sometimes I wonder...

Grey clouds against a dimming yellow sign. Hanging on a rusty bar by a hook. The whole scene looks dreary with naked cold trees that are dark with the mourning of winter and a frigid air that hugs close to a walkers skin, even in a sweater.

A scarf and mittens could be happy today, but the silver buttons on a worn jacket are not. A jacket that struggles to hold itself together and tries its best to keep out the cold.

Why is the cold so uninviting? Why can't the cold be something a person looks forward to, instead of hiding from it in many layers.

Cold must be a very lonely thing.

A painting hid under several layers of dust. Covered in a white sheet. Memories. An old painting, one that is familiar.. A madonna. The paint holding the secrets to her beauty held within the fine tip brush strokes. The embellished border sporting forgotten paint and small cracks, however on the painting itself remained uncracked. As if aphrodite herself recognized the beauty of this belle. Magic. Is it okay to want to cry? Memories of distant yesterday's float around, the old reasons come back for the same cravings. To get away from it all. Lost behind thin pages of parchment and hard covers, not seeing or hearing the world around. Wanting to just disappear and press flowers that are pasted on tea stained canvases, with black ink swirling in between. I need a way out.

Intricate Designs.

sometimes we all want someone to just pop bubbles with.

A raw set of emotions set in your stomach. Ones you don't wish to encounter again.

Rupert has pink cheeks. If a key doesn't fit a lock for long enough, one may get frustrated. A rusty old dusty key that has no ambition to do anything but lay on the shelf. The lock has aspirations, and is trying to make something of himself. It's an entirely frustrating ideal. The key wouldn't work, again. Rupert trying every possible angle, finally ending with the harsh reality of throwing the key away.

A key that will be forgotten.

The vase of flowers stood soundly. It's energies drained from the grouping of colours and spirits placed within it. The vase couldn't keep up with the warm glow, and eventually died out. And became unnoticed.

A yawn, a yawn that passed silently, with a cat that stretches it's paws forward. it's back arched and it's movements slow. The difference between the sleepy and aware state of cat is almost incomprehensible.

Why must things fall out of place? why must they follow a particular order, in which one is left reeling and reeling through old films.

Old films with dust covered holders. Old films of old romances and cigarettes and things that mattered. Old films that people sat in the theater for and enjoyed for everything they were worth, as opposed to new thoughtless ones that put subliminal messages in your head and turn your ideals on beauty and love into something demented.

I don't want this sick feeling to sink in my stomach again.

A new sort of somethings

I am taking a day to myself it seems. Im tempted to buy a disposable camera and go out and take pictures of pretty things, I could go and eat sushi, walk around downtown. Enjoy the day. It's a little bleak and grey out, but that's okay. I think I may watch movies, and laugh at jokes.

Yes, today is a day where I am going to take time for myself. A cup of tea, a nap, a book, a drawing, a piece of writing.

I would love to share a conversation with someone, while we were tangled within a bed. Just a conversation, our skin carelessly brushes against the next. Our eyes dancing and our mouthes concocting the most pleasant of surprises.

The desire to trace gentle words onto anothers skin is great right now. I want to share the atmosphere with you, and the burning tobacco in a cigarette. The thoughts are wild. Whisper sweet somethings to me. The time is yours to share.

Secrets are whispered, exchanged. Our bodies rigid above a coloured bedspread that doesn't match the 70s decor.

An ash tray full of words and broken promises.

Clocks are flicking in the dark light, green promises of the wrong time. The power went out, noone dared to move. The lights never went back on.

The kingdom rests within the sheets. Sheets that are hollow without two, they wouldn't dare.

Overthinking the tiniest of details that not even a snail would care to see. A small crack in the fabric, a thought process that sends one spinning. I've been thinking of what to tell you.

Twenty questions always ends up bad.

Breath.

A short whisper of a breath catches in the throat of unexpected. The small trickle of air has tried to get through the pinhole in the coat she's wearing. A thick coat with many pockets. The air is chilling and sends chills. Arms wrapped tightly around to block the cold from hitting skin.
Too cold. Too close.

The realization has set in, that's all there is too it. The air desperately tries to warm, and to appear endearing, it dances and spirals wanting to dance alongside the pockets, search their depths and contents. But the coat won't let it.

When the reality sets in and one realizes they're just too far away from the world to let people into theirs. That the only world for them is the one they created for themselves. And that when another attempts to make it into the coat with pockets. The coat scares away and buries one within itself and they become lost in the folds of fabric, creating confusion.

Sometimes the one inside the coat yearns to be let out. Yearns to be found and discovered and adored.

but when that reality is soon to be met. the air instead feels chilling, and one loses itself within the fabric.

Whisper some silver reply

Why must my ocean, sea, mermaids, ships, battles, waters, tides, reefs, dolphins, fish, and anchors be hidden so far within a bottle? Why must they have thoughts to themselves and feel tossed and turned with a lint filled pocket they lay. The pocket is within a jacket, unworn but instead in a wardrobe of secrets, the secrets are kept with a key. The key is in my eyes.

