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.

Sock feet on carpet

I'll never be this way again.

What is it I am really craving? besides fruit and vegetables and all of that regular crap that society craves whenever they are stressed. I guess chocolate and junkfood should be added to that list.

I fucking crave a conversation. Not a conversation based on sex, or drugs, or drinking, or parties or any of those superficial things. An actual goddamn conversation, between two people.

About everything and nothing at all. Confessing their desires and fears to one another and being completely honest. Not holding emotions, feelings or words back; just lay everything on the table and be completely honest. Someone who will listen, understand, not think everything is stupid. Not be afraid to answer the tough questions about subjects noone really knows the answers to. Someone who could read books and write things, paint and draw and think according to whatever mood their in. Someone who listens to music that isn't based on pop culture.

I crave someone who cares enough to notice that i am clearly not okay with all of this and everything going on, that my mind has turned to the worst and I just want to get away and curl into a ball. That I am avoiding the tasks I should be doing in life because I am too fucking scared to let anyone in to see the things I am thinking.

Tired of this.

Please, can we just sit down have a good conversation and not notice the time run by, not run to our cell phones in an awkward moment. Not have an awkward moment and just have comfortable silences instead.

Am I wishing too much?

breath of a raindrop

Let's sit and talk about our deepest fears and desires. Stay a while

Rupert is frustrated, with the thoughts of raindrops around him. He is confused and flustered and wonders what to do about it. He had found a chest, a chest of secrets and neat things that one could imagine a chest would hide. He told his secret to a raindrop, the smallest raindrop there was. A whisper and a hum and then it was gone. The secret was out in the air, spiralling around the two, and they smiled and exchanged adventures.

But, the raindrop wouldn't stay put to listen to Rupert's stories and adventures, he would slip away and hide in the threads of Ruperts clothes.

Rupert scowled at all of this, upset that the raindrop wouldn't listen. A raindrop that joined with others and fell from the sky in big heaps.

Window panes are the best at collecting these stories. Holding onto them tightly and sharing them with the glass that they fit so well with. Whispering secrets to each other that the dripping of rain could cover.

Windows and walls are secret keepers.

I wonder what walls and windows would say if they could talk past a rabbit whisper.

A fallen star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes

you lean over and kiss her on the head, i've never felt so alive, or so dead.

Day by day consumed with books and notes taken yesterday, the smell and sites are consumed only by scrawls and scribbles within a text or a notebook.

Exams.

The whole aspect of it is overwhelming, and I have quickly grown tired of it.

The joy of the holidays has been once forgotten by the people who once craved and adored it, has the magic left? As we grow older and realize more about the world, things seem less magical then they once were. We notice the cracks and dirty parts and can't get over how perfect it looked before.

What a sad reality this is.

Rupert doesn't know what to think of the whole thing, he just sits on my books staring at the scrawl trying to make sense of it. Even Rupert is losing his touch with seeing the magic in things.

Poor fellow.

Exams suck the magic out of everything.

The Pride Of The Peacock

would it not be simply wonderful to laze away a day with books?

The library has always been a comforting familiar place. I think it's because I have gone to so many and have enjoyed reading my entire life. Ruper loves it too. He jumps and dances over books until he discovers one he enjoys. He then plucks the book out of the shelf and wastes an afternoon laying on top the sheets and reading the scrawl. Perfection.

Perception tunnels are funny things, big whirlwinds of belief that aim you in one specific direction, and as if we have horse blinders we don't question it. We don't take time to notice the beauty of the photograph, or the complexity and skill it took to make the frame. We walk right on by, determined to get to our anticipated destination.

I think a dawdling pace has always been a good one for me. I discover things, secret doors and little hidden nooks and crannies invisible to the ordinary eye.

How quaint.

My personality type is a spontaneous idealist.

It sounds so wonderful.

Caution: Watch out for falling ice

Rupert has been too busy spinning in circles to catch sense of anything that's right.

He has been knocked off of his feet twice now because his sense of gravity is all out of whack.

It's one of those days.

Puddles are everywhere, the rain washed away the snow and replaced it with this mushy green and brown texture that is supposed grass. It's a very ugly thing. Im not sure that the grass likes it either. It's drowning in an abyss of ugly colors and isn't really sure whether to freeze or warm up again.

The air is cold and chilling, the kind that leeks through even the warmest of sweaters but leaves the finest mark of sweat on your skin to make every one of your sweaters not soft but itchy.

It's one of those weeks.

Cars flying past in a line that goes through zigs and zags of city lights. The air heavy of exhaust, wind, and cigarette smoke. The cigarette smoke is not enough. Not enough to calm the wind jumping in every direction. A dimly lit stick wrapped in a fine paper providing dim light just enough for a small conversation.

This is the year of the rabbit, a year to bring peace and restore harmony. A year in which there is peace and leisurely pace.

Will it be one of those years?

Exuberance is beauty

"You understand the material, you're just struggling at putting your thoughts into words"

Story of my life. I've never been good at expressing myself. I have to think long and hard of stuff I want to say before I say it, for fear that i am going to hurt someone or because Im not sure of what I want to say.

Im frustrated, feeling.. not stressed; but just not smart. I am glad that I passed that assignment with an average (ish) mark because I truthfully didn't understand "The Ethics" that well.

I need to not be hard on myself. Not have an anxiety attack. Breath.

I just thought I was better at this sort of thing.

eternity is in love with the productions of time

So just lean back, escape. Realize the day, dance in the rain.
Feel the thoughts of everyone around you, accept the spirits
that pass by, accept all of this and just understand that you
are you, and that's all that matters right now. Breath in and out
Meditate.


These days are the ones that I tend to distance myself. A rainy dark day of grey clouds and cold rain. Where regardless of the shoes you're wearing, your feet are still cold and wet. Even through wool socks.

The day that is today will be one where I distance myself from many. I take a breath and think. Poetry does this to me. It completely overwhelms me in my thoughts and what I am taking of it, sometimes I want to speak out the deeper meaning, but for fear of awkwardness I bite my tongue.

Instead i just made a page of quotes that stuck out to me most in class today

Exuberance is Beauty

Energy is beauty, reason contains it, but reason often takes over. Drawing bold lines of right and wrong.
Question reason, accept the bad and the good.

Beauty will save the world.

If you're going to doubt your soul, taint it or cage it,
then you might as well not have it at all.

The head sublime,
The heart Pathos,
The genitals beauty,
The hands and feet proportion.

Damn braces, Bless relaxes

No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings

Improvement makes straight roads, but crooked roads without improvement are genius.

which really just makes me think. Why are people so concentrated on being perfect? Accept flaws, accept accidents, accept mistakes. Learn and move on. With the bad brings the good.

Why must I always feel antsy during the strangest of times. As if a man is peering over my shoulder...

All you need is love.

Fingers covered in fairy dust

Hello. I've missed you.

It's been a while.

I don't know why I've ever stopped.

I shouldn't stop.

I can't stop.

My mind keeps racing. I keep thinking in posts.

I need to write them down.

Maybe someday I'll start.

For right now im too scared.