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Desperation and Moral Fibre [25 June 2011 | 8:14pm]

I breathe fire on dampened woods and ignite only heaving coughs.

Blazing smell billows and curls but never grows.

Smoke choking on its own breath, wishing Mother Earth could paint with another colour so that its wisps would only spark into a searing hot flame.

I have been taught that hot friction between kindling and sticks will burst into a fiery mess, I have been taught the ways of the world.

It has rained for days and I am in the depths of forest in each direction my I can see.

And they do not teach you in this world how to live, only what is correct.
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[06 March 2011 | 11:59pm]

and by the way, did i say im just fine?
don't you wish you could go back in time?
you've lost the greatest thing that you have ever had in your life.

i hope the memories never fade away,
i hope you cry, everytime, your reminded of that day.
and it's so sad to say, that this is just a taste.
you're as fake as the makeup you put on your face.


Patterns - Tremble
New Upcoming Band from PA
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Creative. Writing, Piece. [21 February 2011 | 11:06pm]

Have you ever wondered how you would write your own love story? Honestly. None of this "I'm going to bump into him walking down the street, his eyes will meet mine. And we'll be hooked ever since. He'll be handsome, disgustingly rich, and we'll live happily ever after." That's mumbo jumbo we know will most likely not happen.

It doesn't mean we don't wish love could be that easy, but as loving a parent, or a sibling might often tell you, love requires work, and an element of surprise.

Audrey used to tell me that she wondered about fate's role in this department. She had listed off to me everything from using a Ouija board, fortune cookies, dreams, even scribbling a name with your eyes closed on a piece of paper. "As a child, you play with cootie catchers, knowing and not knowing they're real", she said to me, "why would you treat love any differently?"

I won't deny I've done these things as a child. Hell, when I was little, I would play with the chain of my necklace, and gently let it fall onto my table and stare at the shape it made. I was so certain the shape it made was far from random. It had to be, it had to mean something. But throwing an eraser that on one said said "yes" and on the other said "no", seemed much less magical when it came to answering your future's question. Math class turned that into a game of statistics and probability.

You are one in six billion living souls. If the probability of life outside earth is so infinitismally small, chances are, finding someone who will think that you can't snap with your left hand endearing is as possible as you being able to stop time.

And yet people find love. How do they do that? I mean, sitting on a subway, walking down the street, people are holding hands everywhere! I'm not jealous, my fine reader, I promise you that. I'm just stating that it's there. Somewhere between busy schedules and self-journey, there is a binding glue that makes life worthwhile.

I've been told to love myself. To love platonically. The make best friends. To do good deeds. To love another species. Well, I've matured, made friends, joined clubs and have a cat. Now, what?

I'm not taking these things for granted, far from it. If anything, without these solid foundations I probably would have called it a day. Those things I mentioned above are love in its finest form, as of yet. Isn't that horrible? No matter what the human species achieves, it always wants more. Sufficiency is merely a word we decided to write in a dictionary in hopes that one day something we will find will be "just enough".

Here I am, happy as a clam, well, relatively anyhow, and yet my goals perpetually keep me looking forward, for something more. I'm not condemning the idea to dream, to want more. But in this case, I should be content with what I've got, no? In any other circumstance, had I not been raised on 80s family-oriented sitcoms and disney romances, I shouldn't be so infatuated with the idea that someone else could complete me, right?

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm just curious. And that, out of sheer curiosity I'd like to feel something I haven't felt before. I've never owned a car before, and I'd really like to drive. But somehow, when you compare love with driving, it appears as though I'm insulting the magnitude of joy with which love can provide me. But think of it this way: to a person who has experienced neither, both are outlandish and extraordinary. And for a moment, both can make you feel exhilirated. Both will make you work toward responsibility (hopefully), and eventually you will know what you're doing.

But there are car crashes, break downs, divorces, abusive relationships, etc. There are more than enough reasons to steer me in the direction opposite of finding out that which makes me so curious. Am I really just a kid who wants to stick their finger in an electrical socket?

I have absolutely no visual artistic abilities. I'm not kidding when I say I can't do a stick person justice. If I were to paint, I would have no idea how to express the excitement I'd like to feel mixed in with timidness on my subject's rosy cheek as she kissed her beau. Would she be kissing him in the portrait? Where would it be set? What would they be wearing?

You see, my fine reader, when I asked you if you had ever wondered how you would write your own love story, perhaps you did not understand to what extent I was asking that question. It wasn't merely "how will you meet your soulmate?" Because, in all honesty, I've tackled the feasibility whether you will find the be all end all of perfection (not that you should be looking for that, anyway). I'm asking you - would it have been the way you actually started? A nervous kiss during an 8th grade slow dance? Or would it be the first time you actually felt something in a relationship? Does love really start romantically? Can it start with a little girl and a grandmother? A boy and his pet?

I know, I know, it's the chicken and the egg analogy all over again. Fine, I'll simplify myself. What are the lessons you hope to learn from love? Will your love story find someone worth holding onto? Will it marry the wrong person, so long as you had experienced true love once?

Perhaps, to my advantage, I do not paint because I cannot paint. I do not have an eye for the intricacies in life. I do not know how to create the surprise with which life's adage "love comes to those who need it most and expect it least" so easily portrays.