Why must all of these treasures be so difficult to find ? Why must the anchor be at the bottom of the ocean, the ship sails freely without being able to stop, the anchor lies at the bottom with rusted broken chains that desperately look for a chance to find their match. The mermaids dance about in drunk happiness enjoying the rays of the bright sun that dance underwater.

The ocean is tossing and turning, a clenched feeling in a chest. A treasure chest full of wonder and gold and jewells, or books with pressed flowers.. the chest is nowhere to be seen.

Why must the wardrobe have the look of Elegance but when one gets close the detail drips away, a cardboard box lies underneath and the tasteful wonderer replies "it's not worth the cash"

Auctioned off? No. dumped in a house of forgotten and dust, with sheets over all of the furniture. Some windows are broken, some others are boarded up. Only a lonely spirit is there to play, she dances to a record player.

A record player that used to belong to her lover.. a lover that left to war. She waltzes about, in wonder. Wondering if he'd come back to find her.

The books open, the pressed flowers fall, the oceans settle, the sun sets... the wardrobe closes.

Secrets... secrets...

who can say what dreams are?

the endless search for the missing puzzle piece

spinning, spiraling,

Frustrated. Rupert has been trying his best to blow up a balloon. An elasticky red one with a long ribbon he intends to attach at the end. Marjorie is floating along above him, waiting for him to join. Instead he is stuck on the ground, desperately blowing into a balloon. A balloon with the smallest hole that only lets a drop of air escape at a time. But enough air so that when Rupert finally has enough to float it escapes while he attempts to tie it. Frustrating.

Overcast and dreary. A forecast that seems to be stuck in the northeren hemisphere. Creating rain at the most unnecessary times. An inconvenience. Rupert wants to float in outerspace. The problem with outerspace? Noone can hear you.

" Night won't breathe, oh how we
Fall into silence from the sky

And whisper a silver reply"

Noone can hear the desperate attempts of conversation, or your laughter.

The stars aren't very emotional people. Why do we attempt to land amongst them? A star is a big ball of sparkle that sticks to the not-air that space provides. They don't listen to each other, just attempt to outshine one another. Some stars fizzle out, other stars pick up their dust and shine brighter. It's a dog eat dog world.

Or... space rather.

What more could I ask then a cup of warm tea and a book? In a cozy apartment above a bakery.

Yes.

Perfection.

starving artist

we're alike me and cat. a couple of poor nameless slobs.

Music is the only thing that makes sense right now. With a rush of notes it sends you spinning.

Rupert enjoys it, he closes his eyes and escapes to places far away.

I have been sketching again. Just a simplistic drawing: a man with an outstretched arm, grasping an apple in his hand with a stem and a leaf attached to it.

it's nice.

I did a rough copy, to attempt the grayscale complications of the piece and discovered that the rough copy wasn't that bad. It was a relief to know that I still hold some artistic talent. I haven't drawn since highschool, it's something I don't want to lose.

Drawing and writing, I need to do more of. Also reading.. and tea drinking. Because there is nothing wrong with those either.

The flowers that were on the kitchen table have disappeared. They were quite a pair. They blossomed and opened showing the world their beautiful colors. they drooped over the side of the vase. The stems were too long to hold such exquisite blooms. The beauty did not last unfortunately. With a simple touch the petals fell off, and the flowers began to wilt rather then sit beautifully. They had been taken from the roots and struggled to drink the water they sat in. The water was not the same as the nutrient soil they once sat in.

Water is a treat for plants, a treat that plants search for and when they find it they have to equally distribute it throughout the plant. They grin and giggle to themselves. Almost in a drunk stupor. Rupert thinks that water is similar to wine for plants, it brings the color out in the petals cheeks and makes them smile and dance in the wind.

When a flower is plucked the water that they sit in is too strong for the flower to endure. The flower drinks the wine-water too fast, it's beauty is magnanimous and then it is taken from it with the hangover that is soon to follow, it's stem still rests in the water. All it can do is keep drinking.

It drunk itself to death.

Life tastes sweet

Old friend, why are you so shy? It aint like you to hold back or hide from the light

A thin stick with a small red ember at the end; from which danced smoke in the most beautiful patterns. Each thin billow chasing the others tail. The smoke wasn't large and cloudy and smelled of nicotine. But rather a thin elegant white smoke that danced before your eyes and invited a beautiful scent to your senses.

Swirling, tumbling and diving.

Rupert has been gazing at the clouds, grey-white clouds that look as if they're about to burst. They create a lazy air that only wants to be filled with the brilliance of a brush stroke. Sleek, dynamic colours that create an obscure reality. A reality through Rupert's eyes. These clouds provoke moods of tea drinking, and writing odd sentences that are disjointed and awkward but clever nonetheless.

take my tongue, go have some fun.
take my heart, tear it apart.

