I am awake in hours that should be closed. Something's on my mind, it's eating me. It's this time of year, I'm drifting away in it because you were here...last year. I miss your smile, your smell, I miss just being in this place with you. I miss you, whoever you are. Wherever your head rests tonight, I hope with everything left in me that you are happy and that maybe in some distant dream you're having...maybe you'll think about me.

Cerulean

See, I often dream in cerulean blue,
and wish every word we spoke was brand new.
So I suppose what I mean is,
I wish I knew you,
and me, I wish I was anything but me.
Maybe one then would've seen
the everything or the nothing in the something.
Maybe someday you'll see how free the world became
when you crossed that line and held me there.
I think I loved you then,
but I suppose you're right, I really don't know,
whether the world is flat or round,
so how could I know this person I found?
What I know is when you left, I think I drowned.
Because I thought you saw me,
I thought you touched me there,
I thought one in a billion finally cared.
But I see that was all a dream,
I know I'm just meat and was meant to be,
always just a short-lived fantasy.
I do understand,
I was just one moment,
and you're gone.
But why can't I stop waiting for you by the sea,
to come back and whisper you want me?
I know though,
I know how it's supposed to be for me.
See, a guitar can't ever sing for a mandolin,
and the sky is blue, never cerulean.

Marionette

And if you could see me,
would you see me cry?
And if you could hear me,
would you heed my call?
And if you could feel me,
would you feel my scabs?
And if you could hold me,
would it only last a moment?
And if I were real today,
would you stay for tomorrow?
And if I told you my truths,
would you say I know nothing?
If you pulled my strings,
would I mean anything at all?
Live for a moment,
to play with me.
But don't you know for me,
you are the only life I see?

Alone

When will pain subside?
When will eyes no longer cry?
Why do I suffer so long?
Only to remain alone?
I, choose to love no more,
for love unrequited is all I can know.
I am forever alone.

And if I smile today, will you still see her when tomorrow I cry?

"I'm going to take you to the stars and show you the world."

I have frequent nightmares but when a dream breaks between, some are so beautiful I want to cry. I saw a face I've missed, the way I remember us, not the way we've become. It was back when he let me in and wanted to show me everything. It wasn't that long ago and was such a short time that I wish I was back there so I wouldn't have to cry. Suppose I deserve it, for the selfish side I released when rejected. A tantrum of depression when he didn't want me anymore. How could he forgive me for that? Perhaps it's a lesson I must be taught as I scramble helplessly to hold on to my least known but most cherished friend. How pathetic is it really? Don't we all try to hold on to the dreams we desire to be in? Don't we all try to fall back to sleep? Is it too selfish to hold on to just a tiny piece of a chance I never really had? Too selfish to cling to someone who gave me one shining moment in the sun? What I want from this world, he will never give me. But I never throw a whole life away, a whole friend just because one vain moment came between us and left a scar. I fell in love. Or perhaps I was wrong, perhaps I fell in love with an idea, someone who didn't really exist. I fell in love with the idea of us, together. Two strangers finding each other, finding the world. It was romantic to me, but was not the dream he wanted to be.

What Happens?

What happens to a soul when it's been stabbed too many times? Does it rot? Does it fade? Or does it bleed itself dry? What happens to the unrequited lover left behind? What happens when time destroys the mind? What happens when you get too close and pull away? What happens when walls are erected between once truthful friends? But were they true? Only time will tell what is to become of the broken up pieces of the shining sun.

