Wednesday, September 22, 2004

It's easier to destroy than to create. Probably why my blogs have been rather "destructive" as of late. Destructive as in not very productive. More negative, jaded commentaries rather than creative pieces of writing. It's not good.

.......dreams of teeth falling out, jumping and flying, maddening black and white dreams where everyone speaks in an endless high-pitched ringing screech rather than words with one red indistinguishable and nondescript object appearing periodically, running and running but feeling as if your legs are weighed down and you know you can run faster but

.....completely barren and soulless room devoid of any real personality or character furnished with objects which appear to have been purchased all together at the same time on the same day from the same store, like Ikea

.....ould she trust him when he tells little white lies to spare people's feelings or tells people exactly what they wanted to hear to falsely bolster their self esteem? When he smiles he appears genuine but the look in his eyes glaring out from behind the look he's trying to convey tells her all she ever wanted to know. All she ever wanted was to be completely open with someone, completely vulnerable and at the mercy of another person without the slightest hint of fear, completely comfortable and secure and never worrying about ridicule or embarrassment, completely immersed and involved in another person's life, complete

.......blueness of the water sparkles invitingly, enticingly, however illusory it may be. The logical part of your brain knows that water is clear. The illogical part of your brain wants you to jump in with all of your clothes on. The sand gets in your shoes, your socks, blows in your eyes, grits in your teeth, but still makes you smile as she continues to brush her

....wanted it to rain so badly before.

....rning up the volume gradually from zero in the middle of a song so that the music and words quietly fade in and spill over you unexpectedly making you not quite sure where you are in the song for a split second


......the basil between her hands over the bowl on the counter releasing the sweet intoxicating smells that always remind her of her mother's cooking

....wipes a single tear from her cheek and kisses her forehead one last time before she races to board the train as it's leaving the station

....she loves the sound her pen makes as it scratches along rough piece of paper, the feeling she gets from words furiously spilling out of her and onto the paper in an absolute torrent of ideas no longer hindered by wretched case of writer's block

....songs that make you leave your house and race down the street in the rain at an ungodly hour just for the chance to talk for a few seconds and apologise for being such an idiot

.....eyes closed, hands poised, mind blank
.

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