Trees

There used to be a forest, hugged on either side by steep hills and bordered by a mighty river. Two people had made their lives in the forest, content in each others company after an eventful life, and had peace. They built a home, from sturdy timber of seasoned oaks. They dug a well, and planted a cherry tree, a maple and a gingko. In spring, they would sit on their porch and watch the cherry blossom stain the snow dusted ground a tender pink. In summer, they would sit under the shade of the gingko and watch as the fan shaped leaves shimmered in the sun. In autumn, they would watch the maple blaze in all its glory and tread upon the ground carpeted in fiery foliage. In winter, they would peer out of the snow framed window and see the trees their skeletal branches turned to the sky, letting the winter frost hang icicles off their fingers. So, the seasons passed.

Late in their lives, they had borne a son, a strong, sweet child. This boy spent much time by himself in his childhood, wandering within the forest, swimming in the rivers, catching fish in the pool that a glistening waterfall had dug into the rock after centuries of endeavoring effort. He lived a free life, and spent many an evening outside, with a fire roasting his fishy dinner. He knew every constellation by name, having sought them out many an evening beside the many streams that ran near his home. Every cave was to be explored, every tree climbed, every animal named and every pool swum. When their child eventually grew older, the old couple saw that their son needed company besides what they could provide. They wanted to provide him with an education, a future. So, the house in the forest was boarded up, and the whole family left for the city. The house stood empty in the forest. Much time passed.

The child grew into an adult, and was filled with wonder for this house in the woods that filled his childhood memories. In his dreams, he could see an old house, made of wood and dotted with small ferns that had seeped into the cracks. Sunlight always filtered on to the house, staining the brown a dashing green. He dreamed of three trees, so vastly different. An elegant maple, blazing in the warm afternoon sun, would drop leaves onto the ground and into a tall jar of water. A gnarled cherry blossoming in the snow, would greet the impending spring. A stately gingko offering shade in the summer, and golden fans perfect for preserving in the autumn month. He yearned for the sparkling mist of the cascades, the deeps pools and sweet waters. He ached to hear the wind rustling the trees into sighing, coaxing them to creak. What began as a dream had blossomed into wanderlust.

Packing his bags, he turned away from the smog filled streets of the city, travelled from the jam packed streets and little squares of sky peeking down from above the buildings. His parents did not remember much about where this house still stands, but had left him a general direction. He set out with wonder in heart, and a light in his eyes. The first step into the forest had sent shivers of delight down his spine. But when he eventually found the house about a month later, he had named as the most relieved moment of his life. When he awoke the next morning, with sunlight streaming in from a moss encased window, he first noticed the cracks in the ceiling, and how roots had began to worm their way in. Upon stepping outside, the thick wooden stairs had released a hollow thunk and let out a breath of its crumbling insides. Walking a little ways from the house, he stumbled upon the well, with its stones worn down from the decades of wind, rain, sun and frost. And so, the restorations had begun. Time passed quickly.

When she stumbled across this place, tired, hungry and utterly lost, it seemed like a hermit’s humble abode compared to my luxury apartment that was currently inaccessible and somewhere on this planet. He had taken her in, fed her, laughed at her, dressed her, listened to her story, laughed some more, pointed her down an overgrown dear trail and bid her farewell, adieu. So it was by pure chance that she wandered back to that house, some years later, in tears, heart broken, lost in another sense, and homeless. It had not been her intention to drift into that recluse. But then again, she had long since accepted that all who belonged to this place would be drawn here eventually, in one way or another. He took her in again, this time without words, without a smile. Under the shade of the gingko, she made peace with the past, lying on a carpet of fire, she smiled at my own foolishness, gazing into the firelight reflecting off the frost on the window sill, she gave forgiveness and under the peach blossoms, she eventually learned to laugh, and love. In time, he learnt to return those feelings. So, time flew by unnoticed.

Another generation was borne within the house, another circle, and another story not unlike the last. So how I had ended up here alone was of great mystery to me. Daily, there was much to be done. The porch was to be swept, the worn paving stones weeded, the graves tended and the firewood to be found. In spring, there were shoots and wild herbs to be gathered, in summer, fungus and medicines to be picked, in autumn, nuts, berries and game to be preserved and in winter, a fire to stoke and goods to sell. It had become a necessity to venture out into the world since the time my relatives first built this wooden retreat. Unlike my brothers, I had never developed the burning curiosity they seemed to harbor for the outside world, and was content to stay here, concealed by underbrush and tall trunks. And so I had ended up here, alone. But according to the rules of this place, if tradition would follow, then one day, someone will stumble across this house once again, and remain. So in a way, I had started to wait for my one true love to come to me.

As fairytales dictate, I had a sheltered childhood like everyone who ever knew this place. Filled with fairytales, outdoor activities, books and our own stories, an imagination had blossomed within every member of our secluded family. So strong was this imagination that I could not imagine this true love arriving in any other time than dusk, when the shadows had long drawn forgiving veils over my visage. I began the long standing tradition of standing in the doorway, in my most elegant gown, facing the only path that led to this house. From when the first shadows crept over the house to when the first star winked, I would stand and wait. At the end of every evening, there filled within me not disappointment, but happiness that one more day has passed until my true love should arrive. By this time, the cherry tree had begun to die. A particularly fierce storm had tore through the forest early that winter, rattling the house, shaking the very foundations of the trees, ripping off the last leaves hanging precariously off brittle branches and scattering them within the first snowfall. The first sun rays had touched a torn up root, then a fallen trunk, and finally, bent and broken limbs. The cherry tree had breathed its last. That winter was particularly memorable. The cherry wood that eventually found its way into my fireplace instilled a permanent sweet smell into the room, as the walls soaked up the last remnants of the elderly tree. The maple now stood with only the gingko, and I knew that great changes had been installed in the future. The gaping hole that once represented spring remained unfilled, and soon became worn and smooth. Time ebbed on, but spring still came.

A new sapling soon replaced the grand tree, and now the hole was filled. It seemed weak and small compared to the other two, but they had much longer lives. It represented my new beginning. Throughout that period, I had not waited by the doorway. I decided that tradition no longer served a purpose and the new sapling was on the receiving end of my undivided attention. A cherry usually flowers within 5 years, but this one seemed reluctant to flower. It grew, tall and strong, but every spring, its branches remained bare until the first green of leaves marred its brown, scarred branches. Even the internet, one of the many modern adjustments installed with the house, revealed only a shadow of light upon the subject. So, the tree grew, and I, older with it.

One early spring day, I had been doing the routine sweeping around of the pavement when I noticed a swelling upon the branches of the now mature cherry tree. Brown, furred and tinged in the slightest pink, I knew this was no leaf. Sure enough, one swelling was followed by another, and by the time the gingko had first leaved, the courtyard was littered with pink petals once again, after so many years. The cherry had outdone itself, sweeping up in its arms a pink and white gown unlike any other I’ve witnessed from its predecessor, and painted the ground in its delicate pastel hues. Amassed, petals few like confetti in the slightest breeze, and yet still much, much more remained. I had been sweeping the pavement, exhilarated and punch-drunk from the flowers’ sweet scent when yet another miracle dawned on the house in the woods. At first, I wasn’t sure if all was right within my mind. Surely, across the sweeping curtain of petals, there was not another human figure, tall, rugged and somewhat weather beaten, making its way slowly towards the house. Surely it was not a rather handsome male, looking awestruck yet blissful within the caress of my beloved tree. Oh but it was. The rest my dear readers, I’m sure you can guess. Much time will pass in bliss.

Past Time

Future ~

The gusty gasps of air that rattled through the tree boughs had turned cool. Instead of the incessant rustling; the slow sigh escaping the trees were as weary as their crinkled leaves. The ground was carpeted with ruined foilage. But instead of muting the sound of footfall to a muffled thud, it revealed itself as a sharp shuffle, and the sound of delicate, dead leaves tearing. A brown leaf, still tinged with deep maroon at the very base, was dangling precariously by its stem. The next breath of wind broke it silently away from its perch and carried it in its arms, spiraling down, away, down, away. It neared the ground, brushed it with one of its five tips, and settling contently into its new place. A second of stillness ensued, and then, it was crushed. The two boots marched on oblivious to the scattering remnants of leaf it left behind. The path to the cemetery was lined with oaks, beeches, maples and all the other wondrous deciduous life forms that turned a pavement of concrete blocks into a canvas of splashing color. In fact, one could hardly see the grey, lined blocks now. A sea of shed leaves smothered the dull tone of concrete. It was rather like snow, except brown. It was a clear day; the sky was white with the pearly cleanness of winter.

A coated figure trudged his way between the rows of trees. His hands were buried deep within the warmth of his pockets, his arms held closely to his side. His head and shoulders were stooped, either from habit or from the incline of the path. Heavy boots concealed muscled calves, the great black trench coat supported by his build accentuated his height. A black bowler hat, so uncommon in these times, adorned the crown of his head. All that was missing was the wooden pipe at his lips. He is actually quite much older than this image reveals him to be. At sixty, he still had the physic of a fourty year old, albeit a little rounder about the middle. It was his pride and joy to watch his colleagues gape at his achievements in the gym. He chuckled a little as the path smoothed out at last, and the last trees gave way to a quaint white picket fence. It was so like her to choose such a place.