A Thought of A Dream and Pools In Those Eyes

Sometimes I have these dreams that I'm someone else. I have someone else's body, someone else's face, someone else's mind, someone else's experiences and in that place, I'm magnificent. There, I am a work of art, never to be tampered with by the wind and the rain. Never to be torn and tortured, just a strong, independent soul that has nothing missing, nothing taken from it, and nothing ever shall. There's a world where that's all true, floating in the eyes of a second of adoration and when that was found, I wanted to hide there forever. When I see the eyes that are now closed, of the one laying next to me in this room that's been cold for years, I see this thing that dreams of more but has been forced to settle for less. It's not fate, but belonging in those pools that carry so many captured youths as myself, drawn to a mere flame that would serve as the beauty of their imminate death. Exhausted and tired from fighting the heat, at some point, I too must succumb. On that day I shall but pray that the beauty I saw was true, that the place I resided for but a moment, was real. Even you, couldn't take that truth from me. But it is in this cave that I am me, nothing more and nothing less. A twisted swan song for a once hopeful soul dies soft and sweet until blood runs cold.

My Home

This home changed twice around me.
Once it was filled to the brim with books,
With love, with all the luster of youth.
Then the heat escaped,
The ceiling needed patching,
The floor left splinters.
Day turned to night,
But there was no light.
When morning broke I climbed,
To patch those holes,
But I opened my eyes to find,
A room of beauty,
Music and roses,
Orchids and white sand.
The sun shined through,
Diamonds burned my eyes,
This house, this room,
It wasn't mine.
When I blinked it was gone,
I was here again,
My real battered home,
With just one sad song,
Where I suppose I belong.

Demon's Gaze

I see their eyes,
everytime they look through me,
everytime they beg me.
But they can never love me,
it's the curse of this horrid thing I've been given,
to forever dine in lust.
Never to know love,
letting the heart rust.

Children Among Giants

How cruel a blow,
To give your heart only to take it away,
from the beggars, the weepers,
The ones that loved you so.
They'll sit there, just staring,
not knowing whether to stay or go.
Just children among giants,
hoping one will look and admire,
The sure and true beauty,
of the dead flowers and whithering souls.

Flightless Bird

Shouldn't have gotten brave,
Shouldn't have flown away.
Now I've gained this broken wing,
And crawled back here until next spring.

Paramour

Washed up,
worn down, tired, youth.
Hollowed out shell,
visible scars from their use.
Bled until dry,
Still manages to cry.

Destined

I am one of many,
never to be one of a kind.
Unimportant, anonymous lover,
stealing moments, stealing time.
Fool to believe I was anything more.
I know my place now, earned it, so please, I implore,
use me how you want, hold fast or lambaste.
Love me then leave me,
long ago I should have foretaste,
the birth righted life of an outcast I face.
For there's nothing more for me to be than a pistol to the head,
of every soldier I've shared a bed.

Bleed, Child, Bleed

I screamed for help, but you weren't there.
You just sat over there in that chair.
But how could you have known?
In you, I found home.
Watch me drown now, watch me hurt,
as the blood stains reclaim their place on my skirt.
The execution of innocent trust,
played over and over, masked as lust.
Every night they keep haunting,
I hear his, strongest of voices, taunting,
"Foolish child, can't you see?
There's no love for you as is for me.
Your face is too fine,
your love too divine.
Don't wish to belong,
It takes far too long.
See now, my whore?
No one wants you any more.
Come back here, you'll never be free.
Just do me a favor, don't show that face to me."

Final Life to Give

I wonder sometimes,
How it feels to receive.
I see those eyes when I dream,
Finding me.
I hear your whispers,
Were they lies?
Was I daft to believe you wanted me,
Somewhere on this road?


The trust I built for my shattered womb,
Have me, take me,
Just please don't defile me.
For what meant everything to me, meant nothing to you,
Was in familiar vain the most unkindest cut.
A moment was all you needed.
Did you even see me there? Did you know my name? Did you listen?
I needed a century.
One chance,
To piece myself together
From the fall of every tower I've ever built in my childish heart.
But you didn't have that time to give.
Your soul saw the door,
Your body left, with no feeling.


I will drift now,
Fly, broken winged, back to my cage,
Where I will hide apprehensively from the souls to come.
The disturbed February sand lies empty with the knowledge,
There was never love for me there,
Only a search,
For life.
I hope you found it.
I hope you live forever.
With the sad, broken piece of soul I gave you.
Forgive me, my dear, for it was all I had left to give,
For that is the price I've humiliatingly paid,
For living without the eye of a real love to quench my thirst
And clot these wounds.
Eternally gazing upon the nurtured souls,
I am nothing to this world but abused prisoner
Of bones and beauty.