Ice cream with strawberries is the taste of summer, an attempt to brighten the dismal day. It instead has made me a sleepy cat that would love an afternoon nap. The strawberries fit so well in the spoon with just enough iced cream to make them cool. Rupert enjoys the combination much.

Lately I have been having cravings for cigarettes and wine.

the biggest nothing-at-alls

wouldn't it be wonderful to gaze at the moon?

Rupert looked out of the bus window, and tugged on my ear. He had noticed something very peculiar. The trees looked to be washed away. The trunks and grass were murky and swampy. "The roots..." he wondered aloud, "how will they hold on?"

The trees didn't seem very sad... just still, still with their eyes closed and hoping that they wouldn't drift away in the river.

The weather has been acting funny lately, with cold air that's not very spring like. The ground really is craving warmth. You can see it cling to the very idea of it whenever it comes around. A warmth that makes the grass smile and sing. The green comes out in the healthiest ways, and then it's turned upside down.

Weather is such a funny thing.

It's funny to see the bright flowers that are trying to bloom through the cold. It's a hedge of very dead things, and sticks that are dark brown and have to be tended to. And right in the middle are the brightly colored flowers that are trying to bloom and mulitply. It's comforting to see. They're very tough fellows pushing through all of the odds of the cold.

I think that it's a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirrored

Warm tea would be wonderful on these cold days. Warm tea, with a paper that is half complete... and a mind full of educated thoughts that are too pursue an exam soon to be written. Instead, Rupert has been running in circles, shaking. Scared. Whispering about odd things and strange situations.

The weather is such a funny thing.

light me up a cigarette

bottoms up

Grey, grey and unfeeling. A sense of accomplishment, a sense of loss. A new chapter. New emotions, new text. New work, new world, new chapter.

A new start. Another year down, whizzing by faster then the cold.

A blink, a whisper. An eyelash. Cold toes, frozen nose.

Unshowered.

Rupert wanders along aimlessly, seeing the images around him, but unmoving. Wandering in circles, his head in the clouds. He is floating along, existing. Small raindrops begin to cluster together in clouds. The spring hasn't set in enough to warm the small flecks of rain that have been often falling. The chilled ground attempts to warm the heated feet that walk upon it. Rupert notices it's struggles.

light me up a cigarette n' put it in my mouth. you're the only one who wants me around.

Rupert has noticed that there is a squirmy thing inside his tumy that rumbles and grumbles at all the wrong moments. Yuck.

what looked to be a day full of warmth and sunshine has indeed changed to one of cold and grey.

My mind has been at a loss of words during this post, and there seem to be many ramblings. Rambling is what I do best.

I would love a french movie romance

Can I be your everything? Can we lose the world in each other?

My brain won't stop spinning.. spinning around in this dizzy circle of nothingness. A pit of nothing that extends to nowhere where noone has gone. It's tiring.

Im exhausted. Mentally, physically, socially... what have you. My motivation has dried up like the paper I wrote endless notes on. Notes that I must take to heart, consider, question, memorize and be able to spit up back in the exact order with some context behind them that makes it seem like I understand the topic.

"Lean back on a broken willow tree"

I don't understand things sometimes. School work , people, what have you. And it makes me overwhelmed when anger is pervasive and pressed onto others... I really just think a good cry is what I need right now. Im just feeling deflated.. not angry, or sad... but numb... and just.. unfeeling. It's a little unnerving.

Im worried that I am complaining too much so I apologize. My thoughts run with me sometimes and I have a hard time finding their tails and catching them again. Reeling them back in can be a task too. It's interesting to watch them dip into your ears and back again.

These thoughts are like small fairies. They speak in tongue and make you think of a whole list of things when you try to take hold of them. Sometimes the talknig is all at once and you have to consider one before another. I think sprites may be there as well.. little curious fellows with pointed ears and a coniving smile. They are disastrous and tend to pick out the worst outcomes for me and the worst choices seem to be the best in their eyes. I try to ignore them, but they're beautiful.

Have you ever been dipped in so many thoughts you feel as though you were just dragged down with the ideas? That the attempts are soggy instead of fresh. And instead of passing lovingly through the breeze like a plastic bag or leaves.. they just sit there in a heap like a sock someone dropped in a puddle. For whatever reason someone would lose a sock and not a shoe and a sock or just a shoe in a puddle is beyond me.

I miss looking out and seeing rainbows that have crashed to the ground. In eery crop circles that seep and ooze in abnormal shapes. But they're brilliant.

The rain is cold and full of winter, the sun is trying to warm up the ground and melt what's left of the snow. Small flowers are trying to push through but it's hard to fall such a distance and not get chilly. I think they need sweaters...

I really would just love a room to myself to sit and do things I like to do. This one isn't big enough.

I feel as though I live in a shoebox sometimes.