I just realized it.
I'm still in love with her.
Not as much as before. But, I'm still in love with her.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. fuck. shit. shit.
i haven't thought seriously about her for three months. and now, with school looming back on the horizon, there she is again.
SHIT.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
i am me. but who is me?
i am me. but who am i? what is my purpose? why do i exist on this earth? what is my main goal in life? i don't even have one. i don't know what i want to do with my life. i see so many of my friends, they've got it all planned out. what colleges they're going to, what they're going to do there, what jobs they're going to have. i. have. no. fucking. clue. what do i do with my life? if i don't even know who i am, how am i supposed to know what i want to do?
i am me.
but who is me? who am i? who am i? my heart, it beats. my soul, it speaks. but, it's in a language i've forgotten, a dialect i no longer know. it is the ancient language we have all lost. i am lost. i am without direction. i'm being pulled in so many ways, and i don't know what to choose.
i just don't fucking know who i am.
i think i once knew. once in a blue moon i'll remember it.
i am me.
but who is me? who am i? who am i? my heart, it beats. my soul, it speaks. but, it's in a language i've forgotten, a dialect i no longer know. it is the ancient language we have all lost. i am lost. i am without direction. i'm being pulled in so many ways, and i don't know what to choose.
i just don't fucking know who i am.
i think i once knew. once in a blue moon i'll remember it.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
character study inspired from a Stephen King story.
The threat of the storm seemed to have sucked the color from everything; trees that were once filled with leaves that were a collage of fiery reds and yellows had been reduced to grey skeletons, like the ghostly specters of a child's nightmare. A vast pumpkin field sat in the mist, the gourds themselves reduced to rotting corpses, smelling of death. A willow tree's branches whipped in the wind, delicate branches swept up to the sky. Underneath the tree, something resembling a piece of paper fluttered apathetically against the root it had entangled itself in. The wind shot through the old town, slicing through the thick coats of the few brave souls couragous enough to walk down Main Street before a storm. Barely visible against the dark sky, a thin wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney of Old Buck's Store. Inside the Old Store, the older occupants watched with self-righteous indignance as what they referred to as "the young people" scurried through town in an attempt to get out of the icy mid-November wind. In their opinion, anyone with sense would've already been inside by this time.
The inside of the store was a good forty degrees warmer than the outside. Last time the thermostat was checked, it read 79 degrees. Every once in a while, the old stove would crackle and pop, sending up a fresh wave of heat. All the smells permeated through the floorboards and walls, old coffee and tea, spices and baked bread, mixed with the stench of old tobacco and wet wool. A few lanterns and lamps were strategically placed around the store, providing just enough light for everyone to see without killing themselves. Some newfangled music was playing over the sound system Annie had hooked up back in the summer when she was bored. The three men and one woman sat in their respective seats, glancing out the front window, the lettering now faded and posters half-torn, to watch the sky with grim interest.
Claire Grace presided over the long, gleaming, mahogany counter, relaxing in the old swivel chair she'd swiped from the back room. She still looked pretty good for being 56, with a country woman's frame and a city woman's face, her blonde hair barely streaked with white. She'd inherited the Store from her Daddy, Buck Grace, after he died, and the apartment above the Store and not much else. There'd already been rumors flying when she arrived in Blue Hill, thirty years past, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed twenty-six year old straight out of Atlanta. Somehow she'd survived the hostile glances and vicious whispers of being the illegitamate child of Buck Grace and Wendy Fields, the mayor's daughter, who'd fled to Georgia to escape the wrath of her father. The past three decades had softened her thick southern drawl and the hearts of most of the town, but it'd had hardened her southern hospitality into a cool wariness of strangers.
Settling back into her chair, Claire gave the store a quick cursory glance before giving the sky a covert look. The whole thing was a muddy gray, twisting with the threat of a storm. It'd yet to rain, but the wind was already worrying her enough. She'd made sure to close all the windows and lock all the doors that had a bad way of banging in the breeze. The roof was what was bothering her. Already, more than a few shingles had been blown off, and she knew that if anymore blew off, she'd be facing a wet bed. With a sigh, Claire resigned the issue to fate; she wasn't going to do much good sitting there and worrying about it.