He wandered slowly through the rows of headstones, white granite things, so plain and strangely comforting. Each little patch was accompanied by a bush or flower of sorts growing beside it, the older graves recognizable by their much bigger plants. He looked, but did not read them. He knew he could tell right away if it was the one he was looking for. Sure enough, he stopped at the first grave that seemed out of place amongst all the others. The headstone was in shape of a cherub with wide spread wings, holding a scroll. And sure enough, this was the one he was looking for. Contented to leave the white, pink lined carnation that had been shielded from the wind in his left breast pocket; he stood again, and headed towards the church he knew was on the far side of the cemetery.

******

She watched as the coins from his hand twinkled into the silver dish. There were eleven; no more no less, every time, everyday, every week, every month. It had been four months since the first day he came to this church. She remembers that day well; it had been a good day. He had come everyday since, with eleven shillings. It was always eleven shillings. He would stand there, gazing upwards, his vision cutting straight through the alter to land on the stained glass window making up the back wall. He seemed endlessly fascinated by the angel, shining in its glassy glory, haloed by the light of the evening sun. She didn’t understand why he had to stare at it for quarter of an hour everyday. Afterwards, he would move slowly away, tearing his eyes from the angel, reluctant, slow. And then the shillings would be dropped, one by one, ritually into the donation dish.

But today would be different. She must make him understand, that what ever regrets he had, he could not buy his way to god. There was only repentance, then forgiveness. She walked towards him as he finished dropping the last shilling into the dish, watching it, mesmerized as it landed with a twang, rolling, rocking, and then settling with a metallic reverberation. A sudden feeling of awkwardness swept up her spine. It was as if this was a private moment, sacred, something she should not intrude upon. However, as she was lost in this new feeling, he had turned towards her, with a smile on his face. She noted how his eyes twinkled under the folded weight of his dropping eyelids, how the creased mouth revealed pearly white teeth. She steeled herself.

“Sir, you cannot buy your way to repentance”

He looked puzzled. Then the irksome feeling was lifted off his face with a low, melodic rumble of laughter.

“No, no, none of this is from me. I’m simply here for a friend, it was his will.”

The awkward feeling spiked. He had said “will”. His friend had died. But she was curious; he had been one of the only visitors she had seen since she started volunteering at the church.

The sunset saw them walking out of the church doors together, a tall, brooding man, and a young woman, of no more than twenty five years.
******

They met again on Saturday, but this time at a local café. The spring chill had not yet lifted its hold, and a thin sheen of vapor fogged the window looking out onto the busy street. The young woman hugged a cup of hot cocoa in her hands, the steam rising lazily into the air, curling and wispy. The elderly man had ordered breakfast, and was currently digging in to the toast and toasted mushrooms with the vigor of robust youth. The woman alternated between the muted ringing of cutlery against china, and the crackling of the log fire. It was quite some while before he would talk. Finally, he set down the knife and fork, and then picking up his coffee, which was slightly cooler than how he liked it. Sipping the coffee, he proceeded to stare out the window. She stared at him, slightly annoyed. It was only when she made an impatient noise that he turned again, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Youths these days, so impatient”

“Its not like all of us has forever”

“Well, aren’t you going to ask what you’ve been dying to ask for the last… three months?”

“You know what I’m going to ask anyway, so why don’t you just tell me”

The man chuckled, shaking his head in mirth. He cleared his throat, eyes glazing over as his conscious delved into his mind, drawing up the events that had happened so long ago.

*******

They had been best mates, Robin and him. They grew up together, had played together, ate together, taken the same classes, been involved in the same pranks, drove their parents to insanity together. They had gone to the same school, were in the same class, and had the same friends. Everyone said they were long lost twins, but they knew they were more than that. It was fun, living life together. But they had also met the same girl in the same college. They always said that the best of mates were driven apart only by mutual love of a woman. Even though they were very much the same, some differenced had made themselves quite distinct. He had been taller, stronger, more rugged in looks, while his best friend had been the one with charm. She had liked him better; his best friend had loved her more. He hadn’t been interested. It was the start of them drifting apart. They had ultimately pursued different careers, ended up in different countries, mixing with different social classes, until suddenly, he found that he hadn’t contacted his best friend in twenty years.

When he had finally tracked down that twin of his, all he found was a tombstone and a will. He himself had made a name for himself, and a sizable bank account. His twin had done no less, no more. Neither had family, neither had kids. One was dead, the other, very much alive. A final request had been sealed in a little, hand written, hand decorated envelope, intricate, beautiful and hardly like the work of a man. But it had been the twin alright. It had to be. He was told to find the girl, the same one that had been to college with them. He said he had met her again, at a bar, singing. He wanted to look after her, love her, but she had taken offence, thinking her wanted to buy her with his money. So she had fled, and had been lost in the crowd. The twin, still pining after news of her, had left her half of the contents of his bank account. The request was a request to deliver, secretly, the amount over the rest of her life, eleven shillings a day. And she had finally been found, and cannot run now. He had her forever, until he joined them six feet under, and he wasn’t going to any time soon. Thus, here he was with his eleven shillings a day, everyday. The amount meant almost nothing now, but had been quite an achievement some years ago.

With a flourish of a handkerchief being whipped out of his pocket, the story ended. The young woman looked intrigued.

“What was her name?”

“You mean the college girl?”

“Yes, who else?”

“Her name was Rina Wiles”

Her eyes widened a fraction.

He noticed. He pretended not to. Silence lingered. It was only then that the man realized he did not even know the name of his companion, or she, his.

“What’s your name?”

The woman seemed reluctant to speak. She opened her mouth, frowned, closed it, and then turned to retrieve something from her bag. The cocoa was forgotten on the side of the table. It was cold anyway. She slipped a business card out of her purse. Her hand was poised in mid air, gently flicking the textured stencil grasped in her finger. Her expression was meditative, as if she was struggling to remember something, to understand a concept that lingered on the edge of her mind, out of grasp and yet indefinitely close. The words came out, eventually, singular in its coherence, syllabic and hesitant.

“I’m… Tina Wiles… my mother mentioned you once, I think.”

Porcelaine

I used to know this girl down on Angel Parade.
She would come early in the morning and set up her stand space in the open market.
And out of her bicycle basket and a box in the back, she'd take out all sorts of wonderous breakables.
Girls walking to school would stare at delicate glass swans with entwined necks and crystal feathers.
Boys walking past would stare rapturously at epicly posed soccer players frozen in translucent, unmelting ice.
And they'd all coo over the little porcelaine hearts tinted pink and blue, couples staring loving at them as they fingered the smoothness of its exterior.
It even came in it's very own box.
She'd smile at them all as they passed by, looking wistfully as they left, hand in hand.

She'd come late one morning, with a bloody scrape down one white limb where her bike had tipped.
The bike itself didn't look too battered, unlike the basket and the box with her wares.
At the sight of her shaky hands delicately removing pieces of shattered glass and porcelain, our hearts went out to her.
But even with so many hands, not all could be assembled to resemble any of it's former glory.
We were left with a pile of broken hearts.
Dejected, thus we left to go on our ways; there was nothing more to do.
Her unshed tears stung our hearts.
The way her hands folded morosely in her lap made us feel even more helpless.

Imagine our surprise, upon returning that afternoon, to see a crowd gathered around her stand.
Two little boxes for one broken heart. Two people each possessing half.
Going off, as ever, hand in hand.
Love.

Seeking Water

River running wide and smooth,

With gentle ripples and splashes few.


Is it possible to lose a river? The ridiculous situations I find myself in. But here I am, on what used to be the banks of a wide river that ran straight across the winding country. Or at least I think this is where it used to be.

When I had left, this river held nothing more to me than drowned dreams, another barrier to my long awaited freedom and a flat pebble or two lying at the bottom of those clear waves. For, to cross that river was to have this town and everything it held at an arms length where it could not infect me with its lack of purpose. The idleness of its occupants repulsed youthful energy. Many an evening would sidetrack from the dimmed shops to a walk beside the river. When the tide was out, one could follow the swirling trails of mud it left behind on the strained banks where the grass sank slowly to dip its longest stems into cool liquid life. Like gentle fingers, the ebbing currents carved furrows into the earth, and soon, soft thick grass would shoot from those patches of rich earth to pattern the lawn. If one was lucky, they’d think the fairies had passed here, dancing in their rings, lushness expelled from their dainty bodies upon brushing mother earth.

The river cut this town from the rest of the world. It was a buffer against the busy activities that buzzed on the other bank, where everything slows down as soon as it touches the water. If one stood at the other bank looking in, they would be able to imagine that time sped past slower here, for every minute in the real world, only a second was passed here. On my frequent trips around the streets, only one person could regularly be seen, the others coming and going as they may, slowly, sparsely. Holding the bright embroideries in her hand, Mary would skip down in her blue cotton gown, waiting to show me her work. But that was many years ago, and she too had been chased away and worn down. Married, they tell me. Married and went off to God knows where. That seemed to be the natural order of things.