In the back of my mind, I do wonder. Every day. Every face I meet I wonder about their love story. Maybe the boy I sit next to in class I will never see again, and it will mean nothing. Maybe ten years from now he'll publish a book and dedicate it to me, and I will have never known. Maybe next month I'll join a club and serendipitously fall in love with one of my colleagues.

I do not know how it will happen. But, the very least I can tell you, my patient reader, is that I would like there to be sincerity. With each and every step I want there to be an understanding that it was never done in vain. That honesty is not something you just read about, and that people can genuinely care. To feel protected, that you don't have to be alone.

I don't know how I fit into this puzzle of ours. My piece could be next to yours.

My piece, whose contours I've traced in my mind a hundred times, will hopefully teach me that a piece is as only good as the person you make the puzzle with.

Puzzle within a puzzle. Double-image. Stranger than Fiction.

Creative. Writing, Piece.
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For the love of words. [04 January 2011 | 11:47pm]


Tens of years from now, on a dusting tombstone, I'd like this written beneath my name. I may be taking a leaf out of the booklet of a famous Romanian composer, but if that's what it takes to get me to think about death, about life, then so be it.

There's a beauty in language. Some things you simply can't fully translate. Liniste, in Romanian, means several things. In the dictionary it's primary meaning is silence. But in the english language silence is a harsh word that cuts through the air sharply and deadens the atmosphere aburptly. Liniste, as I've always used the word, as I've been taught, means calmness. To be calm, at peace. You could even say the absence of noise. To be in silence, with this word, is to relax and unclench your arms after decades of trying to be the best you can be. Now, as you rest, you are finally free to sleep peacefully. To rest in peace.

All my life I've said words reflexively. Without thought, they come out of my mouth, and I rarely ponder as to what they truly mean. When someone teases you, you say "leave me alone". I don't wan't to be by myself. I'd like them to stop, but I'm quite literally telling them to distance themselves from me, so I don't have to hear it so closely to my heart. I know phrases change with the times, and connotations are not as important as denotations. But my heart isn't as post-structuralist or modern as the times. I look to the past to understand who I am.

In Romanian, if you want to say "leave me alone" it directly translates to "leave me in peace", a phrase that is not so common in the English language anymore. Funny.

Funny because my whole life I never realised that the last word in the Romanian sentence meant "peace". I just always understood it as "leave me alone". My mind, and my mouth were saying two different things, and yet, what I said, I actually wanted to say, and yet never realised it.


Now that's a word that gets tossed around a lot.

I've looked it up in three different languages, and it all has similar meanings. But the meanings in and of themselves are contradictory. One says "the normal, nonwarring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world. " Peace is normal? If only it were so. But even more than that, is peace simply defined through opposition? Just the lack of war? And only war? No. It goes on in its second definition to be defined as an agreement between nations. So now peace is a piece of paper, a concept. A method to end antagonism between warring factions.

Sounds all a bit cold to me.

But then! Then it goes to say peace is mutual harmony, then normal freedoms, then tranquility and serenity. How can one word be so many things? Be so many different things? How can something be so precious, so sought after, if it is normal? Expected?

And then, as you thumb your page down (or scroll down the cyber page), you'll find that peace means stilness. Silence. Liniste.

And to say that two people get along in Romanian, "se impaca bine". A derivative, a conjugation of peace.

The piece of marble headstone that lies six feet above me cannot be an epic. Let it be, like the unknown composer whom I've lost over time. Let it be, a few lines of a favourite emotion you can only fully immerse in through music, and one word.

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Placard [04 January 2011 | 10:08pm]

Love is never gone.

I suppose that's what perpetually haunts humankind. It's a bid of a grandiose statement, I'll admit, but think about it: everything you've ever done has been attached to this one word. You do what you do because you love it. You do things you don't love in order to suffer the necessary punishments and sacrifices to achieve that which you love.


I'm standing in the second house. The carpet is neon green and more alarmingly bright than the grass outside. It's fuzzy like shaggy hair. Carpet should never be this long. It swishes as you walk and reminds me more of an endless mop. It's more green than snot. Outrageous.

I drive myself to the point of distraction.
The second house was a mystery. From the outside, it looked like your average red-brick bungalow. You couldn't really tell how many windows there were. And yet, standing in the living room, all you could feel were nearly ceiling to floor windows that went from one end of the room to the other. The paint was fragile. If you touched it, it would surely chip off. The drapery made out of what I can only recognise as one giant doiley veiled the entire room.

My fist slams the window and just as impact is made it quietly expands, explodes into weakness. As fragile as the fading paint along the sill. I'm not sure what life is supposed to be, if it's even possible to decode every nuance. All I feel, constantly, is this. Standing inside mouldy dreams of a past that I'm not entirely sure was originally sparkly. But it shone for me, and I've created it to last. And that's the second house.

Windows are doors. Windors are doors. WINDOWS ARE FUCKING DOORS THAT BREAK SKIN. They puncture veins and stain floors and let you slowly bleed away into nothingness. You can never push on a window because the shards will turn you into a million little pieces. All you can do is just sit there, inside, looking out.

I probably am sounding overly dramatic. I bet I'm not making much sense, either.

Let me put it this way: a dream is something you imagine so desperately that you build your entire life around completing it. It's founded in love. It's something you grow up to breathe and taste, like the wind whipping your hair, like an old carpet in a house that you no longer live in. That you never lived in.

