Posts Tagged ‘random’
Indulgence, that look in your eye. A tone spoken with a guilty iris. Here’s to that contagious little half-smile making it’s way between your lips.
You stand up, try to. I’m here to help you, shaky legs. Balance. Steady. Outside is not far from us. Take me with you. Please, I cannot bear me alone with me. Combining fingerprints, we are the children of euphoric stimulation. Tenderness of molecules, each blossom of skin alive. Witness to mini-rainbows forming in the sprinkler mist of neighboring lawns. Making me giddy. I begin to dance across foreign grass. Soft, wet, green kissing my toes. I feel good, as do you. You tell me this and I laugh at you because you’re laughing at yourself. Squeezing me tighter via palms, I am wearing nothing but you.
You look at me with brand new eyes and I don’t know whether to run or stand rigidly in the light of vulnerability. I have spent months ignoring your gaze in fear that I will never know what it means. Don’t look at me. My face tells nothing of the world inside my head. Our pupils meet and I try to cross the ocean between our two bodies, but I drown long before I reach the shore. These words are tired and as my mouth forms the syllables they taste stale on my tongue.
I want my legs draped over your shoulders. My voice breath-filled and coy. My hands pulling you in closer. My body writhing with joy. Your face buried deep between my thighs. Holding you in place. Your nose filled with my sweet scent. Your tongue dancing with my taste.
Your hair. Your smile. Your voice. Your words. Your kisses. Your hands. Your heart. Your laugh. Your body. Your clothes. Your scent. Your jokes. Your hugs. You.
55 now. Hugging pavement. Between all the lines. .
Remains of your reflection loitering in my rear-view. My eyes begin to leak with curiosity. A fragile sensation.
Pupils go numb. So stuck on staring at yours. Through yours. The answers caught beneath the irises. Such pretty irises. So perfect. So neat.
Yet who am I to be the judge of that? I suppose I will never know; I cannot see from the inside-out. So I remain silent. Sometimes not being in control is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Mind over matter, fucking with these filthy feelings. But feeling fucks back. .
A witch with a massive, black book of ugly, mean spells. Cast upon unsuspecting souls. 360′s on the spinal cord. A spiral staircase of white.
There is no escape. There is no end.
¡NO TIME! to initiate a thought process.
∞(.I see you.)∞
I suppose I am happy here. I suppose I belong. Bright moments contracting dull.
Life is art and I am the artist. Crouched behind that big wooden easel.
…with so many colors.
So much FrEeDoM.
Mind racing (racing) with opportunity; fingers can’t keep up.
Perspiration via motivation. The cologne of accomplishment.
The paper softens as I progress. Happy mistakes litter the page now.
Along-with-hundreds-of-inches-of-leeway. Ahhh, leeway.
My brain seems…bruised…with numb surprise.
Cleverly disguised in white, I suggest, ‘Perhaps, a different wardrobe?’
Everything just sort of connects/blends/combines.
I’m left to smile at these results.
Today, I cannot STOP smiling.
All this awesomeness is making my face hurt.
=] ♣ [=
I stumbled inside the dinky 7-11 packing two bright yellow squirt guns as my heat. Despite the dizzy feet and double-vision that now had a hold of me, I was still functional enough to know that fate was doom at this point. However, most of my conscience had now been dissolved thanks to some cheap vodka and a nasty break-up a few hours earlier. How the hell was I supposed to know there’s a difference between the Eagles and the Falcons? They’re both birds for Christ’s sake. Maybe I got a bit carried away when I chucked that wine glass, but our Valentine’s dinner should NOT be second in line to a god damn sports broadcast. Besides, we live thousands of miles away from Canada. Who needs a Canadian football team as their favorite? Love yer own city, Barry. Traitor.
“Did you need something miss?” Judging by the cold and bitter tone behind the cash register, I apparently had gotten lost in thought again. Fuck, how long have I been standing here? Long enough. “Gimme the special of the day….and spare me the bullshit.” I revealed my tiny sidekicks, resting their triggers against my pointer fingers.
