the only difference between my closed eyes and open eyes, is the faint touch of my lashes i feel from where my eye bags should be. either way, i see pitch black — no shadows, no movement, no vestige of breath. but before, when i closed my eyes, i saw a lovely apricot colour, i felt the sun soaking through my lids; and that is just a hint of memory i recall from a time called before.
I have nothing to do, it is not boredom nor weariness; it is acknowledgment, a fact. My body temperature may rise and fall but the condition of this haunting room I am so attached to does not — it is cemented on a cream-coloured wall as 24 degrees as it has been since August 26, 2010. I suppose in a figurative sense there is no such thing as turning the wheel and driving back but of course if I could relive my past or watch it from a distance or even simply listen to its leftover recordings on tape, I would. There are far too many moments in my forgotten years to commemorate - I used to be human! I felt, I thought, I spoke, I created art. And now? I am not sure about now. The present feels too barren and untouched, as if I never even had a ‘beginning’. Perhaps I am already dead.
But if this is what being dead feels like, I would die a thousand times over just to.. well, live.
1) her tiny brown eyes similar to mine, unfold the strongest taste of prostitution and enticing scandals but she has the fairest of skin escorted by a pair of beautiful, scarlet cheeks and a trio of freckles on the right of her nose bridge. so pretty.
2) i believe in good posture, clean skin and perceptible veins — all of which he effortlessly wears every day. the brother, the eldest in the family holds almost all of my attraction. almost all? that would be only 99%. is 99% enough? where am i going with this?
3) a brand new change of clothes, a brand new vision of a man wearing the finest, ivory jaw and broad shoulders holding perfectly tousled hair. however, his mouth only seems to be capable of speaking dirt and tarnish.
4) she speaks english very well.
it is simply wonderful how two small organizations supposedly competing against each other can quickly have that thick, wooden wall simmer to a minimum as if a ball made of entire alabaster, wrapped in flaming simplicity has been thrown from a slingshot of seventy miles away; all using the element of sharing smiles and sharing food at a price of zero.
Who knows, maybe under all that acne and slobber, these people have great bone structure and tell hilarious jokes.
as a blog, as a person, as a lady, lately i’ve been quite lacking.
to change the world is not my goal, not my dream. i simply want to be able to leave my residue of chaos into this humanity and see where it takes the future generations. i want to give birth to the dust remnants in deep fissures of stars, i want to paint seven cities with the most succulent and finest gold using a paintbrush made of faerie glitter, i want to burn the sinister and revive the promises. but how is possible to create this sort of charismatic wizardry with only fire in my veins and ashes on my fingers?
It is so possible for one to never do wrong or violate a dictation, yet still be considered evil. In fact, it is so likely. After all, how can we measure our own worth by what we have or haven’t done? Our morals draw a fine line between good and bad, yet the actual definition is always slightly altered to different minds of different people. To me, having a sorry heart as eloquent and rich as gold showing consistency and sincerity is what shines through, it is one of the most important things one can hold; and from what I’ve witnessed, there are plenty of good people. I have nothing to worry about.
On the other hand, what exactly characterizes the essence of evil?
she takes flash photography deep in the waters
he is slightly rawboned, with his gaunt elbows and scrawny shoulders clearly visible through skin. he has the most meager yet soft and shattery pair of eyes, those of which taunt me at night and make seeing daylight unbearable for my mind. and with all this, originates a beautiful pair of delicate hands. such a dream it is to reach out and hold them for just one minute. such an improbable situation, to wake up next to our tangled legs and his tangled bed hair.
he always looks vulnerable, especially to those fatal demons that like to play with sin and purity, those that enjoy stealing every ounce of love and affection a person can hold. and no matter how many of those nights he’s been involved in - the chanting, the laughter, the hands raised high in the air, the movement of bodies, the sacrifices for the moon and the stars - he is still lonely; i can see it just as much as he feels it.
I wonder, with these more than occasional heart-to-hearts, if he realizes that I sometimes wish for death to quickly pick me up and drop me off into a sheet of white snow or a room of pitch black. We have seen enough, we have seen enough of the world, of our country, of our so-called friends that we no longer desire to stay in contact with over the next few years. We have been exposed; and now at the tender age of fourteen, we have been revealed to the raw, primitive cosmos of corruption.
How is it frankly possible to want to live with a part of our innocence being removed from our cold hearts each day? It is not.