oh you were the kind of beautiful jewel i wanted
(from beyond the store window, i gazed at you)
you shone in all the darkest corners of the world, you sparked wet pieces of wood in my heart, you brought my dead soul back to life.
but when i finally got to close my hands around the glittering, shining, beautiful jewel you were, something was wrong--
you weren't warm, kind, and inviting like i though you'd be.
but rather, you were hard, diamond hard, with a heart of iron and a soul of stone.
i was a fool-- jewels and precious metals weren't soft and beautiful.
and so i dropped you, and you sank to the bottom of the ocean like the heavy, shining, cruEL jewel you were.
(oh, but diamond cuts sharp, and my heart still bleeds.)
Looking through old journals. A puff of breath, a cloud of yellow dust. Faded ink on retro notebooks. And those words... filled with such depth and thorough analysis of unimportant things, like my emotions. Each sentence constructed, conscientious of my posterity. Always with an eye on the generations that would read about the formation of my greatness. So little authenticity. So little raw emotion expressed. Just analysis of things like "where I'm at" and "how I feel." Noxious journal entries that will make the angels weep with boredom. Self-important drivel that numbs my future. Taints my journey. I wish I would have told the truth. I was an imbecile, lost in a blizzard of inconsequential happenings. I was carefully polishing the inane artifacts of a self-obsessed life. I should have told the truth.
Storytelling. Fantasies, Dramas, Romance, Realistic, Horror...whatever genre you love, it's fun to experiment with. I love fantasy, historical and realistic fiction but I love information/non fiction too. I love stories-reading and writing. They serve as my inspiration, my motivation which I love. Take a realistic fiction story and add magic. Take a drama and add romance. Experiment, take risks. Whether it's a fantasy or reality, play with it. You can tell all sorts of wonderful tales and fables. Made up or real it doesn't matter. Just read and write different stories, narratives. I will never stop loving the word 'story'. I might be reading or writing a story, I might be searching for inspiration...whatever happens I love it! I Love Storytelling...
Barbara and I went outside at night, with a shiver, and looked up at a special moon. "Ain't that something," we said, as the dog trotted passed us and micturated on the lawn. It was a blood moon, or a holy moon, I can't remember which. It just looked like old cinnamon to me. But it was neat, I guess, even with our distance and lack of magnification. Planets in a frenzy, in fixed chaos too big for us to perceive, find themselves in these unique positions, relative to us, and we all run out of the houses at strange times and look up and say "Ain't that something." Then, a couple decades later, we do it again. But how couldn't we? Crazy people, soaked in paranoia and complicated narratives, think the positions of these chaos objects signify important events. They think the chunks of rock in the sky prophecy. We all run out and say "Ain't that something?" And then wonder what that something is.
There are some people who must speak. They talk their way through it. Progress pushes through the time sludge on the power of words, which vibrate and cogitate through ideology barriers and... so people talk. They share a story of their youth. They confront oppressive untruth. At least they hope it is untruth. They talk as if it is. And when they stop talking, they die. Oxygen dissipates. Flesh dries up. Ears find respite. Teachers make their way through their lecture and are able to get to the point. If I have a thought, so what? Strangers rub their hands and fists all over their faces, massaging their heads as they fidget with their thoughts. The rubbing hands sending background messages to their distracted brains, keeping them grounded and reminded of the reality they are steeped in. They have a thought, and then they talk.