I wrapped that piece neatly,
In a frayed parcel and willingly left it at your door.
I hope it brings you good.
I hope you let it shine like you had once before.
If you asked now for the world,
My love, I'd still give you it entire,
I'd ask of you nothing in return.
For nothing shall ever pass in these eyes,
They hold wisdom above years and an ocean of tears,
I've still to share and yet to cry.
I'll be waiting to the end for you,
Bury my love, as it never lies.
Until my soul finally whithers,
And with it, passion dies.

Within You Without You

"We were talking about the space between us all
And the people who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion
Never glimpse the truth then it's far too late, when they pass away.
We were talking about the love we all could share when we find it
To try our best to hold it there with our love
With our love we could save the world if they only knew.
Try to realize it's all within yourself
No one else can make you change
And to see you're really only very small,
And life flows on within you and without you.
We were talking about the love that's gone so cold and the people,
Who gain the world and lose their soul,
They don't know they can't see. Are you one of them?
When you've seen beyond yourself then you may find peace of mind,
is waiting there
And the time will come when you see
We're all one, and life flows on within you and without you."

George Harrison

The Wake

I never lack the courage of my conviction,
I, in turn, dare to dream.
This place, this bed with no blankets,
This house with no roof,
Stands as a breathing reminder of the person I'll become.
I have love, but no love.
I have a mirror, but no reflection.
I have a heart, but no organs.
I am human, whose clothing hangs,
As a veil o'er a body,
Given a taste, yet scolded never to swallow.
But even in the wake,
Drops of dew settle on grass,
I close my eyes, and drift to sleep.

~"These things that have comforted me I drive away.This place that is my home, I cannot stay.My only faith's in the broken bones & bruises I display"~

Bruce Springsteen, The Wrestler

Breathless

Enough for one more breathe now.
That smell just lingers, just sits there.
One more, one more,
Hold on to it, don't let it fade.
Remember, remember.
This body, this delicate cage,
These rules, these ethics, these morals.
They preach as if they knew,
They knew not the restrictions of lacking restraint.
They knew only good and only bad.
Look once more, once more,
Upon eyes, never evergreen,
Always looking, never seeing.
No tears, no tears,
Swallow pain, speechless, let it age.
Let it fester, let it grow, but don't let it control.
Feel, feel,
That soul, that power, that privilege, that freedom untold.
Seek the key but don't kill the bearer.
Too close, too close,
Pull away, but not too far.
Listen, listen,
Hear a sign, a clue, that you're still here.
Hope, hope,
It won't fade, grasp it, hold it, don't let it disappear.
Please, don't let it disappear,
Let it be real, let it be real.
Search, search,
Find the shattered pieces scattered in the dirt.
Nail and hammer it,
Watch it crack at the center,
Watch it fall.
Gone, gone forever.
One moment, one glance, one chance, one breathe.
Time for one more breathe now,
Smell it, taste it, feel it.
Close your eyes,
Sleep now, sleep,
Forever by the sea,
Forever in a dream.

~"When it's all too much...remember the wonders, remember the truths. Remember today can always be, the better part of yesterday."~

Alexander Schultz

The Art of Filmmaking in this Brave New World

Recently, I've picked up on a theme in award-winning motion pictures which, although realistic and at times depressing, I happen to enjoy. It's a fact that movies, not just in dialogue, story board, and acting have become far more "real world" in recent years in the style in which they are actually filmed; a harshly honest, artistic sort of way. I have been honored to sit in front of a screen and view the evolution of these films. The clearest and best portrayals of this particular style which shine in both storytelling genius and a battered trail of emotional ups and downs, include Slumdog Millionaire, The Wrestler, and Crazy Heart.