I'm a secret dreamer. I flash posters to the world of things I'd like to become, and only few know what I truly desire. I'm cheating myself in the long run, but I do it out of love. Because in dark rooms in the middle of the night, I write short stories. I serve my purpose. In daylight I take care of families and friends and I play the part that will make everyone safe, sound, healthy. I do what I can to make sure they feel loved, that we are a strong.


All I've ever known is what doors to take, what roads to follow. It all seems shimmery and right...

No one ever asks what window you're looking out of. Just what you're looking at. Because everyone has a window, and everyone likes to compare. No one takes into account the caging past that impedes you from defeating nights where you've cried yourself to sleep. They say everyone has a story that can break your heart, and that probably is true.

All I've ever learned from dreams is that you blur the lines between which are achievable, and which aren't. And through that window you see a little girl with her grandmother singing songs, a loving husband pushing a swing, and a million books of every field if not written by her, then owned by her.

Everywhere we go, love directs us. Life cannot exist without passion, stop trying to prove otherwise. It's what makes us remember the past as golden, no matter how rotten it may have been. It's what makes the grass greener on the other side. All that cliche crap.

I've thought of running, but you can't escape. Problems, like the hairs on our bodies we so hurriedly shave away keep growing back. We cannot deny who we are, we just learn to live with ourselves.

But, where do you draw the line? Where do you find that warm spot in the sand that says "hang on to this spot". I keep losing ground. I find myself, and down a hole I go. I know life is all about experiences, adventures. It's all a learning, growing process.

But if I stand still for a thousand years I'm still going to slip beneath the ephemeral quick sand.

Drowning, in dreams of past and future. Wriggling with all my might, fighting the tides that hold me under, I'm surfacing for air, for the present.

But you still kiss the days away as they pass through your fingers. And you smile away the pain out of love, to be alright. How does that song go again? "Smile though your heart is aching,smile even though it's breaking. When there are clouds in the sky you'll get by."

I'll smile. I'll push and force those lip lines so high into my cheek bones that they won't know how to get out of that position. I'll love my scars away.

I'll dream.
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Disarray [18 December 2010 | 10:17pm]

Sipping her lukewarm tea, staring out a window that should have already been a bit more picturesque considering it was winter, she said to him. "Life isn't a metaphor, Chale." Her eyes flitted across the room in an effort to prove her point. "This room is dull. Years from know people will look back on it. Hell, it might even be a museum. And they'll say, 'this is how people lived'. They'll find meaning in the faded paint, and they'll never restore it to maintain the 'authenticity'." She took her pointer finger and dragged it across the top of the microwave, which had begun to collect a rather large amount of dust. "They'll look at this, and say that history, the most engaging of histories took place. But all it is, is two people who couldn't be bothered renovating their homes. Because we're lazy, and cheap. And anyone will buy this house anyways because it's in a pretty decent neighbourhood."

Chale looked down at the table at which he was sitting, and stared at a pen that was about to roll off the table. Tyne wasn't really paying attention to what Chale was doing, or if he wanted to speak. She just kept rolling her words out with each sip of tea.

"They'll find our fingerprints here. They'll identify us as a couple of old geezers who were too tired working the past forty years to maintain our house. Our children, long ahead of us, thriving in their youth. They'll comment on how the mismatched furniture appears to get older the further down you go in the house. They'll find the cobwebs enchanting. But its not. It's just dirt, Chale. Dirt we're too apathetic to do anything about. We won't move because we don't want to box anything up. We won't update because if its not broken, why fix it. They're just....things Chale. There's nothing poetic about life. We only make it so to give us a reason to keep attempting to move forward."

Chale ruffled his remaining tuft of hair. He often wondered what had made his wife so cynical and melancholy over the years. In fact, he noticed, the more she grew disappointed with the world, the less she did about it. And the less he spoke. The initial connection that sparked their romance had dulled over time.

He continued to stare at the table. It was made of wood. Sort of. The grain looked real, well, at least from a distance. He stopped contradicting Tyne a long time ago. When computers generated a better picture of wood than actual wood, and was coated over with a lacquer of something similar to plastic to prove durability. Was it really wood? His fingers traced from the surface to the table to underneath. His fingers found the prickly, shaved wood chips that had been compressed together to make the table.

To think, that today, it took less work to chop a tree into a million little pieces, than it was to keep it solid. And if you painted over it the vision you truly wanted, it made it all the more real. But because you were putting your vision on what wood should be, in your mind, the plastic coating would last forever. And it would be okay.

What wood. What would.

He knocked his knuckles against the wood. It sounded like wood, just a bit more hollow than expected.

"What on earth are you doing, Chale?" Her eyes grey, matching her complexion, her hair, her mind.

"Come over here for a second, Tyne." His voice was soft, but his gaze was still focused on the table. Her attitude still sharp, she made her way over to her husband and sat in the chair next to him. Noting that his gaze was cast on the table, she looked down too.

"What are we looking at?"
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The Ten O'Clock Spot. [10 December 2010 | 8:50pm]

"If you listen closely, you can hear life."

It had been a long day. It seemed to her that her entire day at this point revolved around how quickly she could get home. How quickly she could press through the wind whipping the flesh off her face and stripping her complexion to an abrasive red. When the little bell on her watch rang, she leapt out of her seat, bundled herself up and dashed toward the car.

She didn't hear the radio, didn't pay attention to anything currently going on. All that was in her mind was a routine she followed day in, and day out. Parking the car neatly in the garage so that it gave her enough space to crawl out. Clicking the button twice on her keypad so that she made sure that the car was locked (in truth, she always thought it sounded more musical that way, too).

