, and never have loved anyone else, and never will love anyone else.”
Jonathan Safran Foer

Decadence of Neglect.
December 1, 2012

I’m coming back soon, I promise.

School started in a whole different continent from the place I call home in case anyone was wondering, and it’s been pretty much a crazy whirlwind of a ride.

Worry not though, major narcissism speaking, yes,  because I’ve missed this place. I miss tucking secrets between that come out only half right through half-forgotten memories and transcribed from the half smeared words on napkins that can only hope to be half-understood because, as always, their meaning gets misplaced between between my lips and dissolve under my tongue descending into words of half-laced lies scribbled carelessly by half dried pens found in the darkest nooks of my bag.

Naturally, I’ve begun rambling. Rather incoherently, as always, but the point of this was to say that this little space in the middle of nowhere where nobody is hardly now here is not forgotten. Profoundly neglected perhaps. But not forgotten.

“Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.
Truman Capote.