Arnie Hatfield sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the stove, letting the heat warm his tired feet. At 68, he was the second youngest of the bunch, and the most easy-going. A hulking man of six-foot-four-inches, he resembled a walking mountain. With a thatch of salt-white hair and a beard to match, Arnie had been Santa Claus to the local kids for a good long while. He'd been coming to the store since he was a wee kid with his father back when Buck's daddy used to own the place. Through the years, he'd come to the store for many things, first for Cokes as a kid for he and his friends, then to con cigs out of Buck as a teenager, finally to buy diapers and such when his own kids came around. He'd been one of the first people to make an acquataince with Claire when she first came down. But now, after the kids had left and Janet was up in heaven with the Lord after that bad soat with cancer, Arnie had found himself drifting down the store, mumbling excuses for this and that, just looking for some company. It was only until Claire had Annie put a chair out for him that he stopped with the excuses and just came down, every day, to sit in the back near the stove and prop his feet up on the warm edge.
Closing his eyes, Arnie coughed and prepared to spit before thinking better of it. He excused himself to the tiny bathroom near the stove and quickly spat the phlegm into the sink. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror. His hair was starting thin quite a bit near his forehead and his eyes seemed a little more bloodshot than normal. Christ, was he really getting old? Wasn't it just last week he was escorting Janet through the door after Jackie was born? That was nearly thirty years ago. Arnie bent his head, thinking on it. No, it was thirty, nearly to the day. It was the day Buck died in the accident. Two weeks before Claire moved in. He remembered it clear as a bell. Arnie chuckled wryly to himself as he went back to his seat. He may be old, but his mind was still like a steel trap.
The inside of the store was a good forty degrees warmer than the outside. Last time the thermostat was checked, it read 79 degrees. Every once in a while, the old stove would crackle and pop, sending up a fresh wave of heat. All the smells permeated through the floorboards and walls, old coffee and tea, spices and baked bread, mixed with the stench of old tobacco and wet wool. A few lanterns and lamps were strategically placed around the store, providing just enough light for everyone to see without killing themselves. Some newfangled music was playing over the sound system Annie had hooked up back in the summer when she was bored. The three men and one woman sat in their respective seats, glancing out the front window, the lettering now faded and posters half-torn, to watch the sky with grim interest.
Claire Grace presided over the long, gleaming, mahogany counter, relaxing in the old swivel chair she'd swiped from the back room. She still looked pretty good for being 56, with a country woman's frame and a city woman's face, her blonde hair barely streaked with white. She'd inherited the Store from her Daddy, Buck Grace, after he died, and the apartment above the Store and not much else. There'd already been rumors flying when she arrived in Blue Hill, thirty years past, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed twenty-six year old straight out of Atlanta. Somehow she'd survived the hostile glances and vicious whispers of being the illegitamate child of Buck Grace and Wendy Fields, the mayor's daughter, who'd fled to Georgia to escape the wrath of her father. The past three decades had softened her thick southern drawl and the hearts of most of the town, but it'd had hardened her southern hospitality into a cool wariness of strangers.
Settling back into her chair, Claire gave the store a quick cursory glance before giving the sky a covert look. The whole thing was a muddy gray, twisting with the threat of a storm. It'd yet to rain, but the wind was already worrying her enough. She'd made sure to close all the windows and lock all the doors that had a bad way of banging in the breeze. The roof was what was bothering her. Already, more than a few shingles had been blown off, and she knew that if anymore blew off, she'd be facing a wet bed. With a sigh, Claire resigned the issue to fate; she wasn't going to do much good sitting there and worrying about it.
Arnie Hatfield sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the stove, letting the heat warm his tired feet. At 68, he was the second youngest of the bunch, and the most easy-going. A hulking man of six-foot-four-inches, he resembled a walking mountain. With a thatch of salt-white hair and a beard to match, Arnie had been Santa Claus to the local kids for a good long while. He'd been coming to the store since he was a wee kid with his father back when Buck's daddy used to own the place. Through the years, he'd come to the store for many things, first for Cokes as a kid for he and his friends, then to con cigs out of Buck as a teenager, finally to buy diapers and such when his own kids came around. He'd been one of the first people to make an acquataince with Claire when she first came down. But now, after the kids had left and Janet was up in heaven with the Lord after that bad soat with cancer, Arnie had found himself drifting down the store, mumbling excuses for this and that, just looking for some company. It was only until Claire had Annie put a chair out for him that he stopped with the excuses and just came down, every day, to sit in the back near the stove and prop his feet up on the warm edge.
