She stole poetry and I stole pictures.
There are many people who will judge me on these next words, but they will soon exist. Whether they like it or not.
I am surrounded by young people, striving and hunting for love. Someone to take care of them, someone to cuddle, someone to share the special little moments. My heart has fallen for the same trap; wishing for someone to come so strongly, that I cannot see. Now that there is no one to look for I realize my hearts true desire. What I miss, truly and sincerely miss, is to honestly tell someone with all of my heart the simple three words; I love you. A voice, merely a whisper. Air, streaming from the deeps of my lounges, eyes finding eyes, looking from the heart of my soul. The openness, the hope, the fear and the thrill. I want it.
For someone to understand this profound longing there is a need to listen. Pay attention to the story of common love.
Heart bursting out as a shadow leans over the building. Frozen damp clings to the thin window, forming glorious shapes. Circles twirling around each other, playing games, teasing, fooling. Nowhere to go, they change to rivers. Every inch of the glass was decorated by the moving atoms. Through the storm of ice he could see her, crossing the street with small jumps as if the cars might pop up any second. As she moves closer, her eyes swirl around, gazing upon the people. On the way to the door their eyes meet. A little tilt with her head and her smile is almost diagonal. To this day it amuses him how she manages to dazzle him with those little wonders. The body in the cold walks towards the frozen glass, eyes fixed on him. There could have been a million people passing her in the meantime, he wouldn’t know. They were the only people on Earth, separated by a thin window. Their breaths didn’t combine. Their hands didn’t touch, their lips didn’t speak for themselves. There was no need for those simple gestures. He found a grin on his face while he melted the words “Come” on the glass. A teasing look, top to bottom and up again, made his hair rise. She knew how to get a man around her slim finger.
Three long minutes passed. His hand was a part of the glass by now, covering the encouraging letters. She came up from behind, cold hands appeared under his shirt. Caught by surprise as always he lost the grip of the window and placed the frozen hand on the shivering, beautiful face. They were filled with her cheek as the impossibly gorgeous smile spread. The other found its way around her waist and harbored on her back, pressing her into his chest. Her hands had long her fingers into his hair, and forced his lips to hers. Warmth spread from inside them, from every living cell registering their connection. The bodies moved, synchronized, together. As he dropped her on the couch their lips were ripped apart, redeeming their longing. In deep desperation for more he dived after her pressing his lips next to her air. His panting blew warm, soft air as he murmured the sacred words. A slight moan escaped her mouth as she lifted closer to him, limiting the distance between their flesh. Quickly she turned around, leaving him on the bottom. Eagerly she swooped down, pretending to go for a passionate kiss. As his lips opened to welcome her she stopped, looking up at him, smiled and repeated the same three words. I love you.
Everyone goes through different fases at any time, some less pleasurable than others. Seeing someone struggle with their situation creates desperation to fix it. As much as the people around would like, there is little we can do. It is in the mind of the troubled that the change has to occur. People might change, they may never. Their development, or lack of such, should never stop you from doing or becoming anything. I therefore ask you, read these words of wisdom with awareness. They might appeal to your own situation, or those close to you. I said that there is little we can do. That might be true, but showing that you see, and how it troubles you may open up their eyes to realize that other care about them. It is a wonder how knowing that you mean something, even the tiniest bit, can make you feel significant again.
I promised myself not to write more personal posts, but right now I’m happy. Very happy, and it’s a little unusual. I must say I don’t quite know what’s going on. As you can see by my previous posts my inspiration can impossibly come from something bright and cheerful, so my mind is deserted. To try to adjust to this new type of living I’m searching for something interesting to write about, but there’s already too much writing about the incredible happy couples and singles in the world, and it sickens me. It disgusts me, knowing that people out there are happy, and I’m not. Right now I am, but there are other people who are where I used to be. They are the ones I want to reach to.
It’s going to take some time to get my imagination going again, so I am truly sorry if you won’t hear from me in a while.
Now to the matter I really wanted to write about.
I love my shelf right now. It’s next to my desk, almost extending it on the far right. Stacked with books, notes, folders, old coffee cups, and dictionaries I love staring at it. Currently I’ve filled it with books on photography, America (because I wish to study there), and uncountable novels which have marked the world. Brönte, Collett, Austen, Hamsun, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Woolf, and a British version of Jane Eyre, recently watched. All the novels I’ve read, all the knowledge I’ve acquired, and those aren’t all of them! There is so much more I want to read, but time fools me. Please, send me titles of books I should get my eyes in, I want it all!