At times, I wondered why I returned. This place had been my very first prison, and now, after finding my freedom and wondering for the first time in many, many seasons if I could still find a home. Anywhere could be a home when one has seen the world, but it was good to have sentimental reminders of the past haunting my wearied steps. The mango tree in the garden had died, as typical, mortal joys do. The house would’ve been unlivable, left the way it was. The garden bench had rusted beyond recognition, they sigh, wearily. For it would have to be removed at their expense. The houses have changed, the old Victorians becoming too cumbersome, too worn down and utterly too beautiful to maintain. But where was my river?

Worthy

Round and Round and Round.
There's absolutely nothing better than a trip down the memory lane is there?
No really, I mean it.

You can start off with the most innocent object that can possibly exist on the surface of this planet. Take for example... a totally unrelated object, the epitome of neutrality, a ball. Any ball will do. You notice its shape, which is predictably, hopefully, round. Round, as in like, circles, as in like, circle from friends, as in like, friendship, as in like, relationships, as in like bad experiences with relationships... Anyway, I'm sure you get what I mean. Before you know it, KABAM, you're hit in the face with something you thought you'd buried deep enough for it to be melted inside that jumbled mess of a box marked "Subconciousness". Even better, it would've eventually leaked into the "Forgotten" hole. But no, it was not to be so easily scrapped.

At times you think to yourself, what if, just what if, I never took trips down the memory lane. Certainly, life would be much more productive, so much time would be saved from having to think about the evitable and unchangeable past, chores would get done much quicker, people would NOT linger in pouring rain and acting all sentimental about useless objects. We'd be more focused on the future, probably abit happier too. Hell, we know we buried those things deep inside our mental junk for a reason.

But without those unplanned incursions into the depth of our conciousness, many many hours of entertainment would most certainly be lost. Sitting there, alone at the bus stop or waiting patiently for the train arriving in 29 minutes, how many people unconciously drift into memory, with a sweet, blank smile on their face. People dub it as nostalgia, people write about it, sing about it, even paint it. Da vinci's Mona Lisa is a typical example of nostalgia gone famous. Broken dreams, shattered ambitions, lost loves, obliterated lives, they all seem to install themselves into our memory and root themselves more firmly than anything else. Even the answers to the next maths examination.

At the end of the day, perhaps we are all better off as we consume our dinners while thinking back to some delicious gourmet meal that had long since lost its taste on our tongues, or listening to the distant albeit loud thud thud thud of our neighbours music while reminiscing on the haunting piano tune some faceless lover used to play. It keeps us happy and gives us something to remember our lives as being worthwhile lived.

- Blood

Half Speak

Tangible Anticipation milled around the Sydney Opera House that evening.
And to those ignorant of the purpose, it seemed strange
That so many should gather in their finery at such a place
Without there being any program on for the night.

But for many of those floating in a sea of silks, spots of color against living night
It is their first time ever to see such a sight
Who could blame them to be zealous and wanting the spotlight
To themselves for awhile against the darkening sky?

Hello, you look fabulous as always, and I hadn't recognized you in that dress.
What changes? "I try hard everyday" And they all laugh.
Anything, almost anything will pass today I thought
As I watched her chase a rather skittish blob of black up the stairs.

To see Your Name against the roll, ah! so it is true and we are here.
It's hard to imagine what the next five hours will be like
Besides the fact we know it will be exciting as we anticipated
Because we spent so much time anticipating.

So many faces flash past, Hi, Sorry I don't quite remember your name.
It's alright because you don’t quite remember mine either
And everyone's confident of themselves somewhat.
With the stories floating around like wildfire in the wind.

FLASH, click click, whirls, followed by other automated noises.
A moment captured in memory, mostly faces
Truth be told, what we really want to capture really can’t be captured.
Because textures, smells, feelings fade while faces and dresses don't.

AH! Follow the crowd draining out of the nature reception way
We don’t know what's there but we can feel it in the air
And as we round the bend, sure not to disappoint
Gasps of surprise at the Starship waiting there.

We were orderly, none wanting to ruin this moment in our memory.
Cooperative, like we have hardly ever been before.
The untamable tamed and tempers evened for today,
Just for today while we board.

It seemed short. It took pretty long but, we were excited.
And everything happened too fast for us even in slow motion.
Feeling the solidity of the ground leave our feet,
We were swept up in this wave, the flow of the whole night.

And feeling much beyond our years, we watched the sunset
With clanging glasses and wind-swept skirts for conversation
Both wishing that perhaps it could've been different, someone else.
Surprised with the lack of regret or disappointment, not now.

Feeling just a little lost for the first time, there were really too many faces
That people would wonder off with, one by one,
Until that group was left with only a few standing there, wondering
Where they were, where everyone else had gone.

But soon, they would find their anchor, and begin to float in that room
Then it would be someone else’s turn to look around
Push their way through the crowds around the plush, neat, square sofas
Treading directionless on the deep toned carpet without a sound.

One could easily tell that only a handful, perhaps, were used to this
I mean, come one, who'd ever have to choose from three sets of knifes before?
And truth be told, they looked pretty similar, who cared?
It was there for enjoyment and nothing more.

The rest of the night progressed as it should have.
No one judged each other on the dance floor, I hope
Though the fact that everyone was pretty clueless would've contributed
Just let go they said, it's not like the people looking down cared.

Up and down the stairs and I'm glad I was prepared for this.
Everyone was special that night during one time or another.
And beneath the bridge lit with earth bound stars and wheeling glitter
This episode was made perfect perhaps, by the lights of Luna Park.

Most of the night was a blur filled by laughter, music and pain
And I dare to say that all the girls sighed with relief
Upon being relieved of their heels and touching sweet, sweet grass
Wishing their weight was much lighter, vowing never to repeat this episode.

Stumbling half dead into bed, I wonder how the others could still go on
Waking up this morning, wondering where the hours had gone
If I had dreamed it all, until I saw in front of my bed,
Two purple balloons bobbing happily in the sun.

----------------------------------------------------
What realizations do the Wise make?
Buried in their books,
They discover the world for us.

Perhaps the eccentric aren't so at all.
They merely see the world
In ways we will never understand.

When will the weary rest at ease?
It depends, mostly
On where they are trying to reach.

As for when the world will end,
Well, that's better asked
As when will Humans stop existing.
----------------------------------------------------
Life as the shadow of some Greater Glory
Many don't doubt life as a test of some sorts.
But trials for what purpose?
And thus this question led to the development of concepts.
Afterlife, heaven, immortal sections of us captured timelessly.
We cannot begin to accept that perhaps, our existence is insignificant to the world.
And we try to prove our point through destruction of what’s around us in the name of "creation" and "for the greater good"
-----------------------------------------------------
- Blood

Look, Halo!

REWRITE~~~

Not sure what I need,
It's not here, without a doubt,
Fly away into the night
Know how to do without.

Listening, so far away
The sound that's ringing out.
Leading me on this path
Making my heartbeat shout.

Drawing cirlces in the sky
Waiting for the pouring rains
Standing out in the dark
Wash away these teary stains

This time wont be bad,
the clouds will fade away,
the sky will turn to blue,
and the world wont be grey.

Hey love, do you dream now and then
Of a house and many friends
Maybe a family with time to spend
Piles of news to send?

Hey love, dont you worry about me
Just enjoy this moment please
Don't clouds your eyes with doubt
Sometimes you just gotta be free

Hey love, Hey love
Dont you worry about me
------------------------------------------------------------------

You'd notice that this can be sung to "halo" by beyonce. When I first heard it, really thought it was hey love xD

Mentality

Just as cracked mirrors are to self loathing,
I am to a spinning vortex.
Just leave, take few, leave more, and run.
But I tire easily, what now?
The idleness of transportation would drive me insane
Even while taking me fast and further away
Than I could ever manage on my own.

There's dependence, there's emotion,
Both not good for a healthy pride.
Supposedly a mortal sin by the book of God,
If such one exists amongst us miserable creatures.
Searching every nook and cranny of the earth for answers,
Best found within ourselves, if only we'd look hard enough.
If we'd only see we brought this on to ourselves.

And then there are those who deny their existance,
Throwing away their lives to the oceans
Not knowing that this, all this, is apart of the experience.
Some are better off than others, some are worse.
It's all a matter of balance, equality and harsh injustice.
But who are we to judge what is right and what is not?
Seen only as another grey pebble in the endlessly blue sea.

As the moon shines tonight, a small fraction of us will see it.
What good is light when we forget to appreciate
How it lights up our eyes, our road, our life, our surroundings,
And how we see everything so much clearer now.
Similarly, I needed a light for the mind's eye
One to point me in the right direction,
Show me a path to reconcile with dreams and aspirations.

Seeing the rain now, beating, drumming, streaming
It is hard to imagine that somewhere,
A dry parched earth is begging towards the clear sky.
Holding the red dirt in my fingers, they leak
Out from my cupped hand and streaming
Like red, red blood into the wind, diluted by the air
Until it seemed matter could simply disintergrate.

All the while, my mind's eye is still hazy,
Watering with precious drops, evaporated before they fall.
Relieving the parched winds of its emotionlessness somewhat,
There are only two things to do now, alas
Both are not within my power to control my heart.
Just as ice will melt under a blazing sun, inevitably
Time will freeze me in it's icy vaults.

Burn, Bleed, Die for my peace of mind,
It seemed like an absurd request, deservingly,
And quite understandable if you could see into me,
Into this spinning vortex of confusion and clarity
Mixed into a creamy grey, swirling, concoction.
Yet for all it's sinister thoughts and inflictions of pain,
It is quite sought after and precious when found.

