Always find a reason to laugh. Compliment generously and often. Learn to accept compliments in return. Make someone smile. Never deny yourself chocolate. Abolish self pity. Eat another slice of cake. Dance in the rain. Let your inner child out to play. Stay away from chronically angry and bitter people. Surround yourself with beauty. Create. Travel.
Let go. Never be afraid to love.
I love it when it rains early in the morning. I love the soft drops on my face as I hurry to the bus and the perfume of Petrichor that fills my nose. I love it most of all when I’m looking out of a window slick with condensation at a world of misty greys.
I think there is a subtle magic in the way car headlights and traffic lights illuminate the dancing rain and the reds and yellows pierce through the greys. There is a wonder in the way the lightening sky seeps through the gloom and dilutes the darkness.
I wanted to sit by that window forever.
Because when I step off the bus and onto the wet concrete, magic doesn’t seem to exist.
If 2012 were a person it would be a mewling newborn swaddled in a fuzzy blanket. Its chubby little hands would grab at the air and its wet little eyes would rove over its surroundings in wonder.
It is a mystery. At this point it can do anything and be anything. It carries the wistful hopes and whispered wishes of humanity.
Please don’t let us down.
The blood is curdling in my veins. It must be. It feels like treacle, clinging to my arteries. I am so tired.
This inactivity is gnawing at my core, its needle like teeth scraping away at my patience. I do not want to be here, I am not comfortable here. Muses not mathematics. Line art, not lists.
Let me be alone with my muse. Let me use her and abuse her. She is a flighty bitch and doesn’t often stay long, yet I cannot do without her. Please don’t leave. Heartbreaker!
I oscillate between self assurance and self loathing. Seldom do I dangle in the middle. I get a fleeting taste as I swing back by, but it melts away like sugar on a tongue and its sweetness is swiftly forgotten.
You do not know me but I spent last night tracing the curve of your lips with my fingers. (Does that bother you?) You are painfully beautiful, lovely beyond words.
I’m squinting, trying to find the hilarity in the malady. It’s been five hours and I’m still looking.
Bollocks and bladders and bones, oh my!
1) Secret sorrows clasped tight to my chest. Black ink trails on a blank page. Your bitterness leaves smudges on my hands. I keep my lips pursed and my legs crossed.
2) Small doses my love, little sips. “A spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down.” Words, are they medicine? Yes, but only if you swallow them.
3) I like to think I’m not like you, but if we all think that way, are we not the same?
4) Hush child, don’t talk about things you don’t know. “I don’t know anything.” Precisely.
5) Voyeurism is all the social interaction I need.
6) Paint stained fingernails and nothing to show for it except failed attempt number two. What did I do wrong?
7) Put the pencil to the paper my darling, let me see what you can do.
Let us talk of artistic envy, reverse vegetarians, part time hermits (only 3 days a week) and silent late night callers. Only if you want to, of course.
There is nothing for me here.
Fade to black.
Fragile things. That’s what we all are, with our brittle bones and yielding flesh and fluttering, fleeting heartbeats. How many beats a minute? How many until the life sustaining organ is silenced, just a hunk of veined misshapened muscle waiting to turn back into the dirt from whence it came?
Restless days, sand filled eyes and helpless fingers.
I think llamas look hilarious.
Llama.
Unibrow llama.
Moustachioed llama.
Bearded llama.
Classy llama.
Sexy llama.
Gay pride llama.
Man, I love llamas.
Also, I wonder why no one has proposed to me yet.
Meh.