Closing his eyes, Arnie coughed and prepared to spit before thinking better of it. He excused himself to the tiny bathroom near the stove and quickly spat the phlegm into the sink. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror. His hair was starting thin quite a bit near his forehead and his eyes seemed a little more bloodshot than normal. Christ, was he really getting old? Wasn't it just last week he was escorting Janet through the door after Jackie was born? That was nearly thirty years ago. Arnie bent his head, thinking on it. No, it was thirty, nearly to the day. It was the day Buck died in the accident. Two weeks before Claire moved in. He remembered it clear as a bell. Arnie chuckled wryly to himself as he went back to his seat. He may be old, but his mind was still like a steel trap.
Monday, August 07, 2006
random
I awake to a sensation unfamiliar to me. Instead of the chill wind whipping through my body, I feel warmth and security. I know I should be worried as to why I'm not in the alley anymore, but somehow, my fear has left me in my sleep. This is wholly unnusual for me, for until this moment, I have not known a time when I was not afraid. From my childhood at the orphanage, to my adolescence haunting the streets of the city, to these past few years searching desperately for work.
Cautiously, I let my eyes slide open and I am overwhelmed by what I see. I am laying in a soft bed, in a large room, with a balcony overlooking fresh, green fields. The sun is just beginning to rise over the hills and the air is crisp and fresh as a breeze slips through the doors opening out onto the balcony. Lifting my head just a bit, I look around at my new surroundings and that is when I see you. Apparently, I have been lying on top of you, using you as a pillow, and you do not seem to have minded. I don't immediately recognize you, but in my heart, I feel that you mean me no harm. You are beautiful, but there is a worn quality to your appearance; you have seen many battles and have lived through many horrors. There is a wary peace in your sleep, your brow is smooth, but you frown. I discover I have draped a protective arm round your waist, my other tucked under myself; your own arm is lying softly on my shoulder, the other laid across your chest. You trust me, enough to allow me into your bed, though for what reason, I cannot fathom. I am a thief, a harlot, a scoundrel, and the scourge of the streets. I do not belong in a noblewoman's bed, least of all with her in it as well.
There is a tugging in the corner of my mind, telling me I need to escape before I'm discovered, but I cannot leave you. I'm trapped here, watching you sleep. The sun crests the hill and rises into the morning sky, setting your golden hair alight. Soft light spills over your face, giving it depth and detail. My fingers tremblingly follow my eyes as I gently trace your features. The fine jaw, high forehead, cheekbones like razors, cupid's bow lips. I have seen you before, but I don't know where. As I rack my mind to remember your face, you stir, drawing in breath. My muscles tense to bolt, but I don't move, captivated by you. I want to run, slip out before I'm thrown out, but I just can't, I can't seem to make my legs move as I watch your eyes open. Two eyes, bluer than sapphires, still hazy with sleep fell upon my frozen form.
I open my mouth to speak, but words seem to have forsaken me as a smile graces your lips.
Cautiously, I let my eyes slide open and I am overwhelmed by what I see. I am laying in a soft bed, in a large room, with a balcony overlooking fresh, green fields. The sun is just beginning to rise over the hills and the air is crisp and fresh as a breeze slips through the doors opening out onto the balcony. Lifting my head just a bit, I look around at my new surroundings and that is when I see you. Apparently, I have been lying on top of you, using you as a pillow, and you do not seem to have minded. I don't immediately recognize you, but in my heart, I feel that you mean me no harm. You are beautiful, but there is a worn quality to your appearance; you have seen many battles and have lived through many horrors. There is a wary peace in your sleep, your brow is smooth, but you frown. I discover I have draped a protective arm round your waist, my other tucked under myself; your own arm is lying softly on my shoulder, the other laid across your chest. You trust me, enough to allow me into your bed, though for what reason, I cannot fathom. I am a thief, a harlot, a scoundrel, and the scourge of the streets. I do not belong in a noblewoman's bed, least of all with her in it as well.
There is a tugging in the corner of my mind, telling me I need to escape before I'm discovered, but I cannot leave you. I'm trapped here, watching you sleep. The sun crests the hill and rises into the morning sky, setting your golden hair alight. Soft light spills over your face, giving it depth and detail. My fingers tremblingly follow my eyes as I gently trace your features. The fine jaw, high forehead, cheekbones like razors, cupid's bow lips. I have seen you before, but I don't know where. As I rack my mind to remember your face, you stir, drawing in breath. My muscles tense to bolt, but I don't move, captivated by you. I want to run, slip out before I'm thrown out, but I just can't, I can't seem to make my legs move as I watch your eyes open. Two eyes, bluer than sapphires, still hazy with sleep fell upon my frozen form.
I open my mouth to speak, but words seem to have forsaken me as a smile graces your lips.
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