Even when physical light engulfs my mind
And tightly closed eyelids cannot help but glow
The eloquent silence shouts out it's protests
Into my mind, Never out, It comes now.
With a wave, that flimsy, overpowering light
Is conquered by the dark flames of reassuring, solid mentality.
Like the dark wings of death claiming life.

Still, through all of this, your visage remains,
Burning it's image into the clear cold glass
Framing the windows into my soul, so they say.
And wave after wave, they cannot wash away this imprint
Until the very ocean tires from it's endeavours.
I'm left wondering why, why, why and how this can be
That a simple spot of white could blemish my perfectly dark sea.

Day By Day

Drip…Drip…Drip.

There’s nothing like waking up to a dripping tap. The incessant annoyance that seems to fade just as you open your eyes, then crescendo into a brain cracking stake driving itself deeper between your skull as soon as you close the windows to your soul.

In your minds eye, the tap is no longer below your eye level but above, you gaze up and watch that blown up water drop gather at the edge of the tap, appearing from the black abyss of the pipes, grow, halt, tremble, fall. Falling, falling, seemingly on top of you, the coming down with a mind shattering CRASH right besides you, destroyed, with bits of water flying in every direction and the only evidence for its existence were scattered remains.

The longer those eyes are closed, the louder the dripping will get until your very world is drown by that one water drop hitting cold porcelain, each drip becomes a hammering, BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Petrified, you open your eyes. And once more, the sound of the dripping tap recedes, almost lost in the noise of life.

Drip. Drip. Drip.
It’s time to get up.

Tap…Tap…Tap…

Black leather pumps beat rhythmically on warm timber floors, twirling in front of the mirror. What ever shall be worn today? A smooth silk shirt slips gentle onto winter chapped skin, smoothness on smooth, and white against creamy gold, bordered by black beady buttons. Black hair tumbles neatly on to the shoulders and lies there, arranged in disarray. All this tucked at the ends with neatly arranged folds into a non-descript black skirt, cotton and silk mesh. Neat, simple colors or rather, the lack of.

A small hand runs down those curves once again, straightening out imaginary wrinkles and picking at illusionary loose fibres. Those hands liked the feel of smooth, downy material on tired, strained hands. The grooming ends, but those hands know no rest. They turn and grab the silvery white bag propped up against the door, briefly scrunching in distaste. The bag would suit a party more, too flashy and un-elegant for this attire. But there was no time to amend this breach of dress code. Work now.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sharp, crisp footsteps disappear amongst the din of the traffic.

Rumble…Rumble…Rumble…

The subway was rather crowded today, per usual. Sardines of black suits and white shirts crammed into their tins. The platform was milling with people, some looking into a book, some looking through a newspaper, some burying their heads and minds into a brightly highlighted report, adding a dash of color to the otherwise monotonous colour scheme of the day. News, communication, connection.

No one notices the little boy who looked just a bit lost, a bit frightened and a bit filthy. But the train is filthy. The people are not. And yet, they seem to sigh in relief as they lean against a pole or door, not remembering that only that morning, they had spent much effort in smoothing out the invisible wrinkles, while now, wrinkles crack and branch from every movement.

That pair of black pumps could be heard before it was seen in the forest of legs, its tapping tempo increasing as the warning whistle sounded for its tin’s departure. A small spring, a flurry of skirts and ah! She has reached her reserved spot, nestled against her peers, blending into that web of black and white contrast. The doors slide close, sealed with a click and off they go, on another adventure to work.

Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.

The train picks up speed and distances itself from the loading dock.

Tick…Tick…Tick…

The second hand seemed to move extra slowly today. People waded about in slow-motion. The air seemed thick, the ground unsubstantial, gravity indefinite and light came and went in hazy streams that trickled in and out between the moths beating in slow motion against the lamps. The piercing shrills of the telephone beating against weary eardrums were dull. The computer beamed out a sleep inducing pillar of blue light against eyes that reflected the light right back. Nothing was entering. Disconnect for today.

The clock all but halts its painful process. Eyelids hid glazed over eyes. Just another day to dream. All of a sudden, time speeds past. It’s sunset, time to go now.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Life’s just passing by.

-Blood

Actually

Love me if you may,
Turn this darkness into day.
Scorn me if you must
Blot my out sun with dusk.

Just dont pretend you don't know.
Don't tell me you dont really care.
Dont whisper that I'm really not that important.
These truths that I cannot bear.

If I said that you were kind, would you stop being kind to me?
If I said I loved your laugh, would you stop laughing.
If I said there was something I wanted, would you take it away?
If I said I merely just do, would you still be willing to stay?

Gathering Dust

She draws in the dirt, scrawling shapeless creatures bred from indolence rather than the imagination. Her twig, worn smoother at one end than the ragged other, scratched and scraped at a thin loose layer. Red ridges parted by one continuous valley outlined vague shells and other marine life. An idle sea in a barren terrain. Boring for a girl, young and full of life; she shouldn’t be here.

Her hair was dusty. Her clothes were stained with powdery dirt. Her fingers were caked in a layer of it. It laid upon her face like the foundation of those rich ladies she sees pass the church, but never approached. Her feet were buried in it. No shoes for her. No shoes for anyone she knew, personally. Still, her skin was dark from the glaring sun. Her lips cracked from licking in the blistering, parching winds that whipped up even more dirt. Her bed was dirty. Her floor was dirt. Her house was wet dirt, dried. Her limbs were lithe, her body thin but not rakishly so. She ate whenever she could, whatever she could, and she passed by as best she could.

On this particular day, there was some time for idleness, rare occasions, and she found herself with nothing to do. It had rained a week ago, pouring, and bucketing rain. But like anything else, the sun had bleached and sucked the moisture out of the earth a day after. The next day, a fierce wind had whipped up a typhoon of dust, and everything that had been washed clean by the rain returned to their normal soiled selves again.

There was water in the cellar. She had food; the people were kind despite their disregard. Out of site, out of mind, and she would remain outside the church until she had food. So she sat there, thinking as the sun slid slowly across the sky.

She came to a conclusion that day.

Nothing ignored ever gathered dust and dirt.
----------------------------------------------------------------

There was once a little house in the middle of developing suburbia.

It was surrounded by a quaint white picket fence, enclosed a green lawn, and had little white vine roses all over them. The house was cheerful, painted a mellow yellow with a red roof. The curtains were lacy and light blue. An armchair sat on the porch, and on it sat an old man. He looked over the front lawn sadly.

This little house was surrounded, marooned by a sea of development. High rises all around; the little house looked like it was drowned. No more sunlight reached the windows but for that brief period at midday, when the golden rays could struggle between the concrete giants to set the little yellow house aglow.

It used to be the prettiest house in the neighborhood. Now it gathered dust here. The smoke from the buildings, dust of the street, of the giant crater in the ground next door, the dirt that blew on the wind whistling between narrow alleyways, the litter of people passing by…day by day, the little house became greyer as the old man could do nothing more but watch.

Gradually, a film of it stained the vibrant letter box grey. The yellow paint faded to a monotonous brown, the green of the grass instead was a dead yellow. The roses died and bared their crinkly brown leaves and rustling hollow branches to the wind. Only the light blue curtains remained defiant, now faded more white than blue. And as the old man sat there and thought about the memories he had in that house, how he remembered the past, the day passed.

He came to a conclusion that day.

Only those out of place gathered dirt and dust.
--------------------------------------------------------------

It was musty in that corner, but the box couldn’t remember being anywhere else. It supposed that sometime in the distant past there was an outside.

Sitting there all day, night, day. What did it matter? There was the constant dim light, peeking in through the cracks of the door and the only time it went out was when she was finally asleep. The cupboard door was blank, brown, wooden and opaque. It’s been so long it can’t remember her face anymore.

It was a fine box. Brightly painted, intricately carved and fitted with the best shingles, topped off with a delicate lock. Floral patterns adorned its lid and prancing mermaids danced around its sides. Little fish were enhanced by gilding in the corners and bejeweled with small, glass beads.

But the box was not vain, no. It valued its contents way more than itself. A shiny rock, a feather, a couple of marbles and her first love note. There was a parker with a broken nib, it was her first pen. It was these things that the box worried for, grieved for. How could she forget the shell she had found that summer vacation she had in Hawaii? How could she discard that bow she wore proudly to her first ever school dance.

So it treasured them instead, shelter them from dust and dirt, from the corroding drafts that sometimes wafted in, from the heat in summer and the cold in winter. Gradually, the vibrant colors began to fade. The floral etchings were almost invisible under the powdery dust covering it like icing on a cake. The heat and cold tore at the shiny metal until the shiny delicate lock rusted into an unidentifiable lump. The shingles discolored and jammed from lack of oiling. The jewels gradually loosened from their settings. Even the mermaids seemed to pause in their dance to mourn for their shabby appearance.

But the items inside were as pristine as ever, and that was how the box wanted it to be. And as it sat there, day after day, watching the dust build upon its lid, upon the shelf, upon everything around it, it started thinking.

And the day before the door opened for the last time, it realized something.