Movies like Slumdog Millionaire, which show the triumph of youth and dreams from characters beaten down my their realistic surroundings and terrifying lives in an underdeveloped country, introduce a new level of feeling within audiences. Personally, I believe Slumdog portrayed India in the most truthful of lights, showing the dark worlds of the very children who were cast in the film. That is their life. There was no cutting at the seams. Now, granted, Slumdog was based off of a book to begin with but, regardless of the actual story, the effect left on the audiences' eyes as they viewed the "inside" of a poverty stricken orphan in India is that of a lasting impression on the soul. Although, this movie still reached beyond the realm of reality and did perhaps leave us all with a triumphant "love conquers all" feeling in our hearts, a couple other movies, with almost parallel themes to each other, leave a whole different kind of impression.

The Wrestler gave a shockingly realistic look into the life of a middle aged man who confronts his lack of luck and reckless life and is forced to accept it. I was hesitant to see the movie at first, probably due to the advertisements depicting actual wrestling matches which honestly I had no interest in. I was under the impression that it was yet another Rocky movie, just a slightly different sport. Regardless, after several suggestions from friends, I decided to sit down and give it a chance.

Filmed in just a few short weeks, not far from the place I grew up, The Wrestler was, in my opinion, one of the finest cinematic performances given in a very long time. It was raw, reality; the truth conveyed that things just don't work out. The character, played by Mickey Rourke, begins to realize his own mortality is closing in on him and suddenly begins to patch up his completely torn apart life. The ending of the film is not triumphant, there are no new friends, no re-established relations with missing relatives, no cheating death, he doesn't even get the girl. What there is, is acceptance. Far too late to change anything, too much damage left from a broken past the audience knows nothing of, far too old to carry on with any dreams of another kind of grandeur. It is, in fact, the portrayal of the consequences of a lifestyle and the acceptance of those consequences and of self. This movie easily became one of my favorites, lacking a happy ending filled with hope for the future left a meaning so deeply encrusted in the fabric of all humans; we are alone, and we are responsible for that. However, another movie introduced the same type of character except this time with a little more hope.

When Crazy Heart opens in the first scene with a character that lacks any sort of caring nature for his surroundings, you feel nothing for him. That, I think, is the genius of the movie. This man is introduced, playing two-bit gigs to an endangered fan base, completely wasted and riding on prior fame. Over time however, the character progresses thanks to his slight devotion to his younger, single mother, lover who takes the risk in falling for him. Though alcoholism ruins any chance of a future for the two lonely hearts, his mistake forces him to better himself with rehab. The realism portrayed finally strikes at the end when the love of his life wants nothing to do with him, and neither does his long lost son. Just as The Wrestler, the protagonist is out of rope and time but instead of a story of accepting circumstances, Jeff Bridges's character, "picks up his crazy heart and gives it one more try."

It is these endings, I believe, which place the audience into a far more empathetic seat. We've all had moments where things seem to fall apart before we even began to get used to the idea that they were there in the first place. Just as picking up a book can capture a reader's heart and send the most truthful message to him or her with the gifts of literature such as The Scarlett Letter, or plays like A Streetcar Named Desire where things don't exactly work out the way they are supposed to. The benefit of the book is that it is able to send that message as well as portray the inconveniences which society places on people like Hester, Stella, and Blanche. Perhaps a few more years of evolving films will be able to place both these honest endings and realistic scenarios as well as provide that dark emphasis on the consequences of society's rule. For now, however, I have to say that I'm proud of filmmakers for taking a step further, as M. Night Shyamalan (a much underrated storyteller) said, "My hope is we broke so many rules we created a new rule."

What Hope Is (an excerpt)

I wanted to swim, so you obliged. But when the water reached our hearts you pushed me under and now hold me there, in that place of fading daylight. So I hold my breath, grasping that hand, I won't fight it because I believe in its equal ability to pull me back out. Here I wait with patience in the eve of the moment I'm to live or to die, my fate residing in the strength of the hand holding me under. And that, my dear friend is what hope is in its rawest and rarest form.