The sound of doors opening, of shoes clanking up the cold metal stairs. Stop. Turning onto a landing that led to another flight of stairs. More clanking. Another door.

"Keys. Where are my keys? Shit...."

It didn't matter how large or small her purse was, she could never find her keys. The closer she got to home, the more she caught up with the time she was envisioning. Her hands would clasp the keychain of a now non-existant radio station that had been scratched over time and she would finally be transported into the present. Now that her rustling and rummaging had stopped, she pushed the key into the lock with a determined expression on her face.

It was all leading up to this. The drop.

The drop where once the door was swung open, she could let go of everything. Once the door was closed, the world didn't matter anymore. She kicked off her shoes, letting them land wherever they may. Her bag spilt across the tiled floor, much to what would have been her mother's dismay. With windows wide open, she stripped herself slowly with each step she took.

Click. She always did love the sound that switches made. It wasn't as if she was even in the room anymore. An orchestra was performing Adage to Rest in her honour. Quietly, it began with towels dropping neatly folded onto the toilet seat. Then, suddenly, a clap of power came from the opening and closing of the cabinet where she pulled out her hair dryer and plopped it on the counter.

The sticky noises that came from her barefeet padding across the cold tiles in search of her foot towel, meant the chorus was drawing nearer. Now, the vent was on. Drum roll.

The first step into the hollow tub was never a sure one, and it made a rubbing echo-y noise. Building momentum, the curtain was pulled and it squeaked and jolted as every ring marched farther to the opposite end of the bar. Bend.

Her fingers traced the sharpied-in sign.

All showers have their quirks, one might even go so far as to call them human in that respect. Some never became hot enough, some pulsed too harshly. Some were simply not positioned in a way that covered one's body entirely. This shower, was not without its problems. Yes, it did become hot enough. But after pulling (with some force) the knob out to start the shower, and the dial turned over to the H section, there was one spot - the ten o'clock spot that became cold. As if disobeying every natural law she could think of, the shower in that one section became colder, and remained colder than the temperature it should have been. The first day moving into the appartment, Eric had noticed it too. Back then, they would make fun of it, jump in the shower together and just try to figure out how to fix it. Obviously, more romantic fun would ensue, but sometimes, the two, like silly children would just sit in the shower (sometimes fully clothed) and let the water pour on them as they tried to understand the zaniness of their shower.

Eventually, after a month of moving in, before throwing out the sharpie that they had used to mark all their cardboard boxes, he drew a thick line beginning at the knob, and all the way out to the end of the silver circle surrounding the knob of the shower. On the tiles, he wrote the number 10, because it looked like, if the face of the shower dial were a clock, that would be where the number 10 would sit.

Naked and small, she didn't turn on the shower. She sat, cross-legged, letting her thighs numb. She traced the sharpie sign over and over again. In her mind, she heard his briefcase being opened and closed quickly before it was rested for the day by his desk. She heard the melody of phone buttons beeping while he checked their voicemail. The TV being turned on, but only quietly, so he could hear when her shower was done, so that he too, could get ready to relax himself after a long day's work.

Still sat on the tub floor, she grabbed the knob and pushed it straight to the spot. Before, it had always been a place to avoid, but today, she would bathe herself in it. What made the 10:00 spot even more discomforting was that up until that point, her body was getting used to warmer, and warmer temperatures. And all of a sudden, it became sharply cold.


The water hit the top of her head with a stronger force than what it felt like if she were standing. Cascading over her, her hair drooped over her forehead like a thick, blank wall that protected her from the harsh temperature coming over her. In this cold water, it was okay to feel vulnerable and fragile, because in her mind she could easily excuse it and blame it on the temperature of the water.


She whispered his name softly between the drops of water that fell along the edges of her face, where her hair was not covering her. Salt mixed with ice and soap she tried her best to clean herself. Wash away the pain.

Choking with cold, she thought of her life in the way of the ten o'clock spot. Eric had come into her life four years ago. Slowly, their friendship blossomed, and heat grew. Two years ago they married. Life was getting even more pleasurable. Then, out of the blue, frigid waters overcame the burgeoning flame.

They sell things with life time warantees. Appliances, insurance, sharpies. Some things are permanent. And then there are some things you just don't change.

She pushed the knob closed, with her eyes closed, and pulled her hair back. Kissing the 10:00 spot tenderly goodbye, she crawled out of the bath tub, slowly inching toward her towel.

She dried herself off, and put on her pyjamas, and headed toward the kitchen to start making dinner. Friends would be coming around to play cards and watch TV with her (although she knew they were there only to make sure she was okay). She gathered the black clothes that trailed from the front door to the bathroom, and it looked like no one had ever been in the home.

Like before the cardboard boxes had been grudgingly lifted up two flights of stairs to the place. Before the sharpie pen even existed.

There are times when there is no choice but to move on, despite how tightly one may cling to the past. For it feels like there is nothing more permanet than naked memories and funny showers. But, as cooking a bad meal will often tell you, its what you change that makes it good.

Her doorbell rang, and she heard her voice this time over his, "if you listen closely, you can hear life".
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The Most Dear of Companions [30 November 2010 | 11:14pm]

Tick, tick, tick.

