| prelude. |
[March 31st, 2016 / 7:38am] |
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" How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live. "
Henry David Thoreau
My life and my words. This journal will house it all. Are you sure you wanna venture forward?
yes or no.
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| waste: part I of V. |
[June 2nd, 2006 / 7:22pm] |
the people were cold. dressed up in sheaths of black silk and knife-bright diamonds, they moved around the room like automatons. no smiles, no laughs. just the incessant hum of genteel conversation. she didn’t understand. it wasn’t polite to talk about the art at the said art’s opening, but there was a feeling of apprehension at her spine. the quiet was getting to her. tapping french tips against glass, her lips parted in a sigh so quiet that not even she heard. in front of her there was a painting. ceiling to floor. floor to ceiling. a rainbow of colors, splattered onto canvas into something that would not only cause reverence to flow through a crowd of patrons, but also cause confusion to spread over the face of the uncultured.
“i hate it.”
bold words
matched with a face that belonged to an ancient bust, not floating among art critics and pretend sophisticates. black hair combed back into a ponytail with strays down around his cheeks that mismatched the style, and colorless eyes. in this light, they looked lilac. but, in any other, they would look green. blue. brown. red. “do you?” she asked with a slick grin. as slick as the dusty rose champagne in her glass. tipping it back, it was finished. the man turned to face her. he nodded. “is there any certain reason, or do you just simply hate it?”
“trash like this doesn’t deserve an explanation.” “you’re speaking to the artist.” it was then that he laughed. lines framed his colorless eyes and wide-open mouth. silk poured out of it in the shape of wordless rapture. his voice was smooth. it’s syllables wrapped around my limbs and heartstrings like ribbons. but, his laugh. earth-shattering. no one looked away from the equally bland person in front of him. she. she was lost in him. he was lost in his laugh, and she was too.
hand on arm. the laughter stopped. “explain.” the look in his eyes rang out with poignancy. “the artist is his art. your art is confusing to those without a mind to think with. your art is beautiful to those with too much mind to use completely. therefore, your art is a waste. and you, my dear, are a waste of breath, time, space, and adoration.”
“i’ll make you see things differently.”
he laughed again. she was lost. “no, you won’t.”
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[April 15th, 2006 / 5:50pm] |
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| IV. the tide. |
[March 31st, 2006 / 8:29am] |
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" and there's three, count 'em three, children playing on the beach. they were eager to learn, to be taught and to teach. there's veronica: she's biting her lip as she watches the waves turn white at the tip. and there's vada: radiating with joy and luckily she still can't stand the sight of a boy. and lastly there's dade. his hair dances in the wind, and he's wondering what love is and why it has to end "
The Tide:Spill Canvas
i woke up to this song. my eyes were just heavy enough to blur my vision, and my covers were thrown on the floor. i reached over and grabbed the remote to my stereo. repeat. it was beautiful enough to hear over. and over. and over.
i then looked at my clock and groan. green numbers, all with the same glow. 6:30 AM.
i miss sleeping late.
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| III. only human. |
[March 30th, 2006 / 7:30pm] |
“hey.”
oh, hi. i haven’t spoken to you in a while. church camp seems like so long ago. months. ages. eras. it feels like time enough for an empire to fall and one to rise again. sunsets and sunrises. earth turning on its axis. second by minute by hour. if i said that it was too long, it would be an understatement. and i’d hate to lie to you.
i’ve been writing about you...
why are you laughing? is that a blush that i hear, too? and a smile? hah, cute. so, anyway, how’ve you been? good? that’s awesome. per usual, i can’t complain. going to a retreat this weekend. it’s a shame you aren’t going to be there. shannon and you and me. three musketeers, right? but, i guess everyone gets split up sometimes.
you’re never going to read this. but, whatev. it’s good to get this sort of thing out.
i like you.
bryspoon: you’re a boy that i’ve only known for a month or two. you’re a boy that pushed your palm against mine. you‘re a boy that wrapped your arms around me and made me promise that you‘d hear from me again. you’re a boy that made me realize something. that you’re what i want. i don’t want an internet relationship. i don’t want a beefcake, and i don’t want a scenie. i don’t want an egomaniac, and i don’t wnat a boy with 0 self esteem.
you.
i want you.
y’hear me?
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| II. ends. |
[March 30th, 2006 / 6:36pm] |
ten bucks says i’ll never live a life like yours.
so, i got your postcard today. it was windy, and i almost lost it to the northwest, but i held it close to my chest and ran inside. equador. i couldn’t wait to read about it. tossing my backpack on the couch and slumping down beside it, i raised the card to my eyes.
goldie:
“who’s goldie?”
no privacy in a house full of people. i shrugged and looked up at my little sister, annoyed slightly at her disruption, but wearing this perfect thing of a smile. me, of course. “oh.” now go away and let me be jealous in private. thanks. the andes. the amazon. a spa tucked away where only the observant could find. protests and writing in the dark.
placing the postcard on my lap, i stared down at it. the tips of my fingers covering the edges. that was always a habit of mine. touching edges. i feel inclined to trace my hands along the ends of things. always. wrought iron bars. driveways.
and, like you, i wanted to touch the ends of the world.
will you take me next time?
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| I. smilingggg. |
[March 29th, 2006 / 7:19pm] |
it's funny, y'know. how whenever your heart pumps in your chest for someone other than your family and your closest friends. for something other than late-morning cartoons on saturdays and cereal with marshmallows that you always eat first. for some special something. some amazing something. i digress. do you realized that every song you hear reminds you of them? and you always seem to know them, even if you had never heard them before. hah, story of my life.
standing there with my ipod in hand and with my mind and soul open to lyrics mumbled into microphones long shut off, i realize. i realize that i wanna make memories with you. i realize that i wanna hear your voice, soft and whispered, in my ears. i realize that the only silence i wanna hear is the one before you lean over. kiss. smile. shift. repeat. i realize that you are the person that i want this with.
not him.
not him.
not him.
you.
say it, “you.”
last night, shannon told me that she’d talked to you. i was always jealous of her, you know. those hugs that you gave her, whether in a fit of glee or in secret longing. but, yeah, she told me that you’d told her something. i love you. but. there was a but. and, whenever she told me, there was a two-second-silence where i heard her smile. “but, only as a friend.” inside, i felt my universe melt.
she mentioned me. you told her that you missed me. again, i saw little stars in front of my eyes. dancing stars that shined like nothing i’d ever seen before.
“you’re lying, shannon! you’re lying to meeee.” “i’m not!” “ahhh, stop lying to me, shannon! shannon, i’ll never talk to you again!” “abby. shut up. he misses you. the end.”
hah, the end?
the beginning.
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