~"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”~

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act 3 Scene 3

The Story of Herm

When I was a kid I had this imaginary friend named Herm. I don't even know why I named him that, he was just Herm. I never told anyone about him. Whenever he was around I never pointed him out or talked about him because I wanted him all to myself, I was never going to share Herm. He was my best friend. When you don't have friends, you make them up. Herm and I used to build things. I was determined to build a town in my basement out of these cheap cardboard blocks that my parents had originally bought for my brother, but he never used them. Herm and I never finished because there weren't enough blocks. Now I look back and see that there really was no excuse for that, I should have found something else, anything else in the basement that I could have used to continue the buildings in our town. Herm was gone though, and we never really got to finish what it was we said we were going to do together. Every once and a while I get a real friend like Herm. We dream things we're going to do together and then one day I realize, they're gone, and I never really got to finish. I keep hoping that someday I can finish and finally put the story of Herm to rest.

To Be Set Free

To be set free would be such a wonderful thing.
I could see trees and stars and sun in spring,
I would be everything, everything he wanted me to be,
I would be strong, I would be passionate,
I would throw my whole life away for his dreams.
That's the way I want to be free,
I want to give everything.
But at night I walk alone,
I see his face and then I'm home.
He doesn't see what I could be,
He's too worried that I'm not free,
He doesn't know he holds the key.
Yes, to be set free
Would be a wonderful thing,
Too bad he'll never quite get to me.

October Tuesday (Excerpt)

~I love trying to imagine what I will do with my tomorrow, trying to actually script it. When I get exhausted thinking of all the glorious things I'm going to do with my day, somehow the script gets thrown out and the actors are all asked to improvise when the play starts. Nevertheless, I constantly find myself lying in some field wearing the wrong costume, reading the wrong book, and considering that maybe that's what eternal nothingness is.~

In The Hourglass

And so they fell apart.
Through the center of the hourglass tumbles she
he, at the top, her, the bottom
she gazes up at him,
envy and undying love bury her in silence and block his image.
She suffocates in the grains of her empty dreams, clinging to hope which still lingers.
But she knew, as always,
it was only a matter of time.

Inside Out

A mirror in the dark can unlock a certain gateway and introduce yourself to a new face, a person you've never met before. Stare into a mirror in a dark room and find yourself, the way you were meant to see yourself. The memory of that image which I cannot bear to see creates a parallel universe system, one in which I dress with a smile and another, deep inside me, where I live in constant fear. It's just my face, but there is something deeper than that hiding in it's dark image as if it were my very own soul staring back at me. I fear that effigy of me so much that I must refuse meeting its glare with everything in me. The reality of who I am and what I've done to those around me creates a terminal fear that is deeply manifested so that it haunts my daydreams.

Touch

It is an incredible thing to be a part of a species, any species, even if it be a rat in a city. Instilled deep within every portion of a species is a feeling of commonality, a sort of safe and homey feeling. Humans are of course included in that feeling. We (humans) are an intelligent race, we conceive self awareness, understand the benefits of companionship, and have even been so advantageous as to suggest the understanding of a euphoric emotion such as love. Some people forget how important it is for a species that has come so far that it can withstand lack of communication for great lengths of time with no struggle for survival, to continue to interact and be near each other. Some need companions more than others, sort of dependent spirits who whither when left alone too long. It is to those, and to everyone else for that matter, that the act of touch is so very important to upholding a connection.

Premature babies are a prime example of the importance of species connection. It is common knowledge that infants are helpless, lacking the proper communication skills as well as skills to sustain their own lives. Premature children live in plastic boxes, shielded from the toxic world around them, hooked up to monitors, they know nothing of which is happening to them, that is their entire world, their reality. They are perhaps the most alone out of all of us, so much so that without the touch of another human being, they die. Small things, not even being held, just the stroke of a hand over their body helps them breathe. That power continues throughout the course of a humans life and it is still small gestures that remind us that we are not alone.