At the end of the room, practically touching the ceiling, hung a round wooden clock with black roman numerals on it. Chirping away, it did several jobs with its one sound. It was not interrupted by the odd footfalls stepping into the creaking wood beneath the carpeted floors that had dulled and become hard over time. It did not feign surprise at the flipping of pages, the noise that was the seat being rearranged.

Today, the clock would tell time, tempo and emotion. A quiet metronome, it held in time every note she wished to play.

Softly stroking it's exterior, she began her dance of love. To play the piano was to be romantically entwined with music, emotion and mathematics. She, like many others before and after her, knew that in order to play, in the true sense of the word, one had to strip down all walls and be completely stripped. Vulnerable to her core.

The lightest touch could ignite sparks off ivory and black keys. Nuances and subtleties swarmed in a flurry and no longer did she have control of her body. Her fingers trembled and trilled notes in the higher octaves of the piano while her left belted strong, resounding chords.

There was so much magic in being a pianist.

She would not deny that if she had not learned to play, the musical notes would appear obsolete and without rhyme or reason. The notes themselves sweet, however mechanical or outdated. With learning to play an instrument, she found that education had purpose beyond memorisation. It was her first outlet where after learning the rules, she had free reign to recompose Bach, Shakespeare and Picasso. Music, for her, was painting in a different language. She had learned the slurs, the stacatto's, the braces and millions of musical clefs. She had understood the theory, the history, but she breathed its purpose.

Her metronome clicked away in the background, playing instructor and master daemon as her hands learned that melodies can easily dance from the left hand to the right, and often they could collide. Control, balance. When she played the piano, she was sculpting herself into the woman she wanted to become, despite however much frustration it would bring to her.

It was truly a labour of love. No one in their right mind would play scales, cadences, dominant seventh chords and Hannon or Czerny exercises simply for the fun of it. They were tedious, but necessary. Like the building blocks infants grasp so that they can walk and talk, repetition meant that each time a traid or arpeggio was sung, it could be interpreted or mastered in a new way.

There is only one kind of piano player, in her mind. Those who play without emotion have yet to truly call themselves pianists, because they have not let themselves be fully immersed in the passions of life. Because that was what playing the piano was. Waltzes brought lovers together in the most cordial of fashions to swirl endlessly on elegant marble floors in elaborate ballrooms. Marches brought courage to the military of yesteryear. Nocturnes made you fall in love, and embrace the night for all its natural and pure beauty. You could play a song perfectly technically, but what good is an action without desire? If her heart did not bleed when she played, she could not grow, and the song would never even get a chance to be born.

It's easy to tell, where soul is lacking. It's unfortunate, but it does not mean it cannot be remedied in time. Like life, one must adhere to harsh rules of rhythm and melody, and it may frustrate some to the point of rigidty. Without doubt, she steeled her heart till she was numb many a time. When a labour of love is forced, it is no longer of love, and lust loses all its strength to hold the structure of music together.

It happens to all of us.

And just as the lessons ended, after 15 years of practice, week after week, she finally accepted the piano into her heart. She had felt the love on occasion, but she was more numb, and frustrated than anything. For the first time, instead of simply listing it off as an achievement, she touched the choral medley of ebony and ivory and cried love. The piano, no longer an instrument after being so heavily included and integrated into her life, was, in fact, a part of her. Its echoes rang pure, and no longer did the clock from above the ceiling tick closer and closer to when she could finish practicing. Because she no longer practiced piano like it was a rehearsal or a medical profession. She played it, she played its fucking heart out.

Whenever she could sense it, she played innocence, anger, fury and redemption. She sang eulogies and elegies, and wept romance. She danced with history and entangled fiction. She made the world her own.

And though the creaking carpet didn't creak so frequently as it did in the past, toward her piano, it was mutually acknowledged that there would never, from this day forward, let love lost again.

One soul, dwelling in two bodies.
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[19 October 2010 | 8:18pm]

I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped straight to the throat
With the collar up so you won't catch a cold
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The Human Carousel [13 June 2010 | 2:28pm]

As if every word in the english language was presented in front of me to speak, and yet I was strangled, gasping for breath. Despair. That is what I feel.

The world I have been living in has been akin to a fun fair that never ends. I am placed on a myriad of rides, each one unique and challenging in its own way, each one distracting. And with every step I place in line or on the platform into the ride, my focus is concentrated on the task at hand, and I forget your ultimate goal, my home.

Home is a faraway land, it has almost become myth. My clothes have lost their old smell, and I feel my soul has too. Perhaps what hurts me the most, is that at the fun fair you are not a fan of each and every ride. No, you have to mentally prepare yourself for each one so that you may embrace all its loops and difficulties. I have slowly begun to adapt to my new world, and in doing so, have only pinched myself on occasion, and not truly thought of home. As the hours wore on, I felt something in me slipping.

There is a fine line between conquering your fears, and becoming a person past your fears. One grows and sows both new with old to create a solid foundation. The other stumbles about in a shambly old mobile home like the temporary fun fair I am visiting that only comes once a summer. It breeds new and mixes it with temptations and danger. The first bite of cotton candy is dangerous, the second fun. The third, the fourth are blurs, and just as quickly you can add candy apples to have a rotten cavity.

There is a cavity in my heart that I did not notice until it began to hurt. To describe it as unfortunate, as frustrating and disappointing would be understatements and inaccurate depictions of how I feel. As I struggle for breath, I am bleeding out what I used to be. I did not prevent or catch my disease before it began to spread. Malignant and menacing, my heart swears like a sailor, and phones home as a reflex and not necessarily as a need.