I couldn’t tell if this guy was laughing or in panic. Millions of tiny wrinkles divided his face in such a patterned way, it looked as if I could peel pieces of skin from his cheekbones and form my own little jigsaw puzzle. (Shudder, shudder.) Beneath the layers of aging epidermis, I managed to make out a toothless grin, that to this day still makes me wish God had spared me a gag reflex. He slowly lifted his veiny left hand from underneath the counter and pulled out a gun of his own. Only his was shiny and didn’t leak when you tilted it sideways. “Yer toast, bitch”, he uttered, murdering syllables as he spoke them.
Shock set in, but not so much as to paralyze. Luckily, Mom had been right about increased agility via Wii Tennis. And luckily, this time I had listened. Dodging the first shell was like being on the receiving end of a doubles match with the Williams’ sisters. With no partner. Minus a racket. Shhhhewww! (A near hit.) Wicked speed encased in stainless steel proved to be my toughest enemy yet. And I thought Barry was bad.
(To be continued….maybe….haha.)
I’m about as comfortable with myself as I will ever be. I like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I think, the way I live my life. I’m comfortable in my own skin. However, I can always be better. I can ALWAYS be better. Although, I never wanna pull off perfection. I wanna be the passionate one who fights to get somewhere, but I never wanna get there. I cherish the struggle. I want the impossible dream so that I never become like a majority of society and settle for average. I’d rather try super hard to reach an unachievable goal. Enjoying life in the meanwhile as it happens in the present. The great stuff is right now, not twenty years down the line.
I feel compelled to follow my conscience and my heart wherever it leads me, even if that means pain. I’m not scared of pain. These days I embrace the pain. Pain exists so that when pleasure comes, it seems that much more intense. Certain things must exist in this world in order for other things to coexist. I don’t need the unexplainable explained to me to feel good about life. I just feel good about life not knowing everything there is to know. If we never went without, we’d never appreciate what we have. I get nostalgic for the good ol’ days, but look forward for the ones to come. I don’t live in the past; I just visit on occasion. I like not knowing. I like not having everything explained to me. I like having to learn more. I like questioning things. I like pondering life. I’m prolly a bit excessive sometimes, but that’s just me. That’s just who I am.
I love unconditionally. I forgive people like you wouldn’t believe (some of them I probably shouldn’t forgive) and never forget. But I can move past. I don’t judge based on who you were, I judge based on who you are. I never lose interest in people. Mi casa es su casa; what’s mine is yours. I’m a giver like that. If you don’t feel love in yer life, it’s cuz you don’t let it in. I figure sharing is what makes a difference. Never sharing yerself, yer life, yer shit? Well, that just closes you off in a closet somewhere, huddled in the dark cold all by yerself. My life is way too precious not to share it with others, not to truly love and laugh and enjoy all it has to offer. I can’t NOT tell you how it really is, I can’t censor what I’m really feeling.
I believe everything I do every single day is my own fault. Everything that happens to me is cuz I did something that caused it to happen. If someone feels too much drama in their life, it’s cuz they like that drama or they’re not ready to let it go on some level. Life is all about choices. I don’t understand how anyone can hate anyone else. Hate is an emotional response. It’s not based in reason and logic. If someone hurts me, of course I wanna hurt them back. Duh. But I do that by moving on and becoming better than they could ever hope to be. Don’t waste yer time and energy on people and their problems. I try my best, but I’m sure as hell not perfect. I just learn from my mistakes really well.