A handshake is something looked upon as almost pointless and completely mechanical at this point. However, we need to be reminded of how important that handshake really is, that premature baby needed a small thing to live, and an adult needs it to carry on. Imagine how many times someone is touched during the course of a day, even just by accident. It is most definitely taken for granted. Now imagine going through an entire day without any touch, what could possibly be the most shocking and lonely day ending in the reality of insignificance.

Small gestures, a handshake, a pat on the back, an accidental bump, can make a world of difference in some one's day, and they may not even realize. The larger things, a hug, a kiss, holding hands, being wrapped in the arms of someone safe, are what we live for. As an intelligent species we have overlooked that which is most important to us, the knowledge that we are not alone. Never take that for granted and never take it away from a person, it is such a strong power and we must believe in its strength. Touch is a reminder of the existence of other humans, a reassurance that you are not alone.

"I only kiss your shadow/ I cannot feel your hand/ you're a stranger now unto me/ Lost[...]" The Dangling Conversation, Simon & Garfunkel

Tortured Souls

We are but tortured souls.
Sleeping in shadows through the night,
Stumbling home before the sun lifts his head,
Living in the shattered halls of secrets.
Living, for a moment,
Then left, to die.
No resolution, no truth,
Left as empty shells of passions cast.

~"I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others--young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life."~

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, Chapter 3

Keep Looking

Watch bright dust fade through her glass veil,
Fire amongst water, dissipated.

Frantically spreads across the sky,
Dances a frenzied final fall.

Ash lands, burns her eyes,
Far too delightful to never mind.

Breadcrumbs (an excerpt)

Quiet settles in thick heaps upon the floor. Lost is all sanctuaries, hopes, dreams. The cage is left, and I'll wait in these bars forever, as silence and emptiness torture the night. The fear corrodes the bits of sanity they left behind, breadcrumbs, lies of their return.

They Say A Lot of Things

"They" (professors, parents, authority figures, etc...) tell me I have to be a realist and that idealism is a concept that does not actually occur within the "real" world. This is how I am told to view my entire existence, from a realist perspective. I must learn to understand that every human being, my own species, is iniquitous by birth. There lies the paradox of humanity; I would be lying if I said people are inevitably wicked for if it were true, those who told me were attempting to corrupt my mind with yet another lie. This is the state of the entire civilization. There is an engrained Social Darwinism that stretches beyond superior race, but rather, has inherited a concept of superior trickery and deceit. By being born, we have entered into an involuntary game of chess at which point you must decide to either be the pawn or the queen. This decision relies on the perception of your surroundings brought on by the political and overall cultural socialization of your upbringing. Our history, that is, where we come from as individuals, decides our definition of success. To some, and a statistic majority for that matter, success is material gain and social status based upon reputation. To others, success is to survive.

When discussed from the first perspective, success seems to be easily accessible for those who choose the path of "ambition." I see it as the way those who actually ate the spoonfuls of pre-digested baby food, without looking at their mother's lunch with apprehension, go to achieve their "dreams" which were more than likely evoked by educational propaganda. What is amition? Is it really the overwhelming desire to leave home, do hardly anything to change the world for the better, and possess excessive amounts of paper with pictures and faces on it that, for the most part, you never actually see? Success, from this point of view, is the most elegant of all masquerades requiring the cunning application of poise and charms with undertones of sly networking in which, when the king stands up to stretch, the jester steals the throne. It should be respected as an art, yet hardly a way to actually live.

I once read on a fortune cookie that, "a positive attitude is the key to success." After pondering that for quite a while, I realized the true meaning was, "a positive face is the key to universal acceptance as a person of prestige." If you stumble blindly through euphoric portrayal, surely the summit is accessible. For it is within this paradox that to mask yourself is to be in pursuit of majesty. The cleverest of these ambitious people will give up their right to live, making sacrifices within their own lives in order to attain more paper. Money does not give people actual power because, when looked at for what it is, a dirty slice of paper with a since deceased person on it, it means nothing. It is those who have been participating in this masquerade who believe that a dirty slice of paper means everything. The queen sacrifices free will in order to extend her play in the game. Giving up free will is essentially dying from a self-inflicted flesh wound, but that is the reality within the bargaining of the ambitious.

