Little Darling

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Sunday, August 15, 2010

"Somewhat Beautiful"

I would write a blog about you, as the title references a referenced quote from me to you (ps. with love from me to you, beatles are mai life), but I'm pretty certain that I'm not stupid enough NOT to notice that you're actually a lot more than somewhat beautiful. You, are kind of my everything, and an entrancingly beautiful face to accompany it. *hums saxophone duo music in head*

So, this is a blog, for someone anonymous, so anonymous that we don't know eachothers name's apparently, and I have no idea who you are. None the less, this is for you, sir.

A small girl walks, in a that tempting way that drives you crazy. You love the way her shoes move accross the floor, like a puffy cloud, gliding sweetly accross the morning sky, as she walks past you. You can't take your eyes off her, the most perfect thing you have ever seen, it seems.

The glint in your eye travels discreetly up her long, perfectly slender legs, over her rippling skirt, only to rest gazing at her waist, wondering how you could hold something so beautiful in your hands, how you would protect it with all your power. You watch her shake her hair out of her eyes, and love how pefectly it rests on her neck, and you yearn to see her face.

You spend what feels like years imagining what her face might look like, hoping that it belongs with the beauty of the rest of her. Untill finally you hear a familiar clicking of heals, and a laugh that melts with the wind and gives you a rush of, something beautiful. You turn to see her smiling at friends. The most perfect teeth glittering in the sun, lips of the sweetest kind lifting rosy cheeks.

Then, you are almost shocked at the intensity of her glowing eyes, the deepth of happiness to which is displayed as she is hugged by her friend. You watch her fingers squeeze tightly into anothers back, and wish she would hug you too. You feel faint, like you're on some acid trip.

Out of the blue, she walks again, in that amazing way. And as she walks by, she clicks her heels, and rests her eyes upon you, smiling politely and continuing on. You stop breathing in fear, regain composure, and smile back, but by then she is gone.

You think about her, and lust over her. And she remembers you.
It is somewhat beautiful, one might say.

Monday, August 9, 2010

erk's adventure

I am here, and here is me.
Just sitting, just being.
I like to think that I'm something out of the ordinary, something unforgetable, somethinig perfectly imperfect.
So I sit, and feel.

An explosion, like a rushing cloud of cigarette smoke, flattens my mind for a moment, and leaves me distorted. The feeling of a piece of glass being wedged into your big toe, your fumbling steps of mindless pain, the short, quick expression of that slight hurt, rippling up your ankle, curling around your knees and accross even your belly button. A second and it's gone. But for me it lingers, flowing through quick jolts and twitches in elbows and tired shoulders, and I feel isolated.

This seperation is somewhat beautiful, in the same way that old, pretentious women find souless "art" beautiful, or the same way that a plastic bag caught in the wind is said to be. However, it is not aloneness or solitude I feel. Just lack of, anything but myself.

I cringe as the circles under my eyes deepen of their own accord and my fingertips become more harsh against the keyboard. My eyes feel like paintings of fear, and acknowledgement, and regret, and craving, and loss, and lust, but mostly understanding. They understand what happened, and what continues to happen, following each breath with an heir of curiosity, or perhaps blind idiocy. The understanding seems mediocre, and useless, but is deeper than it appears to be, deeper than it is willing to admit.

Confusion rises, as hesitation falls, almost systematically. The wonder for what is really up is overwhelming, so much so that I look up for answers. The ceiling is bare, cream and calm, the lights nearby burning my eyes and distorting my vision. My feelings remain the same, peachy with a touch of brilliance. I cling to this painfully perfectly imperfect feeling, and it feels like nothing.

But everything. It is everything. And everything is extremely wholesome, but empty. The thoughts are frightening, yet happy and playful. The pain is heartwarming. So, I sit and enjoy, hoping and waiting for some sort of real feeling, in intense patience. Willing to ache in hunger, or for my heart to swell in some sort of compassion or sickness, or for something bad to happen.

Nothing happens, so I stop sitting and waiting and breathing and being and feeling.
For just a moment.