I love emotion, feeling, words, music, colors, freedom, sex, beauty. Anything that tantalizes and makes me take a second look. I want the body, the mind, and all the in-betweens. I’m a very sexual human being. I imagine everybody naked all the time. Sometimes I wish I could shut off the x-ray vision (it’s not always a pretty sight). My favorite thing about sex is that part right before. The nervous part. The not knowing part. It’s almost more naked than actually BEING naked. It’s the mystery behind the clothes that radiates sexuality for me. There’s just so many combinations, so many sensations. The shallow part of him pulling me in, the deeper part of him pushing me away, the way I want so badly to feel him around me, all around me, every bit of him, to be lost inside of him. It’s acquisition without the burden of possessions. That’s the magic of sex. No matter how lost you get in the moment, storage is never an issue.
However, I will never, EVER give up on love. Love exists and I know it’s out there somewhere. Even if it hurts more than anything in the world. It’s such a subjective thing, such a submissive part of life. But when it’s there, you just know. I also know that love can exist outside of sex and vice-versa. Almost all the time, you tell yerself yer loving somebody when yer just using them to fill some need. This only looks like love. Love takes, but it has to give as well. I know the difference and have gotten considerably better at separating the two.
I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and think about him. He’s everything and everyone to me at times like these. He may not even exist, may be a figment of my imagination, but I think of him nonetheless. I can feel the interest in his eyes. What I want is to be needed, what I need is to be indispensable to someone, someone who’ll eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention, someone addicted to me, not someone who can live without me. He knows this. He knows more about me than I know about me and he doesn’t even know me.
I drink sometimes. I’ll smoke the occasional cigar/’special’ cigar. I don’t mind being sober or chemically imbalanced. I like to party just as much as the next girl, but’ll strip down and run around naked for no reason at all if the mood strikes. I don’t think I’m a nut. I just stopped caring what people think about me. I love to laugh and have a great sense of humor. I’m fun and compassionate and can enjoy myself anywhere. I don’t hafta leave the house to have fun. I don’t hafta stay at home to have fun. I’m spontaneous, confident, outgoing, and full of life. I’m certainly not stupid, but on the same note, I’m not afraid to be a fool. I don’t hide behind a mask of insecurity. I always intellectualize, but that never stops me from jumping out of a plane or doing something that could potentially kill me.
I love pleasure. I love pain. I’m selfish yet modest, shy yet extroverted. I have intense mental concentration. I zone out and go places inside my head where no one can find me. I dance to music sometimes and nobody understands why I’m dancing. I love to express myself with movement and love music of all varieties. I’m not afraid to cry or share my feelings in a way that leaves me vulnerable. If you can’t tell already, I love to write and learn and imagine. I wanna influence minds and spark thoughts. I take away information instead of just images from a screen; the occasional memorization of the spoken word replaced with real genuine thought process. I can walk around a book store for hours and never get bored. I could prolly do that for days even.
To me, words are like life. Words mean everything. They express the inexpressible, they help me understand myself and the world around me. They express what I’m feeling in ways much like an artist with paint would express himself or herself or itself or whatever. I write to move people, to move myself, to see where I’ve been, where I’m going, to observe and learn, to experience the joy and pain again and again, to experience how relentless life can be, how bittersweet and full of fury it really is. I need for people to understand, to WANT to understand, to WANT to know me, whether or not they’ll like what they get.
I dream cuz I’m a dreamer. I think of how much I rely on my sense of touch, how much a feeling stimulates me and the feelings of things around me. The way the skin feels, running fingers through hair, a soft pair of lips, the curve of an ear, a neck, a back, etc. I find the experience of losing it all very exhilarating. To lose my senses, to lose my beliefs, to lose my life, to lose myself totally; a great beginning to something else. A freedom from a world of unattainable desires.
I think of streams and rivers, tall trees, mossy nooks, greens and browns, the branches high above me as I stand in the middle of a forest lost and confused. I find myself looking with other people’s eyes all the time. Looking through someone else’s pupils, encountering their lives as they do, living loosely through a series of past experiences seen in the present. Think of a movie, think of love scenes, think of watching yerself fuck, think of seeing yerself through yer own eyes, except not. Sometimes I find stuff I’m not even looking for. Sometimes I find nothing. Sometimes I just do what I do.