A pawn's only real goal, if he were asked in the beginning of a game, is to survive. For the pawn, there are more important things than winning the race across the board. Of course, there is honesty in the fact that if you tried to explain to the homeless man eating from the trash that you do not need to have money to be happy, he may disagree with you because the reality of the paradox is that, it sure helps. The difference then, is in it's value to the individual who attains it.

To a pawn, success may be achieved by making sacrifices that the queen would not dare make. This includes turning down opportunities which no doubt promise a "rewarding" career in order to take the time out to smell the roses. Granted, the life of a pawn becomes far more complicated than that of a queen considering the concept the the pawn can only move one space at a time and there is no going back. But these people are idealists and dreamers, putting faith in the fact that every person, even those who choose the life of a queen, can be reasoned with because everyone's intentions are to do good. As Kahlil Gibran wrote, "I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires."

It is important to remember in sacrificing life experiences for societal gains that when the game is over, the queen, although she has almost the entire board at her leisure, has not actually gone that far. When she moves, she moves only to avoid another. The pawn has free will, and although it seems that failure is inevitable for him, when the pain settles in, he has lived. There are restrictions to all our lives and everyone must choose between the concepts of realism and idealism. When all is over and the pawn has left the game, he will never regret the sacrifices he made nor the people he met along the road. Remember that dreams are important and other humans, no matter what their philosophy may be, are not so different from each other. The next time "they" try to feed you lies about the intentions of people and the "pathway to success," remember that everyone is born with complete free will, whether we keep it depends on our application of it. We are not bound by any laws and we are responsible for the consequences of our choices. Think about what you are sacrificing, will you lose by becoming the last man standing, chased around the board? Or will you lose with principle, free will, opening gateways for others as opposed to deceiving those aquaintances who may just be on your side?

"They" say I have to be a realist, but I think I'll try idealism, if only for the two spaces in the beginning.

"Take a straight and stronger course to the corner of your life" Your Move (I've Seen All Good People) Yes

Dancers, Painters, Poets, and Philosophers

Looked at as a metaphor for death and impending doom, crows generally have a poor reputation in our society. For me, they are fascinating creatures, and one of the few animals I would choose to be if Hindu beliefs were truly fundamental, second only to the elephant, after I depart this lifetime. I sat on a bench and watched a crow pacing in the air from one perch to the other for about an hour, never tiring of its overwhelming nobility in this kingdom of animals.

Crows are highly intellectual birds and although they speak very little and do not have a harmonious melody to chirp for spring, when they have something to say, it is heard with emphatic clarity. They have the freedom to live in any climate at any season during the year simply because they can solve basic survival conundrums easier than a robin or a blue jay. There was a story I heard once that a group of crows living by a walnut tree would wait until a traffic light turned red, place the walnuts under the wheels of the cars, then picked them up, fully cracked and ready to eat, safely, after all of the cars had left the intersection. Now, as a creature of "superior" intelligence, frankly, I'm impressed. That may have never occurred to me if placed in a dire walnut cracking situation. Although I have seen flocks of crows, mostly in my youth spent in New England where many of the myths surrounding these intellectuals originate, they are perfectly capable of being individuals. It could be that crows are not unlike humans in that they desire the comfort, security, and joy of having company, or maybe they really do need each other.

After a while I noticed that I wasn't just observing the crow, it was watching me equally as much. Perhaps this was a survival instinct, or maybe, I like to think, it was a healthy curiosity. Every time it landed it would turn and catch my gaze for a minute, focused and sincere, then fly to the next perch. I began to dream that there could be a chance that this bird was just as fascinated with me as I was with it. It may have been organizing the same thoughts that I am arduously pouring out on this page, only in reverse, of course.