It is confused, damaged, and paralysed.

Aren't fun fairs supposed to be fun?

The person I wanted to grow into, a person less afraid of heights, more open to challenges is not entirely the person I have become. I can teeter on the ledge of the ferris wheel, but cannot handle wobbles. I found that I do not take breaths on roller coasters, and can occasionally become irritable because of it.

I have been rude to the kind employees who spend their dull days waiting in lining catering to my every need. I apologise and it does not suffice my wounded soul.

At this fair, we go as a group, we leave separately. We leave as separate entities that are somewhat strangers to the people we once met.

I cannot vow to avoid such things in life, for too many times have I lost myself, only to catch sight of the sparkling, shining girl I want to be, I used to be. She was always in the past - when did I grow weak? Where was I given broken stilts that I was unable to fix?

My only hope is to take a photograph, as I have done when I came here. Before my journey over, I brought my favourite memory in polaroid form and stuck it in my pocket where I knew it would be kept safe. In this photo I have memorised every contour and frame so that it is not a picture, but a visible, physical memory. I look at it and I am there, I feel the warmth of the hug, and I am home.

Let me take a photograph of the person I have become, keep it next to the other so that I know what I want to feel, and what I do not.

For those I have wronged, I am incapable of fully healing the wounds. I have mistreated you in every way imaginable, and it is against my nature to act in such a way. To say that I am human is a poor excuse, so let me say that I now know I have gained from it, and will make sure to do the best that I can, so you may not incur the pain I have made you suffer in the past. You did not deserve it.

I did.
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[09 January 2010 | 9:50am]

I was born to tell you I love you
isn't that a song already?
I get a B in originality,
and it's true I cant go on without you.
4 | post comment

S.M. [27 November 2009 | 6:20pm]

as i opened the front door, dismally regarding the naked rawness that winter brings to the world, a gust of wind swept me back into my home, rushing emotions into my heart - the want of you.

we are so fragile, in this world we built. in this world we built so that we would always be safe, and warm, and protected.

i look ...through windows, i put on mittens, i do everything under a guard of safeness so that this hurt doesn't materialise.

and then i remember, the friction that laughter, love, clasped hands and windchill scraping our faces makes it all worth it.

because the winter cold makes us red, paints us tender and fresh - and makes us real.

i would do anything with you.
4 | post comment

The Meterologist says Love. [09 August 2009 | 1:02pm]

people say a lot about rain.
people say a lot.

how the springkling drops that echo off
means rainboots.
means carrying an umbrella everywhere you
go, so you don't
get wet.

but the plants like it.
it's a cool drink of water for them.
perfect weather for ducks.

we like to say that.
we like to say things.

we like to hope that
the sun will come out
that the old man
bumped his had and couldn't
get up in the morning.

because of rain.

because rain makes the world just a little darker,
little grayer than usual.
we feel the dampness in our
socks from our cheap shoes,
from our cheap paying job,
and if it weren't for the rain,
no one would notice.
not even you.

rain makes us crawl inside
as if we were, no.
we are,
by its magnificent, omnipresent and mighty force.

that rain can make the clouds spit electricity
that we call lightning.
because naming things makes us
less afraid.
that rain makes the clouds clap and boom thunder,
and puts litle children underneath beds in fright.

that the rain can make a mighty wave
and crash us into a river, a tsunami,
a puddle.

because we foget,
in the midst of our windshield wipers beating faster than our hearts that,
the sound has gone.

the asphalt doesn't dance in ripples and
sometimes a rainbow comes.
maybe like the one with the leprachaun and the pot of gold.
maybe not.

for me,
it painted my windows with colourful drops and fog
that would condense and drip down like a fallen tear,
down the softest cheek.

it made the world a little quieter.

reminded me that we all are helpless, sometimes.

through clouded lenses and clumepd eyelashes
we can still see a little
and when its all over the world smells a little cleaner.
the grass a bit greener.
a new coat of paint.
a bath.

you sing rain to go away
and all you see are
impremeable jackets and

and yet the garden grows.T
7 | post comment

[11 May 2009 | 7:26pm]

I'm stuck in the city with spring rolling in
it's so hard 'cause I don't know where to begin
And there's just never much time these days
and I been up all night trying to say
I've got to get this all off my chest
I'm so sick of living my life in suspense
I'm focused on getting my life rearranged
and you're god damn right my life has changed
8 | post comment

[04 April 2009 | 10:39pm]

Dear Boy,

These thoughts, they sound so much better in my head. When I think of word "oragami" I laugh and remember how we spent two whole hours teaching each other the craziest manipulations of paper, just because we had nothing else better to do. When it's etched in pen, the r is disjointed and oddly attached to the o, and it just looks like a word. The memory isn't there.

The roof is leaking again. I can hear the tin bucket pinging again. I always liked tin buckets, always loved how they reminded me of warm Sunday mornings with a tall glass of lemonade and a gardening spade. Like the 1950's without the gender roles. Just love. I guess that's why I bought the bucket from Ikea; because you thought it was cheap, and I thought it was special. And you said you liked it because I found beauty in it. Because I saw the best in everything, even when you couldn't.

