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.