Only those forgotten gathered dirt and dust.
---------------------------------------------------------------
A lot of things gather dirt and dust.

There are a lot of reasons why they do.

What’s our reason?

-Blood

Eternity

It's easy to believe.

It's easier to deny.

It's easiest to dream.

But it's almost impossible to accept the impossible and move on. And it's standing there, staring straight through me.

There never was going to be a forever. Ironically, the only thing that ever remains constant is change. But why so soon?

It seemed only yesterday that time seemed eternally plentiful. But then, I had seen the lack of forever, and had accepted it, without knowing what that actually meant.

So caught up in the present, I forget the future. So caught up in the past, I forget to see the present. And so it goes on.

Like an hourglass, the last of the sands are trickling through my fingers while I try desperately to latch on, slow down. It just simply wasn't meant to be.

The delusion that time was plentiful had obscured the truth, that everything is, was, will run on a timer. Don't ever let anyone tell you there's a forever.

And it's happened before, many times. That tense anticipation, the desperation, akin to waiting for christmas, but instead, filled with dread at hopeless loss. A month, a fortnight, a week, a day...

Still, the clock ticks steadily, relentlessly chipping away the moments that are left. There's still time, there's still time, there's no more time. Now or never, but to wait for what?

Empty, that's what promises of returning are. Never wait, never come back. It's for the better I'm sure. Because why wait for something that will probably never happen? Just leave it up to fate and maybe, just maybe, the sun will smile on our roads.

And if only you could see, maybe you'd stay.

And if only you could change, maybe you'd promise.

Instead, the leaves will wither, the grass will die. The brightest flowers and sweetest fruits will dry and drop from their branches. Boughs will strip bare and the land will fall into mourning. A cold layer of snow will freeze the warm earth and blanket it with its frosty touch.

And so, comes the winter in spring.
Waiting for that ray of warmth.

That tree I thought would bear fruit didnt walk away or drop dead.
It simply wasn't a flowering plant.

Oh the irony of it all.

-Blood

Mystery Estate

-Tap Tap-

"Let me in?"

I beat on the glass, gently, with my knuckles, and peering into the darkness, saw nothing but shadows. There was no answer.

I stood outside and waited more. It had begun to drizzle from the grey monotonous clouds. Such typical weather.

It wasn't that chilly. Just wet. I pulled my jacket around me tighter, clinging desperately on to the warmth and dryness seeping from every fold.

Head tilted towards the sky, I waited for the door to open. Not that I'm sure it ever will.

Oh, I know that there is someone inside. It's a house isn't it? There's bound to be. And I've seen the lights in there at night, sometimes, and even more rarely, the passing of people through those doors. Always the same types. Unreachable.

Back towards the entrance, I fancied I could hear the key rattle in the lock, the heavy door shifting from its frame. I turned around to no motion. It's happened before. Why not now?

The front garden was alittle worn. The weeds grew abit too high, the grass a little too uneven and the rose bushes a little too wild. It added to the mystery of this place, but overall it was still a becoming garden. Atypical, unique and well kept, relatively. I wandered up and down the stepping stones of a garden path to the front door, glaring at the blankness of the wood, the solidity of the wall. If only...

I'd be so much more help inside than standing out here in the rain, doing nothing. If they'd only let me in, I could cook, clean, reaarange, fix... or at least attempt to.

And instead of this house, this grand exterior, a little weather worn and in need of a brush of paint, with its endless shadows to make up for it inside. Instead of this place I cannot enter. There would be crystal chandeliers and sunlight, piano music, laughter, happiness and hoped coaxed into life within these walls.

And maybe it'll even stop raining.

But the door remains firmly shut. And I'm sure the chain remains firmly in place too, perhaps even rusty from disuse. Such a waste of a good house, such a waste.

I take a peek at my watch. The second hand seems to tick extra slowly today. Tucking it back into my sleeve, I ruffle my jacket again. I'm done waiting for today.

As I wandered down the driveway, a neighbour kindly stuck their head out to pay their formalities.

"He's never going to come out you know, haven't seen him out of that house in years"

Ha ha, like I don't know that?

"Yes, thank you for warning me, but I'm afraid I have no choice. My business is quite important"

The kind neighbour shakes his head, and tells me he'll send word if the occupant ever sticks his head out of a window at all, then something about whether he had died in the house or something. An unpleasant thought.

With a backward glance, I then walked on. No sooner than I leave it, the exterior of the grand house is calling my back again, lulling, seductive, wanting me to solve its mysteries. Not today, not today...

But one day I'll get in. And I'll meet him. And I'll plant sunshine into those halls, candles into the corners, hanging baskets of ferns on the veranda and lilly-of-the-valley in the lawn.

Just you wait.

One day
One day

One day you'll let me in

-Blood

Snapshot

:39 PM) Sometimes Gladne:

the rainstorm thunders to a crescendo in responce to her music, the passion of the swelling notes coaxed the trees into a frenzied =D

(6:39 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
this is the music of her heart

(6:40 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
with the beats of raindrops agaisnt glass for accompaniment

(6:42 PM) Matt:
with lightning at her right hand, and hail at her left, she pounds at her piano, rivulets of water streaming down its laquered sides and her screams drowned out by the howling, howling storm

(6:44 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
wow i sound morbid O_o

(6:44 PM) Matt:
go onkeep it going!

(6:46 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
and as the rain dies, so does her song. it comes to a gentle coda, and like the rain, pappers upon the keys like broken glass on tile. And like those delicate notes shattering in the air, her heart splinters like glass and shatteres upon floor of deepest misery

(6:50 PM) Matt:
the storm fades, the wind died away and the watery sun fills the world with pale gold, and the blue sky peeks out from behind the dark clouds.. but she was a porcelain doll, broken, shattered into a thousand pieces.. and she wept.dammit ur ones beta than mine

(6:53 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
but as the sunlight strikes the glass doll, fractured from head to toe but still held together by the wooden base, a rainbow refraction projected onto the white floor. the whole room filled with a magical glitter and the doll glowed with eery light. It was beautiful

(6:53 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
mine's not imaginative

(6:58 PM) Matt:
Quietly, i begin moving my fingers across the piano. Softly, lightly, and with emotion. For who now was left to remember her laughter? Who now was left to remember her tears? Who now was left to remember her name, but I? From destruction springs life. From despair springs beauty. From a broken glass doll, springs a rainbow

(6:59 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
awwwhwy is it so tragic

(7:00 PM) Matt:
lol i rly dnt noe

(7:00 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
i guesswe all have that hidden appreciationfor beautiful sadness

(7:00 PM) Matt:
yeh, we wna be depressed and go "aww" at the same time
i like that

(7:03 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
more like everyone has a hidden sadness that lingers jsut below the surface

(7:05 PM) Matt:
ah dnt be so depressing.. such a sadness does not always have to existi just like tear-wrenching movies and books and stuff

(7:05 PM) Matt:
cause they make me feel good and bad at the same time..uhif that makes sense

(7:06 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
i like reading angst
i know wat u meanxD

(7:19 PM) Matt:
hello! lets try again this timelets make it happyum

it was a bright and sunny day

(7:20 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
she was his sunshine, the reason he opened his eyes with a smile every morn. and he was her song, the reason she skipped to class everyday

(7:21 PM) Matt:
awwwah damn all i can think of is putting a jealous person in there or someone dying

(7:24 PM) Matt:
ieveryday, whether the sky was gloomy or bright, they met in the park in the centre of the city, a little bubble of happiness, in a little green bubble of nature surrounded on all sides by straight, rule-lined skyscrapers and cloying, choking smog..

(7:25 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
boom
car crashg
irl dies
guy suicides
(7:26 PM) Sometimes Gladne:
the end
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

LOL

My Place

I had waited for this moment for awhile, standing here in the semi darkness, listening to the hum of nocturnal insect life. The air was warm like it was supposed to be this time of the year. The air smelt like summer too, a grassy smell that dulled my senses. It was neither dry, nor particularly wet, and a hushed sigh disturbed the quiet of the treetops somewhere in the distance. The wall against which I leaned still felt comfortably warm to the touch, all these hours after sundown.

A particularly persistent moth had found its way to the flickering fluorescent light a little way down the street. Though attached with a bungee rope, it would draw away, then slam into the light at whatever speed it would gather, stagger in midair, then fly away again only to repeat the process. It hurt me just watching it, so I turned away.

There was no fluorescent light here, only the paleness of the concrete and the darkness of red-brick. I wasn’t quite sure where the light came from, as the moon was not yet in the sky. At least, I could not see it from here. The sky itself was a swirling pattern of lighter clouds and darker sky, with diamond pins of stars scattered around the cotton lightness. They seemed muffled, the stars I mean. I scuffed one shoe against the ground in boredom and watched as a fleck of rock came loose from the deteriorating walkway. There were buildings on one side, river on the other, and trees some where along the other bank; it was more of a stream than anything else. A giant open sewerage pipe that didn’t smell quite so bad.

A web of spun wire separated the river and I. The fence was quite climbable and green as the local council had gone on a “make Canterbury Green” campaign, and literally painted everything green. To top it all off, green (grey in this light, or lack of) weeds surged from the cracked end of the walkway like, well… weeds. They came up to around my knees, some of the longer stems. I watched as various objects floated along, bobbing up and down in the meandering current. Great, I was bored enough to watch grass grow and rubbish float down a river.