This lucky animal not gets to fly wherever he or she wishes, do whatever it would like, think of bold new ways of living its daily life, but also has the profound privilege of being beautiful. Look at a crow, really look at a crow, notice the way the feathers can reflect sunlight in rainbows, the same way an oil slick can be mesmerizing on a hot summer day. Study their eyes, always moving, truthful and adventurous. The way they move, the art in their flight, leaps of faith to the ground that are ironically calculable. They are dancers, painters, poets, and philosophers. They speak when they need to be heard, when it is important. It may not be musically perfect, but it is said with passion and enthusiasm. It was then that I wanted to be a crow, or maybe, just for a day.

~"There are women and women and some hold you tight while some leave you counting the stars in the night."~

"Come Down in Time," Elton John

Beauty Lies in the Shop Window

Beauty lies in the shop window. Not within the displays of useless and meaningless possessions but in the person staring back. She can observe the shape of her face, chiseled by a true master of fine art. Her lips, often delicately pressed by the dear laborer of her heart, speak without moving through the color of a rose so painstakingly sought after. The eyes of a night walker gleam back in a simple elegance too heavenly to bear for any length of time. Every curve of her body is perfectly thought out to where her dress is merely a cover for her endless youthful treasures. She can admire the hair that curls gently down over her neck to ever so delicately tint her skin.

Behind her plays the short book of memories collected in her few years. They twirl through the glass. Echoes of conversation and laughter break the city sounds and dance along the sidewalk where she stands, transfixed. Vanity drips from the awning and falls like raindrops on passersby. Frozen on her cloud of ecstasy and obsession, she is isolated from the world, an exhibit they cannot touch. Consumed in the gaze of her gleaming glass reflection, she has not noticed the seasons beginning to change.

The separation of her patch of sidewalk and the rest of the street grow more and more distant, and the flower begins to whither. She has no conscience of such changing, for her eyes never leave the glass apparition staring back. Voices break her meditation. They are not from the glass but from behind her, whispers filled with disgust and anger approach her ears and sail down her spine. As the time passes they grow louder and far more pronounced until the girl decides finally to break her stare with the glass and confront those demons behind her. She turns with her eyes still on the glass, and then lets go just as someone collides into her and continues on his way.

She falls on the concrete, the harshness of winter evident in her bloodshot eyes. She cries, not for the man but for men as a whole. Her heart can be seen through the seams of what once was a lavish evening gown custom fit to compliment her since passed, youthful, womanly physique. It beats a melancholic melody of yesterday's dreams. Her face is a buried masterpiece, worn down by saltwater and dust. The tangles of her delicate curls can still be found somewhere, deep inside the gnarls of grease and frizz. Slowly, she picks herself up, as her hands burn from scrapes now lingering on her palms. She lifts her head to face the glass, only to find that she is gone. Desperately she will stand, staring, waiting for a sign from a forgotten memory. She, is beautiful.

The Envy of the Dancer

Dancing offers the opportunity to leave one's self behind and become stronger, more beautiful and less alone. So the dancer flies high above the wickedness that makes humanity and can only be reached by the admiration of her pointed toes by he who must resist the urge to pull her closer. Instead, he is forced to look away, with a fever rising in his soul. This flame can manipulate into a burning hatred of beauty's horrifying definition. He possesses the freedom which she seeks to find in the elegant balance of her spins.


A SIDE NOTE:

I apologize humbly if you were following me from my last blog beginning in December. I wanted to make it so that certain people could read my real blog now instead of my alias, but I didn't want to completely erase the fantastic thing I had going with you lovely people of cyberspace. So, as a reminder, which you probably realized if you went to the old site, Ophelia is not my real name, for the future I will keep my real name withheld. For the fortunate few of you who were not hyperlinked in time because you read this rather religiously, now you know who I really am and have seen a much clearer picture. I still love you all, I know a lot of my work is gone, I have it on my harddrive and since I can't just copy and paste....well....it will be a while to say the least. Until then, I'm going to keep producing my normal inspirations to feed your hungry minds. I love you.