I ramble a lot. But I’m simply shaken, not stirred. My life is blasted all over this page cuz I can’t help but be me. I HAVE to share myself. I HAVE to be me. I’ll look at an object and I see a million things you don’t see. You see a couch. I see it being made, who sat on it, who fucked on it, what animal died to make it. I’m not full of myself but I know I got what a lot of people want. I don’t generalize often and don’t judge books by covers, but without covers, why would I even buy the book to begin with? Everything is like that. First glance means EVERYTHING. Most of you see my pictures and they draw you in. Yes, those pictures are one hundred percent me. Or at least the outside visual me. Most people don’t seem to care about what’s on the inside anymore. I hope you do. Shit, I’d like to think if you’ve read this far, you must care at least a LITTLE more than the next guy. Either way, I’ve still got yer attention.
Laying flat on the bed, my muscles feel sore. The thermostat reads 77 degrees and it’s hot even with the window open. Something is distracting me, something leads me to something else, so I sit and write and try to make sense of it. Right now I feel like a shooting star that no one knows is falling. Like a tree in the woods that makes lots of sound and ruckus, but no one is there to witness it even if it never falls. I have to obey certain, yu know, laws of the universe, but I never know where I’m gonna end up. I just fall and fall and go boom and smack! Then I hit the earth.
Sometimes writing is all I have. Everything else is just doing stuff for the sake of doing stuff. I’ll get to points where I do things for no reason. Losing logic and reason based on adrenaline and hormones. Some days I wake up with desires unquenched. There are so many things I want, but only so much I can do in a day. Urges seem to come up inside of me out of nowhere. I’m a bit of a compulsive person. Spontaneous even. I like spontaneity. I like doing what feels good. About matters of sex and life and activity and friends and food and just everything. I have no destination, it’s not a journey. I’m just enjoying the trip.
The getting of life is hard. It makes no difference how things get started. What matters is how they end up. In someplace, somewhere, with someone, calling out to be saved. Lost, but never wavering. Take the search for love and the meaning of life for example. How does something or someone I can’t touch or see or define make me so miserably wonderful? Why do I look at thoughts and get mesmerized for hours? I honestly don’t know. I love the way I think, though. I do. I’ll see the words in my mind before I actually say them out loud. I’ll play with each letter before it even touches my lips to be used and abused. I contemplate things before they happen, before I make a move. Weigh my actions on imaginary scales that only exist in so much that I MAKE them exist. I don’t deny myself, I just ignore myself sometimes. I redirect my feelings towards other things.
The power of night turns me on, more so than the day. When the sun no longer shines and the moon rules my mind, my feelings begin to blur and dissolve leaving me stranded on an island of lost love and reinvigorated desire. The tenderness I feel for him is overwhelming, the times I think he’s out there feeling the same way. I stress the word think. I don’t know as much as I may believe cuz I really just don’t know. If that makes any sense at all. I can hope and believe and have faith all day long, but placing trust in something or someone I don’t entirely understand, have never really met, always feels like a risk. And maybe that’s part of the high of being with them or not. The not knowing, the gamble, the fact that I’ll never gain anything until I lose everything.
I would lose it all for some people, but I don’t think they’d lose much of anything for me. I would jump off a cliff for those select few. Whereas they might buy me a coffee with some booze in it only to be angry about the price and end up keeping the receipt to hold over my head years from now. It’s a crazy sort of feeling that I just don’t know how to quit. Some people say and believe they’re positive people. And sometimes they are. But a lot of the time they’re nothing but doom and gloom disguised under fake smiles and tainted kindness.
Days stretching into weeks. All the night clubs and bars I passed tonight downtown, full to capacity on a Thursday night. People searching for sex, searching to become numb, searching for a way not to feel, not to experience. Searching and not even knowing they’re searching. What about tomorrow? The day after? Is it all about just making money so you can spend the money you made? Yup, I’m just rambling now. Fuck. Nothing good could ever come of this.