Ah! Finally, I heard the gate swings open with a high pitched “creeeeaaaak”. The crunch of gravel as they passed through the narrow bit between the building and the fence, a rattle of wires as and a soft curse (no doubt he had scratched himself flipping the fence again) then finally, the shuffling of shoes on concrete. Here he comes, and I straighten up from my reclining against the wall. A black blob of a bobbing hat was seen first, above the low wall blocking him from me. A head emerges, followed by shoulders and a body as he hauls himself up the wall. For the first time, the body seemed cumbersome in contrast to my agility, but I lacked strength to make up for it.

He looks up, and flashes a smile at me. I feel my face respond unconsciously and my heart involuntarily sings. All 180cms and 75 kilos of that body eventually made its way towards where I was standing. Together, we made a strange shadow upon the ground, one side was uncommonly small, the other uncommonly large, as though looking through a distorted mirror in one of those fun houses at carnivals. Still we made a good team. He flicked the blade of grass he had been toying with and it shot away into the bushes of weeds as a small bullet of cellulite, water and other planty stuff. Obviously I hadn’t paid much attention to biology for awhile. I followed it with my gaze, knowing I would not be able to find where it landed, but tried nonetheless. Anything to look away.

A warm palm replaced where the warm wall had been on my back, except this time, it was softer.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

I looked up at him, face dark against the backdrop of the swirling sky. He was smiling, like he always was.

“Why the hurry, we’ve got all night.”

He looked away, surveying out surroundings then, most probably (it was dark, a bit hard to see), scrunched his thick features in distaste. Disbelief at my wanting to stay here was confirmed in his scoff. I looked into the river too, following his eyes, trying to see what he saw, what he perceived as being so bad about this place. At least there was privacy. I kept looking until my world seemed to rotate 90 degrees sideways and drop a meter and half or so lower. Yeah, I got manhandled. Next thing I know, I was being contently bumped along on his back, being taken away from my moth, my fluorescent light, my river and my fence. Giggling was not something that is approved of by me, but special occasion called for special circumstances.

One last look back and I noted that he smelt nice today. His father must’ve changed the aftershave…

Blue

When a particularly emo song has been on repeat for the last twenty minutes, you know that yeah something has definately gone wrong.

Things about misunderstand floats around in the air, a tinge of love maybe, and certainly pain.

When you start crying tho these notes and words, yes something is definately wrong.

Don't take me the wrong way, I usually hate these types of blog where the person moans about how their love life is crap.

So the fact that I'm writing one is even more reason to suggest that something is definately... wrong.

Problem is, I don't actually know what. Problems are always more easily solved when the person can identify them. It is much easier to fix a broken down car, for instance, if you know whether a tire's blown or the fuel tank exploded.

It's one of those things where I thought I would not, could not, ever fall. The wings I had attatched for safety reason I had taken off, thinking there was no deeper down. I thought I was screwed before. Now I've proven myself wrong.

Now I can't even speak up...

Why can't I be her?

Why, why why...

Just because, just because they whisper into my ear. It's not yours. Never was your choice. Never will be.

Sometimes sheer will and determination isn't enough.

Sometimes bitter tears bring nothing but more pain.

Sometimes, only sometimes, I got to look back and wish things were different...

Let go... Look beyond... Walk on

but everyone knows thats easier said than done.

Hunter

Draw back an arrow, notch it in deep. Aim at the heart and never look away. Still, control. Fire.

A mad dash thus ensues between the hunted and the hunter. Twisting, turning in the forest.

And with a flick of an antler, the hunter becomes the hunted.

Game Start

Back rolls the confusion.

The surface always looks different from really inside.

What are you? Not in the sense, define your species, but, what are you to me?
I'm just confused.

Contradicting needs, wants, what should I do? Taken on a rollercoaster ride that didnt leave the room.

What are you trying to do? Not physical manipulation either, though that itself is confusing enough in another sense. Trying to establish emotional attatchment? Why? Why me?

There are endless questions that I cannot ask, will not ask. Because I'm just enjoying this sightless ride too goddam much. Never look a gifted horse in the mouth.

Trust. There can never be friendship, love, reliance without trust. And it's something lacking from us. I dont know what you are trying to do, and I dont trust you enough to blind myself. The fact is that not all intentions may be noble. I might just be paranoid, but you never know. Better guarded then staying there like a sitting duck waiitng to be stabbed through.

What to make of all this? I have no idea, and none of my trustworthy advisors have a clue. I know so little about you. There some things I dont want to know. Perhaps it may not be a big deal to you, but it is to me. Maybe this is normal for you, but it is abnormal to me.

But there is time, there is always time, for now. Time to sift through what scant information I have, reinforce the icy wall around my heart, thicken it's boundaries, the wall built to keep you out and my warmth in. Try it, pick at it as much as you want, but you wont get through.

And if, worse comes to worst, or, all my doubts are true, then i'd simply walk away from this all. There must not be a weakness. It is all really a game isn't it? Of cat and mice, where you think you are the cat, in control, hunting. But no, should you really intend to crush me within your jaws, you'd find more than a mouse there. And I'd simple walk away.

And I won't let you get the upper hand

And I wont fail, wont fall...

Won't break that wall...

I hope.

Crossroad Day

There is a decision to make, one that may change the course of everything
Worst thing is, I have no idea how to approach this subject at all
Deciding that perhaps, time spent in peace would be needed at this moment
Seeing the honeyed daylight outside, saturated with the buzz of midday
And the heat rising off the tar road, wishing nothing more than for water
I made a first step and decided to take a walk away from any pavements

Watch how sunlight filters through the green canopy blotching the sky
Step in the golden puddles pooling in the damp mulch under the trees
A walk through this enchanted space will help to clear the confusion within
Trace lines running through the bark with delicate fingertips, hoping
They'd tell me stories of how people lived and found happiness long ago
And hearing the wise silence, stood with its trunk against my back, leaning

The telegraph poles stand tall, battered and bruised from assaults by the wind
While the grass bow their head to the elements in respect for its soft strength
There is much wisedom shut inside these walls of soft wood and leaves
Concreted river beds cracked, and grasses peek through the openings there
Though there is little earth or water, they manage to blossom through spring
Some things were meant to be, others live to wear down the face of defeat

Sky, with its yellowing blue, never quite green and fading to purple remind me
While elegant gums sway their daunty heads in their patronizing of my behaviour
They tell me, this is no place to be, that it is time to return from where whence I came
But I want to linger awhile for a moment longer, surrounded by these calm statues
Watch the golden fires drown themselves in the horizon, agonizingly beautiful too
Then, even the crickets voiced their concerns over the length of my stay

Out on the street, out in the sunshine, wandering away from things left behind
Take a step, take a breath and wondering if there will be a next time
Short cut through the houses, long cut around the park, just one last moment here
Over the bridge and across the river running it's steady pace beneath me
Follow the traffic and walk against the crowd of birds flying high above
And maybe when I see all that is here again I'll feel more than just nostalgia
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zac's birthday tomorrow, happy early birthday!

Oh and it's also fathers day =]

The park really was very pretty today... but there was no life changing decision to make

Oh, and I saw three of the Cutest puppies, they were all white and happy and bouncy and furry

My mum didnt like them though, but I did. The owner said that I could pick any one and take it home with me. I think he was joking, he was hoping I thought he wasn't.

To go or not to go? To subject myself to awkwardness or admit defeat to my fear

It really isn't as daunting as it sounds, and I bet many would laugh at the trivial nature of the decision at hand. No, no it is all creative licence for the sake of narrative.

It is quite dark now... the trees and bamboo outside my window makes a lovely pattern against the sky... it is not quite dark yet.

the textured roof tiles look rather lovely in this... lack of light also

There is much to think about today, is it good or bad... what will happen, Better, or should i be content

Nonetheless dear reader, none of these things would matter to you, nore would you understand.

An author's small delight.

Ah, the trees are gold lined, with the last of the day reflecting off its white smooth skin, quite new from the winder.

Clouds may be silver lined, but my trees are golden =]

And now that I've quite solidly established the fact I'm out of sanity,

I shall depart.

-Blood

Proof

I thought that we were both mature enough to put past prejudices behind us
I thought that we were both willful enough to try and move on
I guess I was wrong

Sure, we had a bad beginning, but then everyone makes mistakes right?
They are forgiven and forgotten, eventually, but how long do you expect me to continue to forget and forgive while you nurture your prejudiced like some sore festering scar
Why do you even keep it?
To remind yourself that I did you harm?
Did I even do you harm?
Do you not see the scars you have left behind in me, a blemish upon smooth skin, jarring and quite ugly, a burn discolored against white background
Do you not see that I don’t care for them anymore?
Obviously you do not; you are too busy with your own hurts

What must I do to prove myself?

But no, no matter what I do, try to change myself, be civil, smile, laugh, entertain, it is not enough

It is never enough

And have you thought about this at all?
That one day, like today I would have had enough
Always with the civility, the false smiles, a cold shoulder, friends, maybe, maybe not

Enough

The consideration, looking after your best interests is something I will not be doing at all from now on

Contrast

Hold that thought right there.
I feel infinitely small compared to the steel towers looming over the sidewalk, blocking out the sky until only grey patches remain of the once blue dome.

