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(no subject) [Feb. 4th, 2013|11:23 pm]

Most people find me pleasant (damning with faint insipidity); nice,
bland, warm, vaguely friendly and shy, in equal parts, and mostly
unremarkable, if mildly different.

The group of people who have spent more experiences around me
find me thoroughly weird if entertaining, deeply thoughtful, and
somewhat pensive, sad, forlorn, always a little wistful after the laughter.

very, very small proportion of people think of me as angry, fearsome,
hot-blooded, passionate, magnificent, terrible, brilliant, glorious and
terrifying. Usually not in that order.

O. The world prefers kindling, and less wood.

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(no subject) [Feb. 1st, 2013|10:36 am]
I almost never write anything about myself that's entirely, 100% true. This is because of respect; I obfuscate the names, fudge dates, details and touches, just enough to mislead but skimming, skinning so close to the truth that I smile a bit at the clever dodge when I re-read things.

She hurt me bad. But most importantly, she has rewritten history into her tory. And this means that she will tell people, and the world will shift, th weltanshauung will shift around to her point of the view, and the world will see what she wants to see, know what she wants to say.

And that is not true. 

Don't date a selfish love. Selfless lovers will eventually kill themselves, but selfish lovers will make it all about them, take only but never give, and leave you with nothing but hurt, taking even the memories from you.

I've written a story about fighting for custody of memories. Two people in court over whose rights the shared memories are; he wants them for himself; she wants them so she can lock them up and never see the light of day again.

These, then, I submit as my evidence.
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heartbreak, always you [Jan. 16th, 2013|11:15 pm]
There once was a girl. I loved her.

There once was a body. I craved it.
There once was a warmth. I held it.
There once was a fire. I stoked it.
There once was passion, yours and mine.

There once was an 'us'. We broke it.
There once was a 'we'. We lost it.
There once was a

There once was a girl. I loved her.
I once loved a girl. Love-
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la nuit du l'esprit du le chevalier d'escalier [Sep. 24th, 2012|11:42 pm]
My father once told me that violence is the resort of the weak; the unintelligent; the emotional, the uncontrolled, the juvenile. When children are frustrated, when they throw tantrums, they cry, scream, and then hit. When drunks who have lost all judgment and character are furious, they strike first. Violence is the resort of the weak; but most importantly:

You should never threaten a woman with violence. You should never threaten a woman; if the relationship descends to being based on fear, rather than being based on trust.

Women are treated with pride and respect, and a willingness to ignore what they say because they fight dirty and never concede errors in arguments and do their best to infuriate you and find your one weakness which is why fighting with them only makes you stronger but threatens relationships - 

Well, my dad said that many times. He does like fighting with mom, but usually nothing comes of it.
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learning to lose [Sep. 9th, 2012|02:59 pm]
I am powered by many things - not empowered, because it's clear that I have no strength, and these sources are instead my weakness - but I am powered by many things, chief amongst them what I like to call my demon drive - competition.

I hate losing. I detest not winning. Despite everything else, what is written and woven into the very fabric of my soul and being is this: I hate losing.

This is why I cling on, biting, jaws locked and unyielding, unopening. This is why I continue to fight, I continue to fight. This is why I will continue until I get dishearted, continue further, until finally even at the last my heart will, does fail.

And this (hopefully) isn't one of those times where I pass off my failure to win as losing interest or an active decision to quit. This isn't me making excuses and choosing not to fight rather than face not winning.

Maybe, just maybe, it's okay to lose. And maybe, just maybe, it's even okay to lose in love.
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heartstopper [Sep. 9th, 2012|02:55 pm]
it is late at night, and even the city which never sleeps is - at least - beginning to drowse.

even the lights begin to dim, and the tincture of the night suffuses the city, quietly reclaiming the peace before the city.

eyes faltering, eyelids drooping, the flicker of the screen casts a soft glow about her face as she whispers into the distance.

and quietly, unnoticed, the soft pulse-pulse...

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the land of self actualization [Aug. 19th, 2012|01:25 am]

the dead sea, or at least, the greater canyon-valley of the dead sea, is sometimes known as the vale of tears.

this is because the water in the dead sea is extremely salty (like tears) and extremely bitter (like what causes tears). and ultimately if you get the dead seawater in your eyes, you will cry.

in the north of Israel, you will find the spring of life and fountain of joy and wellspring of many good things.

in the east, the sun rises on the vale of tears, on a dead, dying sea.



500 days is not a love movie. it is a movie about love.

it is a movie about misguided love, about how cute and wonderful and happy two people can be together without being - at all - compatible or correct or right for each other. these things happen; mystical cosmic errors that allow a peek into happiness at the wrong window. sometimes you're just knocking on the wrong door, barking up the wrong tree. it's a movie about a boy who lives in his own world and projects all his desire onto this one girl who doesn't deserve it - not the pedestal he puts her on, nor the punishment of having to deal with all his hopes and dreams. it's a movie about a girl who realises this and is sick of it, is a hypocrite, has no idea what she wants, and in the act committed is judge jury executioner and not even, but also murderer, perpetrator and accomplice.