- Literary Heroine Blog Party 2012 :-) (jillianreadsbooks2.wordpress.com)
- Top Ten Tuesday: Top Ten Authors I Wish Had Written Another Book (jillianreadsbooks2.wordpress.com)
- Update: Books I Want To Reread (jillianreadsbooks2.wordpress.com)
There are many of us, the children born in a divorce. Some might call us lucky; we never had to go through the dividing of a once whole family. We wouldn’t have to wonder what we did wrong, what we said, or what we could have done to make it all work. Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family. Never had a moment of everything being at its proper place. The dream will never be complete.
We have it better because when someone asks for your dad, you don’t know who to refer to. What a benefit we have, knowing all transportation systems between the parents’ houses by heart. How fortunate we are, being born with the features they hate about each other. We are their constant nightmare, reminding them of their former love, their past. They cannot escape us. We are the reminder they never wished for. Do not mind us, the kids who will never know who they are because their personality traits are despised by both sides. We cannot grow as we have no ground to stand on. Where do we come from; who do we belong to? These are questions that haunt us on the midst of the day. We have no place to escape, no one to turn to.
Ask a one of us to define Good and Evil. We will answer vaguely as we know that those who intentionally hurt other people are evil, but we don’t want to think of our parents as evil. There are no right or wrong, yet there are always two sides of a story, hard to separate from the truth. Excuses are vivid, we live among people who want to protect us, but drag us further down the rabbit hole.
Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family.
I’m not here for your or my sake,
Only because he looked at me.
It wasn’t long,
but long enough.
One glance was enough
to make me grand.
Greater than I was,
but great enough.
Ha said something to me.
I don’t know what,
but he spoke,
spoke more than enough.
I’m not here for your or my sake,
I’m here for his.
Translated version of this:
Eg er ikkje her for di or mi skuld,
Berre fordi han såg meg
Det var ikkje mykje,
Men lenge nok.
Eit lite blikk var nok
Til å gjere meg stor
Større enn eg var
Men stor nok.
Han sa noko til meg
Eg vet ikkje kva,
Men han snakka
Snakka meir enn nok.
Eg er ikkje her for di or mi skuld,
Eg er her for hans.
There are many things in life that are more valuable than a stock of money. The tiny details noticed by the open mind, the senseless conversations shared between equal souls, the pause in a song, the irrelevant things that can be the whole island to Miranda’s world. Seconds spent in a book store, crowded by travelling people, working, thinking, hurrying, and amongst them there is you. Deep inside a novel recently discovered. Calm music surrounds you from nowhere, everywhere. Swirling around in a constant orbit, soothingly embedded in the story told between the words. Curled together in a little corner you sit, books covering the little body on the floor. High in the ceiling, long against the walls, rising on the tables, the floors are filled with books unread, ready to tell their story. “Feed on me, I’ve got a nice little tale to share”, they shout in a lulling voice, beaming alongside your thoughts. There is too much to read, too much to discover. Book after book fall upon you, trapping you in a circle of knowledge. Time leaves, and there is nothing that can hinder you. Curled together in a little corner you sit, books covering the little body on the floor. The books speak, and you are listening.
I’ve always loved the sound of that word. The intensity drives me crazy, the context it can vary from the smell of a newly baked baguette to the blood streaming out of the ripped leg. It creates wonderful images in my head!
It’s seductive in many ways. Once again the sound is magical, especially with a hint of a spanish accent.
The most frustrating part of writing is when you have an inspirational moment or thought, you can’t sit down and write, but when you do the thought is gone. It’s not like it actually is gone, forgotten, the spirit of writing it out has left me. I hate it above all. Everyone has writer’s block from time to time, but that’s only the first layer of Dante’s fearful hell. Losing the spike of inspiration is the eighth and unofficial layer as it is so horrific that no one dares to acknowledge it.
In my previous post I intended on writing so much more. My mind had drawn a beautiful story of how friendship saves life, brings back the identity, and how little is put into its true value. Everyone’s focus surrounds the idea of a perfect friendship; knowing each other so well that there only needs to be screamed “Vatican Cameos!” and the friend would understand. The desire for the endless trust is great, yet it takes more than just a couple of common interests for one to open up.
It’s the moment when you are there for someone while their heart is broken, when the tears are streaming endlessly and you can hear the sorrow in the cramped voice. The moment when you find the tissue instead of another person that can help, when you stay for however long it takes, regardless of how uncomfortable the position is. That is when your friendship begins.
Sometimes this is all I need. To ramble about my thoughts. My ideas are clustered at all times, I think too much, too little, am unfocused and wander off. Nevertheless, my work is not finished. This is not my final thought. It’s a beginning, and a good one too.