Just one more person lost in the crowd milling past, stuck on a rock in the middle of the living river of bodies.

Hey, I feel so out of control, and can't hold on much longer to this peice of security in a world where there is no such thing as a safety net to catch the falling.

Some place, somewhere, that's all I know, and this river is flowing to destination unknown.

Take the plunge, let go of my insecurities.

And suddenly, I see a familar face amongst the crowd.

The drift of the current pushes gently towards that face, and little by little, we draw closer together.

Ah, a smile, at last. We cling like barnacles to the alcove that doorway makes.

Out of the footpath, watchig people pass us in throngs on the street.

It's the city afterall.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hold that scene right there
I feel Infinitely small, being the only figure amongst this panorama of rolling hills and clouds, a block painting of green, blue and white hues.

Just once person amongst all this space, insignificant in the minuteness of my size in comparison to these ummovable bones of earth and the vast numbers of soft, rippling grass.

Hey, I feel out of my depth, staring into the open sky, as if searching for a surface in deep water.

Clouds drift by lazily, like foam cresting swollen waves in the sea, wispy in their substance and bringing with them no promise of rain. There will be no relief for those weary of thriving.

Lie back, relax and count the clouds, try to imagine them as anything else but themselves.

Let go of reality and fly into the undiscovered, an adventure on my own.

And until the setting sun taints this picture with more abstract colors, my reverie will remain within these blue walls.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dare to be Different in a World that Values Conformity.

Circle

Sit back and relax

For once let the world pass by in a blue hued blur

And find that perhaps, things are seen clearer than ever



Personal things become impersonal

That step back rights the skewed points of view

Really need to do this more often



So many things are clearer now

Conflicts, miscommunication, prejudices, pain

And so easily righted, if only they could understand



But instead, all these things float around us

Choking the air like poisonous smog hanging above a city

Suffocating our happiness in the acrid salt of our tears



Still, we struggle to hold on to each other

Lost, but not quite alone, held together weakly

By the shadow of something we all shared, once



Spinning in a void of grey

The circle we once made still keeps some of our hopes inside

No matter how tattered it is

Dusk

A fiery sunset had almost faded
Before dusk chose to take her walk
And with elegance she silently set
Stars on her train, dew in her hair

She slips quietly between the trees
Shadows lengthening, attempting to follow
Tracing her footsteps, anchored to their trunks
While her breath cools their labour

Most don't feel her passage
But most fall spellbound for her charm
As eyelids droop and movements slow
She sings a lullaby to the world

The very air stills, listening to her voice
A gentle sighing, a delicate humming
of a haunting tune, rustles of her hem
With a cricket symphony for accompaniment

She's singing her love while she strolls
Calling to all those sharing their hearts
Lulling them from their dwellings
To whisper secrets in their ears

And as inconspicuously as she arrives
Her passing creates no great stirring
Still, as if broken from a trance of sorts
The weary sleep, and the owl hoots his day

The breeze, too, stirs after her departure
Sweeping away the last brightness from the sky
Distribute the rest of the stars, and prepares
For night to be on his way

Sure enough, swiftly dusk departs
Her beau, night, dragging his silver shield
With howling wind on his heels and frigid breath
Comes swiflty after in pursuit
-----------------------------------------------------

From English

Mirroring Situations

Given a choice between two things that will probably bring me much anguish and pain.
And yet, both can and have lifted me beyond merely content.

If I chose either, I'll forever wonder what would've occurred if I had followed the other path at the crossroads. And if I chose neither, I will forever dream about the possibilities, and curse my indecision. It's one of those cases where 1+1=0

The very nature of the decision irks me. The classic and cliched examples of old versus new, the excitement of possibility and the familiarity of routine. And I have an addiction to both. You see, one choice is full of uncertainties.

It is young in every aspect, time, prospect, difficult to predict for there had been almost no occurances, no data, nothing to analyze. Well, almost nothing. But it is also full of promised, fresh and crisp in the dawn of it's time, offering to me a blank slate just pleading to be engraved with laughter and memories. It's like spring, with its endless possibilities. A green shoot pushes its head from the damp loose earth, stretching towards the sunlight. It could be a rose, a daisy, a grand oak that will endre the decades that pass, or it could be a thorn bush, a weed, a creeper that will slowly strangle the life from it's host before withering away. We simply don't know.

The other choice, unexciting as it may be, is something I have nurtured for a relatively longer period of time. There is a nostalgic essence to it's memories, bittersweet and staled by longing. Time begins to lose it's meaning, colors wear and fade, sharp edges are smoothed by sun wind and rain. Emotion becomes a muted hum, unheard at times not because it's not there, but because it's constant presence could be ignored. Waiting, seeing that light in the tunnel, and feeling like it could never get closer, then adjusting to the dimness, instead, admires the beauty of the dark damp walls. But the light will fall, the water will flow out to form a glistening brook, and what I emerge into, rain, shine or storm, will only be revealed when all is ready.

Someone once told me that if you were undecided, you should list the procs and cons of each option. It was very good advice, besides for the fact, what was I supposed to do when the Pros and Con's balance each other completely? Simple stall the decision until more points of argument pop up? But something tells me that if it's one thing I do have, it's time.

"dont rush, you have time" it whispers, tugging gently at the back of my mind and holding down the words that want to flow from me.

The only other source of advice is from the "heart". It leads me to wonder, why am I using my head in the first place? It does nought but confuse me, and on the rare occasions it does make a decision, my heart tends to disagree. To deny the heart of its desires would ultimately end up with more turmoil for me, so a compromise is often the best solution. However, when I do still my mind to listen to my heart, it remains silent and passive. No preference either way.

So I'll just stall for time, for now.

Raining Sunshine

Happy, so happy.

Enough to see through the thick, stormy clouds and feel the sun's warmth.
Enough to see each drop of rain as little clear hearts, falling throughout the city.
Enough to hear the wind as joyous laughs and gentle voices.

And even if it was dark, I'd still keep on going by the light of the stars.
And even if it was pouring, I'd rejoice in it's touch.
And even if it was cold, I'd be warm inside.

Yeah, they think I've gone crazy...
And perhaps I have,
But what's the matter with that?

It's all fun and games for now.
And this bubbly feeling that lasts me through winter and dark nights
I'll cherish it as something akin to hope, and it gives me strength
No need for a reason, no need for explanation.
I'm just.. happy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

GEO DUEEEE

good luck guys =DD

most of us will probably need it

Tennis in the rain <3

and of course, getting beat up by everyone for fangirling too much LOL

NO, i'm not in love, maybe just a little obsessed ha ha

Looking forward to becs bday, LEGAL ^^

must remember not to wear WHITE

or get dunked and OWNED... maybe wouldn't be so baaaad ;D

Only kidding!!

seriously though, as u can see, I finally figured bothered to make my blog pretty

tho i admit i suck at html and i'm noob :L

Oh well i will learn... one day.

Been listening to "hero" on REPEAT, even dads humming it now

And also "gotta be somebody", dad cant hum that xD

Tenniss.... sorry guys i swear

when i try to tap the ball gently it goes BOOOOM into the back fence

and any other technique and it doesnt go anywhere or bounces off at weird angles... SIGH

No control

got lollies tho =DDDD

Until that moment i find the one i'll spend forever wiiiiitttthhhh <3333

i wont find romantic love ^^ but what i will find is AWESUM FRIENDS

so that good enough for me.

Love you guys <33 seriously. How lucky am i? HA ^^

John laughs at me after seeing my mother on the train with 4u maths hsc papers.

he knows i'm screwed HA HA xD

(he'll prolly end up doing them anyway?)

"i thought a shrimp was a lizard" <--- NOOOOOOOB

noobface and sadcase xDD it rhymes!!!

Diamond in the rough. =] you are.

* is high*
-walks off, well bounces off, into the SUNSET-

Three Perspectives

I'm a cynic.
Especially in regards to christianity.
And I wonder how people can believe in a god in this world.

First of all, there's the scientific evidence that points away from everything said in the bible.
Evolution, astronomy, geology, archeology, paleantology and the list goes on.
The universe couldn't possibly have been 6000 years old.

The idea that everyone is doomed to an eternity in hell amuses me.
At least you're still there? What is there to feel, if there is no coporal body to feel with.
Perhaps if there is a soul, my definition of it would be different.
Gaia, I think a life stream, free of individualism would be more probable.

Animals have souls, so do plants and we'd be elitist if we think we're more imporant than any of them. And this soul, an essence, would return to the lifestream upon our death?

I dont know. But as I watch Rice '09, I can't help but feel awed by the unity of the crowd, and at the same time, realising how different everyone is.
Perhaps the purpose of religion is not the religion itself, but the unity and reconciliation it brings.
The ultimate Spirit. Power of the mass. Gathering of little powers to rock our world.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Yeaa i said i would write yesterday but i sorta never did...

Couldnt blame me, i woke up at 11 and had to go at three...

As you can prolly deduce, i went to RICE rally '09, and no i'm not christian, something else you prolly guessed already.

