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a smile in her eyes and a sunflower in her hair.* (retro_chica) wrote,
@ 2011-01-04 22:08:00
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    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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