butterfly sigh in perspectiveIt is fantastic that what we see and what we think we see are contradicting concepts; that how we live and how we think we live are as perversely split as the two heads of a trick quarter; that how we feel and how we think we feel are nearly always opposites. It is frightening to find that our perspective of the truth and the real truth are unrelated, and perhaps even more frightening to find that the real truth may not even exist at all. Perhaps Truth, just as the myriad of other man-made ideas (Infinity, Love, and absolute Zero, to name a few), has no meaning. Or perhaps Truth carries only the value we give it; perhaps it is only as heavy as the sighing of a child.****The Boy sighs; he delicately breathes, feeling his butterfly deliberately tap the confines of his chest, thirsting for freedom; in this moment the Boy is aware of his existence. The Boy sighs: hesitantly, he exhales, reluctant to leave his newly perceived awareness to rust. The Boy sighed: he is no longer able to feel
Dear Somebody - IrisDear Somebody,How are you? What's up, and how's life treating you?I think we've both grown immensely in the past year. We've become better artists, better people. We've learned to forget, and we've learned to forgive. Sometimes we've had to choose between the two.The two. We've struggled and we've cried, but we've also laughed and we've sighed. We've learnedthat we're human; only that, and just that. We've hated and we've loved, we've shoved people away from us, children and grown-ups. We've become more mature; we've become more self aware.We've stayed up all night wishing life could be as simple as the night sky, and yet as intricate as the stars. We've watched the rising moon, and waited for the North Star to replace our faulty hearts and lead us to a safe place.We've sung the alphabet backwards and had our giggles, and we've whistled through the storm because we were just that scared.We've put up posters in our rooms of all the places we've been, and we've been angry without
Broken HeartSometimes alone in the dark, I think I could sense what was coming. Crouching beneath the wet wooden boards, I was pressed so close to her that I could feel the apprehension in her breath. We stood together, sandy feet overlapping, arms wrapped around each other's bare backs. I remember casually feeling her spine with wet fingertips. I remember she shuddered, and I wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or something else
We held each other like we used to hold security blankets. We stood together in that tiny space between the two rocks, listening to the crashing of hungry waves against the outside rock faces. Sometimes a wave was so big it would even crash over the wooden boards the boys had laid there for us, and our hair and faces would be sprinkled with salty sea-water. Sometimes when this happened, little droplets would catch in our eyelashes. I liked this a lot, though Laura didn't. I remember the space was cramped even for our small bodies I doubt I could even fit
the death of carpe diemslow and hold me please,and how can I seizethe day,when I can not escapethe night?andhowforever forcefullyyou fight it,you can never flee your fate.it is running after you.andone day, you will collapse, breathless,heart beating hard against the cold pavement,and fate will climb on top of you,and fate will squeeze your skull with its skeleton handsuntil you burst like a blood balloon.
Spring's SickI used to hold you tight likethe dozen beads of light, I rememberfireflies.When I stumbled through the murky grassto look for lightning bugs, I foundyouinstead.Your eyes lit me up likemirrors of mercury, silver and quicksand in your heart;mine, in your hands.Can you rememberhow we climbed like(the temperature)an escalating fever?We sat on the branches of a treecalled Summer, though weakenedand rainsoaked by Spring's, by Fallwe both fell, I remember.My skull hit the ground,you fell on my back, comfrtablesafe.Autumn crumbled likerotting leaves intoWinter,lonely.(Only, oncedid you ever see me.)Blossom into Spring's, mature, (ifonly.
Such is the horrible silence(Such is the horrible silence of helicopters. The whir, deafeningly loud, is enough to drive you insane. As you lie, paralyzed, strapped to the white cot, you feel the spiraling blades spinning daggers of shrieking sound into your ears like stuffing horribly empty cotton balls so deep inside your ears that they meet in the middle soaking all the feeling from your cancerous brain.Human? Human is something you are not. Not anymore. Four months in the white-papered hospital walls, so filled with such unbearable organized nothingness that you feel everyday you are trapped, falling deeper and deeper into some new and innovative straightjacket designed by the experts that needed someone and something to test. They probably make two-hundred-thousand at least. No, you are sure they make four-hundred-thousand. In truth, in reality, you remember they make six-hundred-thousand dollars. No, no, definitely one million dollars; you are more sure of it than you are that your name is Simon