We never change our ways. Living in a water world of fake promise and faded future. Trapped here. And the people who can’t handle it are swimming in it. Searching for dry spots, but this pool has no steps or fancy rails. No shallow end. And no drain. So it fills up. And eventually seeps over the sides. Floods are constant. Damage is inevitable.
But the people are reaching out this time. They don’t want this. Stray water is uncomfortable.
I just get lost in it. With it. Above and below it. I sink and then I float. All the memories get tangled in filters. Spiderwebs of youth form inside them. Only a few remain. And I’m the outsider looking in. I grab for a piece dangling to my left. All I come back with is sticky. Drowning, but not from fear – curiosity is a tricky fellow.
I’m so tired of it now though.
I head for the ladder, right over left. Repeat. Right over left. Repeat. But these rungs are too slippery. And I am far too heavy.
Confused, my feet leave me at the ankles. I fall backwards, plunging below the surface yet again. Cold, wet, numb. I know this water all too well. But why is it so hard to get up? There’s got to be a reason for it all. But why can’t I find it?
Frustration sets in. Tears on fire. Slicing their way across sharp cheekbones, erasing hope as they greet the chin. A plastic surgeon with a butter knife. The flame is always cold once it reaches the lips. I’m left to taste the embers. Darkness falls, the people are crying out. And I’m right there with them.
I think my favorite part of electronic music has got to be the fascination that comes with adding one instrument at a time. One measure, yu’ll get the synthesizer. The one after that, the bass’ll kick in. Third step’s the speed variation. And then you got like a minute left in the song, and all the noise comes together, gets combined together into this huge blizzard of awesomeness and yer left to wonder why they don’t play this shit on the radio. But they’ll never play this shit on the radio. For one reason.
It’s too overwhelming.
It’d be like if the DEA made ‘magic’ mushrooms ‘legal’ mushrooms. People wouldn’t know how to react because it’s different every single time. Yer a slave to emotion on shrooms. The same with electronic music. If you feel good, lit, alive, then you wanna share it with the whole world. Everybody needs to know what you know. And you know fucking EVERYTHING. And then you find yerself asking those anti-yes and no questions out loud in a crowded room. Not really to a certain someone, maybe to the shy kids on the corner couch, maybe to the rich ones.
Why does this have so much control over me?
Why can’t I feel like this all day, everyday?
Why haven’t I discovered this before?
Is this like, trippy or what, man?
Hey at least we got the clubs. Ahhh, the clubs. Stuck in the middle of a mosh pit in front of a main speaker, with recycled energy soaking yer lower back, so powerless to involuntary movement, so submissive to numb thoughts. Just dancing the night away to yer favorite beats
Clubbing would be non-existent if it weren’t for electronic music. Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t see anybody shakin’ ass to a Nickelback song. It’d be like attempting the Macarena minus a Mexican and paralyzed from the waist up. FAIL.
These dirty headlights taunt the pavement in a kaleidoscope of rusty symmetry and double-tone white. I half-heartedly reach for the brake pedal, but come up short on purpose. It seems to have disappeared among the carpet fibers anyway, leaving me no choice beyond the gas. Of course I punch it. And why the fuck not? My toes tense up with fury and intangible amounts of adrenaline. A caged animal stuck somewhere between adventure and panic. The rush is indescribable. I launch forward now, my head pinned against the defenseless headrest. No need for ambition on this trip, the speedometer’s fully equipped. The ride is rough, yet rough is mind-blowing at this point. Sexual innuendos have me pressing play on my funny bones tonight, an array of “ha’s” and “he’s” escaping in self-satisfying secrecy. Feels good to lack restriction. Puts me in an open ball-pit that sets fire to free spirit and settles for nothing less. Take that, Mr. Responsibility. I don’t need you anymore. I’ve got it all right here. Flying solo again, minus the fancy wings and fears of failure.