The drip, drop, drip drip drop is picking up again. It doesn't have a melody anymore, it's just spattering and stammering like the rush of words that always flowed through my mouth. To me, I always thought you saw it as just a bucket. You never really told me why you liked it, I just assumed because it was Ikea you wanted it, you always liked that store.

You laughed and told me that I was always so insecure, that you found my ramblings adorable, that you loved to hear me talk. That's when you told me about the bucket, do you remember that? And every part of me wanted you to hold me, to comfort me. I wanted to hide underneath our blanket with a flashlight and wait for the rain to stop. We would make shadow puppets, and tell each other our deepest secrets.

But all I could hear was my voice, and the pinging.

I guess all along it was me. In all our wonderful pizza-making-from-scratch nights, or movie marathons, I felt like we were always forgetting something. I had too many questions to ask, and you forgot your cue cards.

I wanted more than I asked for.

Last week, when we were lying together on the couch, and the power was out because of, of course, another thunder storm (we're such romantics, we picked the rainy city), I rested my head on your chest, and instead of feeling the warmth of your body, the rise and fall of your heart, I heard that damn pinging. I didn't want to hate the pinging, I didn't want to even think about it. But it's all that echoed through my mind. It bounced off the walls and reverberated like the only sound that existed in our world.

A random stream of drops.

I wanted you to love me so badly. I wanted you to clutch me in your arms with all your strength as if there really was a monster under the bed. I wanted to mean something to you, like you do to me. But it was always me, always the pinging. And unless I bombarded you with a grocery list of questions, you didn't have much to say.

I don't blame you.

So I'm writing you this letter, folding the paper in half so you'll think its smaller and less significant than it actually is. And if you see a crackle in the paper here or there, don't think it was my tears. Just wonder why hadn't I chose a clean sheet of paper, if that at all.

I probably should have told you long ago that I'm not the one you want. But I guess you figured that out in a different way. We saw x meets y and different trains, and understood that distance makes all the difference. And the need wasn't the deep, or hungry as we would have liked it to be.

I think we saw too many bad remakes of Romeo and Juliet. I'm sorry for making you watch so many chick flicks with me, you should have told me that you hated them.

I am writing you this letter, because you never did. Because I loved you without really knowing why, and that secretly, a small part of me wishes that you'll read this and come after me.

You don't have to.


We're better off this way.

Before I go, I'll empty the bucket, you can have it. And I'll finally call the roof guy. Maybe it's just a band-aid solution, but it's the best that I can do.

You'll never know how much you mean to me,
8 | post comment

[09 October 2008 | 11:17am]

I ended the book that Im writing.

The part about you--Im tearing it out.
7 | post comment

A Silent Endeavour [09 August 2008 | 10:11pm]

the symbols and timpanies took a soft and gentle rest
beating their rhapsody no longer to the frequent terror that oft came with clouds clashing,
the heavens were preaching o'er head.

down beneath, the mossy green forested a tender niche for those who picked wildflowers,
and those who sought refuge twixt branches tangled to harvest a protective roof,
a leaf fell here and there,
dusted with sun or drowned in sorrow,
the moods were just as omnipresent as the stars above.

and who is to say the daffodil climbs fairer than the pussy willow?
or the speckled trout demeans the frothy fungus?
each and everyone was picked,
each had a purpose.
the naval coat swam with the fishes,
and the peasant skirts caressed the fields.

a boy jumbled his way through the nearby shores,
unaware of life to come,
unaware of how he was to be harvested and cropped and tenderized into what he was to become,
his eyes spoke with winds,
with careful curiosity.

the shores were young with stones of every shape and size
and he taught them all he knew.
the gulls would perch for supper on the boulders,
and the smooth and supple ones would be sent into the ocean to be eroded into sand.

how did one know, learn, categorize all these things?


in a brazen, tattered and stylishly sleek orange jumpsuit,
a female bounced towards a jaggered beat,
up, two, three, four
down, two, three four.

she stares at the mirror of the rest of her class
and sees only her pupils
her sweating, exhausted, angry students
who would rather lick ice cream straight off the cone.

the lady cannot see her reflection covered by her class.
the rocks are hidden by each other.
the flowers are mixed in with weeds.
the fish swim out to sea.

and all the while,
though we have no sight or ourselves,
no assurance of who we are,
we are destined somewhere,
to fill a slot.

and the four estranged crew met together, here today,
in a lush, reed filled meadow,
to seek beyond what they had come to pay.
a short, stubbed seedling of long grass tilted its neck from the sun to the waves.

"you've glittered here before,
who so glum on this occassion?"

and all it took was curiosity and care,
when a professor's life is to sculpt and mend the future for the better,
how does one decide who to invest in, and who to shun,
when the saplings and the buds are just as covered, scared and torn as the florists themselves?

the lightning ignites us once more,
such a folly that rain does not fray far from indecision.
perhaps what we cannot see in ourselves, one needs to see in someone else,
to help the person grow not only into their best flower
but into our own.

thank you so kindly,
for keeping your eye on me,
if only for a moment,
to grace my stem, and replant me in the sun,
to walk away to a far away land,
and me, to develop strength in a field so crowded and confused as my mind.

i cannot repay to you what you have done to me,
i only hope,
i shall find a pebble, or a whale
that i could let see daylight as crisp and golden
and tangible and delicious
as that mere blink you made me feel.

life is to be loved.
happiness is to be shared.
intelligence perservered,
hope never to be lost.
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A Tiding for Easter. (possession of a different sort) [30 March 2008 | 10:07am]

Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall.