500 days is not a love story; it's a story about love.



the dead sea is dying.

it is a vast, empty bowl, and the bowl is less than half-empty now. the water is retreating, falling back against the onslaught of tourists and thieves and prospectors, leaving behind fortifications of sharp, jagged, slippery stone. even against the sun it is helplessly, and turns into a roiling, boiling mess-mass of oil and water and salt and minerals and bitterness.

perhaps this is what happens when the tears dry, leaving behind only a lingering saltiness, an unparalleled bitterness, and a rocky, craggy exterior.

under the sun, if you are sharp-eyed, and bright-eyed, and warm of heart, you can find a salt-stone, a giant crystal of rock salt to take home as a souvenir. but unless your wit is as sharp as the rock you'll need to improvise as a chisel, unless your will is as strong as the force you need to smash the salt into crystals, and unless your heart is as unyielding and sturdy as the patience you need to smash the salt-stone open, you won't be leaving with anything.

i brought back three crystals. it seemed appropriate. i intended to give one away for the salt and the bitterness and the sweat and pain i endured.

it makes no sense.

sometimes you just got to give it up.

maybe this is what's left after the tears dry. not the refreshing cool and lightness of being in a freshwater lake; but dark, heated sobriety and the seriousness of brine.



you made a choice between love and laughter, love and infatuation, love


i release you.


maybe now, i can finally start to release myself from the ties i bound with.


and fuck off.
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(no subject) [Aug. 12th, 2012|12:55 am]
I got hit by a car today.

I feel I should tell somebody. and thank somebody.
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(no subject) [Aug. 12th, 2012|12:54 am]

I Need You No Longer


A Scrap of Paper Wedged in a Foreign Wall

July 14th

I need you no longer.
I bought some new blankets.
My toes are now covered and no longer cold.
It's comfortable, comforting,
Sweeter to sleep
I need you no longer now my bed is warm

I need you no longer
I got my own bike
I ride it to work and to play and at night
Exploring the city
and seeing the sights

I need you no longer with it at my side

I need you no longer
Since I found a new kiss
So sweet and so tender, more fire than you
Rum boils in my blood
and thumps in my heart
I need you no longer to set me alight

I need you no longer
I want you the same.

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(no subject) [Jul. 1st, 2012|05:52 pm]



At The End, He Fit Into a Very Small Box.

At the end, he fit into a very small box.

She marveled at this. She’d expected more trouble, as she’d packed up to leave. He had been quite a big part of her life, and it was difficult for her, before she’d packed, to look anywhere in her room without seeing something to remind her of him.  Maybe it was like a rear-view mirror; things looked bigger on hindsight. People looked bigger than they actually were.

She would be coming back, but for now, but for the packing, it felt like she was leaving forever. Deciding whether things would be brought along or left behind had strayed too close to deciding whether things would be kept, or thrown away. It was a thin line between the two lines.

She’d kept most of it. It felt like she wasn’t really ready to let go yet. But then, perhaps, packed away into a small, potent box of memories and photographs, she could stick him in a drawer and simply compartmentalize him. Out of sight, out of mind, and perhaps soon, out of reach of her thought and memory and conscience.

She still felt guilty sometimes, but luckily the feeling had faded as she had seen less and less of him. It was quite heartless, but all told she had warned him that she was a ruthless one, a killer, and a black widow, and heedless, fearless, feckless and guileless he’d blundered in after her anyway. He had enough warning anyway, and she quite relished in her labels and warnings.

She never said she was nice. But still, alas, there was that little bit of her that tugged at her heartstrings, still twanging and twinging over what she’d done. Maybe she could keep a part of him, just something to remember him by. Nothing would ever come of it (or of him) ever again, not now, and never in the future, but it would be too brutal and grotesque, even for her, to just cut him up, cut him out of her life, like that. At least, on the edge of departure, she felt herself wavering, uncertainty.

She decided to keep a part of him anyway, eventually. His sweetness, his heart. The rest was packaging and frivolity, a beautiful façade and appearances kept up; she cast everything else away. In this day and age he’d still done his best to woo her with flowers (short-lived as their passion, and her patience), with chocolates (lusciously dark and lasciviously bitter) and, of all things in the world, with words. Florid prose and flowery poems, in this day and age! Most men seduced in textbook fashion out of a manual; he was trying to court her with a romance out of parchment. The problem with boys who read…

She kept the flowers and thrown them as soon as they hinted at wilting; the chocolates she’d had until she was sick and cast them. And all the various trinkets and trifles she’d treasured, for a time, in a fashion, until she got bored, and left them behind, like with the rest of her playthings. But his words she’d kept, the little cards with carefully lovelorn writing, and the handkerchief he gave her. Both still sighed gently of him and his warmth, the way he sighed blissfully when she pressed her face to his chest or his shoulders or his face. But enough of that, and so into the small box they went, along with his heart, and the box into the corner of the low drawer in his cupboard.

Occasionally, his heart still beat for her, warm and spirited and full of red, bloody love, in a very small box out of the reach of her eyes, ears, heart.

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