As far back as i can remember, i've toyed with the idea of there being a god or some sort of supernatural power governing the general running of the universe. If not, how could such order have arrived out of ultimate chaos? But no matter how much i thought about it, the more this existance shifts towards a law of physics, something deducable and less towards a being, whether it be god, goddess or a group of executives running the earth like a small factory.

There is definately something wrong with the world, but humanity is not the answer. We are merely insignificant beings shaped by accident and like the dinosaurs, we'll pay for our superiority through a short existance.

Perhaps Gaia, the god, is the earth. The earth shaped us to purge the world, so it can start over? Afterall, it was only after the dinosaurs, the ultimate lizards, were wiped out that mammals took over the world. We might play a similar role to that of dinosaurs, being the ultimate mammals shaped to wipe out the rest of the mammals so another genre of organisms can rise.

I don't know. And i dont think anyone ever will.
---------------------------------------------------------------------

It's a very interesting situation. I watched them stand close.
She's carefree, if not alittle naive, happy and the sky is never the limit for her.
And he's different.

She leans on his shoulder, with light in her eyes. The stage? Or a visualization of joy.
And he's happy there, just being near her radiant presence.

I smile. Laugh. Not a twinge of anything else but happiness.
Maybe this was what i've been told.
Wishing for nothing more but to move on from the past, feeling the euphoria of another.
Best of luck, what you share is something beautiful.
But you dont need me to tell you that do you?
No, you both know quite well, quite well...

And as for me, maybe something new is already beginning.
Only time will tell i guess.
And provide an answer for this rather... interesting situation.

Memory Box

A painted box of card huddles in the corner,
Mosaics of bright colors leaping and swirling, into floral patterns,
And the lid poised daintly ajar on top of its dusty house,
Being not quite adequate shelter for it's contents,
Leaves a square of shadowed light imprinted within it's dusky interior.

It wasn't forgotten there, as such,
Rather placed there as to prevent its loss amongst the mountains
Of packages, bundles, parcels wrapped up anonomously in brown,
And polished off with white thread bows
Waiting to be opened, or shipped away outside to god knows wher

rawr i'm just too tired to bother. will continue it tomorrow i promise!

Thought of the Day

What to do, to not feel left behind?

But it's me who's skipping ahead on top of the warm brick wall.

Arm's out wide and hopes towards the dusk touched sky.

It's funny how you can be left behind so easily while being in front.

It's funny how I can feel lost when I'm surrounded by those who guide me.

Fly, it's not a desire to be free.

Just wanting to get away from it all this time.

Oh yeah I was with a crowd of people before, seemed like long ago.

They are all dear to me, casting the plaster for a perfect life,

Giving me the excuse to run, to hide, somewhere to seek out shelter.

Why the hell am I running away in the first place?

No, why the hell am I running away from something I don't wnat to part with.

Or why I feel like it's running away rather than just drifting apart from disinterest.

Laugh, cry, move along now, there's nothing to see here.

Brush it off for now, think about it later, laugh, make a joke, keep walking ahead.

Because when I'm ahead, only the back can be seen.

The part where there is no emotion, no will, no dreams.

Only the indication of my presence.

And sometimes, that's all I want to be seen.

Before I know it, they'd been swept along an invisible tide called time,

Before I know it, I'd been left behind, infront.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Happy birthday Elaine <3

Legal now ;D so old!

party on the train. WOOOOOOT

one day bec and joseph will gang up on me and kill me ^^;

& i really need to get awayyy from them before that happens

Maybe should stop teasing??

NAAH, its worth getting killed for LOL

I've tried EVERY cake in cake world now

*is proud* =DD

Went cloud gazing yesterday, and mowed crop circles in my lawn

Yeaaah, got no work done either.

Still, it's been ages since i went to the park and just .. stared. But c'mon it was after maths test

Oh yea, maths none calculator thing tomorrow. dang.

Should i revise stuff? If i do i know i needa revise coodinate geometry.

SIIIIIIGH just kill me now.

Actually no i love my life.

I've become very good at monologues since....

CUBA CUBA CUBA i reckon che guevara was pretty hot when he was young.

NSB water polo teams xDDD pasty

"you fantasize alot"<-- certainly, but not about the things you think i'm fantasizing about.

A weeeeeeek. then assessments OVER =D and i can sleep again.

Talking to ppl alot. It feels good, heart to heart, D&M wateva u wanna call it.

I feel loved.

Never know who likes who blah blah anymore in my group.

Even more clueless about the guys. These people i've known since year 7.

Kinda weird actually, that they should know about them more than i do.

But i guess it's cuz i never made te effort, nor was i concerned with it at all.

So out of it these days, preoccupied, lost in thought etc etc but about WHAT?

Really should'nt act all possessive. Cant help it? *shrug* only time will tell if this has all been in vain... in which case i will bash something/someone. (who?)

Will cease my incessant rambling now.

-Blood

Hypocrite

It's sorta funny really.



Unwanted attention making up for the lack of attention else where.



But did anyone ask if I enjoy this? NO



And around and around it goes in circles....



When the last man falls... who will hold up the weight of the world on their shoulders?



Went cloud gazing today. Too tired to try think up anything of literal value.



Sleep on a lawn in the park watching the electricity lines sway high above, cutting the blue sky into strips.



Haven't been outside in the park for ages, just sitting there.



Dont want to think about maths test, no maths test.



An unrootable sadness followed by relief and guilt.



I know it was the wrong thing to do, but hell, I had no other choice, or maybe it was the right thing to do, just approached in the wrong way.



We always want the things we cannot have?



Too many wise quotes in one blog for today.



Resillience, optimism, kindness, honour, but I'm a hypocrite aren't I?

Heat Fever

Spring?

I dont know about you, but when spring or summer is around the corner, I can FEEL it

An unfathomable tug in the back of my brain and suddenly, everything seems brighter.

Night seem clearer

Stars shine brighter

The air is filled with the droswy buzz of insects and sunlight hangs hevily in the air, beating upon the weathered ground.

Everything just seems.. summer-y

That indescribable feeling of being drawn to anything drenched in water

The return of desires to eat fruit
To stay outside at night
To walk, run, play

To do anything but stay home and study.

And my mood just suddenly gets brighter.

Night get shorter, theres less desire to sleep.

The wonderful urge of going to the beach, the romantic wafts of air filling everyone's lungs

Midsummer Night

No wonder there is such mystique surrounding this one night

And there really is more love in the air in spring. Flowers~~~

Yea I'm alittle insane today. And I probably just made the biggest understatement of the year.

Actually, make it this century

CANT WAIT TILL SUMMER <3

for more reasons than one ;D

but for now, I'll have to wait and...

Welcome spring.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Autumn

Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris

[[ remember, human, you are dust, and to dust you will return ]]
------------------------------------------------------------------

The light was already fading as she made her through the sparse undergrowth. Temperate forests were much easier to walk through than tropical ones. Her footsteps were marked by crackles as withered leaves crumbled underneath the ridged sole of her boots.

Crinkle, thud, crinkle, silence... Crinkle, thud, crinkle, silence...

And on it went, distinctively rythmic when contrasted to the chaotic nature of forest chatter.

A young wren, startled by the approaching presence, spread it's wings with a frenzied flutter and launched itself into the colorless sky. A dark shadow against a confusion of white, cobalt and orange, it soon disappeared into the red bleeding through gold-lined, fluffy clouds. Sunset.

Chilling breaths of air had begun to swirl around the sighing trees, taking with them a souvenior of death-touched leaves, some golden with age, some brown with neglect and some still maintaining tints of healthy green. A few leaves snagged on branches of the undergrowth. Some settled gently on a lower bough, welcomed by its fellows. The rest spiralled around her, falling, raining, adding a patchwork layer to the blanket on the ground. The earth was preparing for winter frost.

Crinkle, crunch, thud. Shattered glass, torn paper.

Shadows lengthening, the sky, having finally remembered it's place, deepened to a silkier navy littered with luminous stars.

Wind turned cold, biting, whistled and moaned as it danced amongst the sparse foliage left on the skeletal branches.

And there she stands beside a watery mirror of the sky, watching the ripples spread sluggishly across the seamless surface, warping it's perfect reflection. The water was cold. And then she follows the rock she threw.

When the lake freezes over, she'll be trapped, like the earth, in the grips of winter. For a brief season, she'll be shunned by the living, forgotten by the dead, trapped in the icy hands of time.
Dead or alive? No one knows.

Flames to ashes, Rocks to dust.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

SCRAM FINALS!!!!

they really weren't that good.
The robert thingy school should've won DDDD;

oh well. They had hotter guys too =D

D&M in the gym. wat's the meaning of life? what's a perfect society?

wow we should all be philosophers when we grow up.

How about a committee where we have various professionals who try to help people? A pact?

i'm sure we'll all be very good at what we do!

REVOLUTIONARY PARTY

who try to make the world more equal

Communism in the bible? new concept.

by now, anyone who wasn't there would probably be VERY confused. -he he-

Too much philosophy and history and Marx lol

Communism is the ultimate democracy... and communism will only work if we conquer our most basic self preservation instinct that says "I'M MORE IMPORTANT THAN EVERYONE ELSE"

and this can only be cured by LOVE

so love= save the world from self destruction? or rather

love= save humans? can other organisms love?

we dont know. we're so elitest. Meh. too much thinking makes my head hurt

TIME FOR BED ^^

- blood