[Setting] A pitch black room. To which, if you were blind or not would make no differnce. You wouldn't be able to tell what it really is.
Watch your step,
these plots are open, and as we know, they're six feet deep,
not the most comforting of falls, into the earthen pit of merciless fate.

Welcome to the cemetery.

You shouldn't travel this late at night, besides, if you have to walk with your hands out to feel where you're going, that's not a good sign, seeing as you have no idea to what you're really holding.
Is it a tree?
A tombstone?
A life?

Humpty Dumpty Had A Great Fall.

The precursor to all pathetic fallicies is rain. In this case, it is set to the tune of Sonata in G Major by Franz Joseph Haydn, a rather delightful piece, unless you're not prepared, or are possessed by the Devil himself.

Death loomed the cast iron fences in its cascading cloak long before it actually arrived.
I sensed it before it curled its hand in my general direction,
sweeping its fog into my breath
whispering seductive sweet nothings into my ear.

No raven was needed.
Death and I had a fight to settle
a bone to pick
a deal to make.

The minute the violin played every part of me wanted to leap inside the cloak and smile in disgust at all those who cherished their lives and thought that caring for others actually mattered.

And then I realized, in this invisibly dark world, I saw the fog.
Light was coming from somewhere.

Death lost sight of years of tempting all in the blink of acknowledgement.
All in the capability of mine own sight.

Oh how stricken Death was, raising the inner fires from hell, its main joy to bring down Earth's only believer.
She was no angel, yes indeed, she was human.
And body and mind seperated for that one instant whereupon Death made sure that my decision was irreversible.
I could have leapt with minions and mongrels of the underworld, laughed at excessive pain, and wreak havoc on those whom I chose.

I could have, in Death's cloak, through Death's foggy perspective live.

"You temptress, you smoldering temptress! You befound me a glance of eternal glory! A mere glance! Dare you to smite powers of the extreme and test the waters for which you were never meant to survive? I cast upon you the true gift of life! The best gift the Devil himself could present upon the world to create you an immortal reminder of your decision! Learn now what it is to feel life crumble before your very hands, let all your wishes, health, love, and prosperity subside till you are exactly what I see you as! What you should be! WHAT YOU ARE!"

Death's voice sang in shrill incandesence, as if the lyrics of a georgian chant were being woven into the most mighty curse that even Jesus through crucifixion could not feel. This was not hate, this was revenge. This was hell in its most horrific and powerful moments.

Be still, everlasting love I hummed in my head. For if Death feels one movement, a miniscule vibration, then I truly have lost. I did what I had to, Death had given me no choice.

I held my breath.

Through the depths of a coat which could bare no face, no gender, no single attribute towards the living soul other than the shriek that most resembled voice, I felt a smile.

For we both knew that only two things could happen. A stumble in which I did not fully recognize being in my haughty temperance and desperation. Had I continued to hold my breath there would come a moment where I would build inside me such a need to inhale the oxygen which most likely was already poisioned that I would have to comply, or defeat the urge proving I was better, and die. And with Death so triumphantly posed infront of me, ready to devour me as if I was the most savoury meal the world had to offer, I couldn't do so. I wouldn't. Defeat would not surmise my lifelong actions.

I took a breath, and for the tiniest of moments (for time either passed as if the grain would never transfer into the other half of the glass, or as if time was comprised of the fastest movement, incapable of actually seeing, but only to realize that it jolted like lightning in quick bolts) I felt a shock. Death didn't know how to react, it was as if this had never happened before.

And I beamed all the light within me in sheer relief. And Death was sure not to slip twice between the Earthly cracks by which it transgressed from this world, and its own. It had found my true weakness, and acted upon the curse by which was first fueled by revenge and now utter hatred. The darkest form ever concieved. But how slow the process was to occur, was to its own liking.

It could have easily entangled itself around my neck until I could beg for mercy, but it knew, it understood like before. A life's worth of disruption does not amount to an easier success. And pride does not live in short achievements. It would be a slow, catastrophic Death that even Death the creator and terminiation of all Death, including themself had never endured.

And Death would make sure it was properly enjoyed to its full extent.

And All The King's Horses,
And All The King's Men,
Couldn't Put Humpty Together Again.

Resurrect me if you dare we both said as if they were the only words that could escape our mouths.

This was the End.
For me, For Death.
For all mankind that gave way for anything that mattered.

* * *

Now I see what all this was for.
Eight years of,
of mini trauma really.
I learned the physicality of a volcano, and what it really was.
The inception was a blemish on the earth which sought comfort,
and by doing so was ignored.
It grew a wrinkled exterior that grew inside a much larger problem than what was ever to be considered.
And spews of puss, saliva, blood and pungent vile excretions hiccuped me along the way to the top.
Those eight years, was my rising, for my debut.
My entering of the explosion for which all plots climax to.
This ain't a picture show.
And we not that smart.
-hic- -hic- Durr.
Dis vale cane oh
is upside down!
-hic- -hic-

Welcome, to the the End.
6 | post comment

[12 February 2008 | 8:21pm]

what about China, have you seen the great wall?
all walls are great, if the roof doesnt fall.
6 | post comment

[09 December 2007 | 1:15pm]

Give me your lips for just a moment
And my imagination will make that moment live
Give me what you alone can give
A kiss to build a dream on
5 | post comment

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