Writing vs. Acting: Is there a difference?

Hello world!
I stumbled across someone's blog today, an aspiring actor, who is detailing his successes and tribulations in pursing his dream. To be honest, I read it and felt like I wasn't the only one. There are many similarities that can be drawn between acting and writing, and as I began to analyze what they were, I understood that chasing your dream is hard!

I think the greatest difficulty is finding your way in...trouble is... getting someone interested enough to outline a door. With two such creatively depended careers it seems that not only does one have to understand the fundamentals of each, but also re-invent themselves or their work so that it is individual!

I get him. Unlike him however, I didn't always want to be writer. I experience the classic, "I wanna be a doctor" to the always expected "I wanna be a lawyer." Oh the glory days, when what you wanted to be seemed a lifetime away and the world was yours to discover. Sometimes I think we are all mislead when we are young... I should have just said I wanted to be an apple... juicy, sweet and organic! (seems simple enough).

i didn't always write... but I always wondered. Not about all things but about people and the experience which decipher a specific character. I always wonder why? Why is he like this? Why did she do that? I'd observe and imagine what could have happened. Language, both verbal and physical, intrigue me because they can be so revealing. I don't mean to be so nosy... but if someone sits in silence I want to know why... what happened?

Then you can see now, why reading his blog or anyone else's blog intrigues me so! I feel like I understand, and that maybe I wouldn't seem so obnoxious and ignorant - unaware of others.

Writing reveals so much about a person, but just like acting it can be hidden behind fiction... a character's part you must act. It is an intertwining dream of trying to understand reality.

A Delicious Dessert

Why is it that some people don't feel they deserve love? Even it it's falling down endlessly from the sky like snowflakes on a white Christmas, so they seek for shelter?

The "right" guy has seemed to come into everyone's life, the one with the steady head and ambition, the one with gentleman-like manners who has been lucky enough to own all the glamorous merchandise a girl could hope for... why is it that this is never enough?
The appeal of the chase is an attraction that pulls all of us ladies into heartbreak and confusion, and yet we continue to fantasize of these possible scenarios in which we act as independent women who want to be "damsels in distress".

For so many, first loves have always been difficult, in other words, we were unseen as the shining gems we are. And isn't that what we are so attracted to? Winning over the thoughts someone has about us, proving them wrong? That feeling of accomplishment, walking out of the trenches and into a paradise that seems to appealing?

I had a dream last night where he followed me. Having spend years apart that rekindling of lost attraction made him want me again. Should my dream have lasted longer than it's meager few minutes, this wanting may have subsided back into nothing as it so ruthlessly ended in reality. But even though it was a dream, I woke up enlightened, although slightly concerned for this sub-conscious awakening. Even if the truth is that our lives will never be conjoined because too much time has led to a deeper valley of understanding - what is this appeal to seeing him again?
Could it be that I liked not getting what I wanted, that i lived by his rules in his presence?

If that is true, than it may explain how coming to terms with a great relationship can prove to be so difficult. When you're accustomed to one way of things, one way of what love was... how much harder is it to accustom yourself to the way love should really be? Is there a single way of sharing and showing this love? Is is meant to be difficult or a "piece of cake"? And what constitutes that cherry on top?

I think the greatest battle is not to realize that you deserve a great love, but that you can cherish it as well. Because all the flowers, chocolates and kisses in the world mean nothing unless you are willing to receive them.

To all the women who believe that nothing has ever worked out, that you have loved and lost and that time seems to be taking forever - know that there are no boundaries, no standards to which love appears. It doesn't happen in a moment or a lifetime, it happens when you can let go of the heartache, expectations and falsities which surround lust that you can welcome in ... "a cherry cheesecake, and don't forget the whipped cream!"

Happy Holidays!

I love the season (especially from indoors) but i can't wait for the gift giving to be over!

I'd like to wish all my readers (the hand full anyway) Happy Holidays!!!
Thanks again,
and i hope to update more frequently during the new year!

Robyn

Here's another great song I just heard in "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People" starring Sean Pegg and Kirsten Dunst.
"With Every Heartbeat" by Robyn


If you don't remember Robyn here's another song that'll be sure to remind you.
"Show me love" by Robyn

Writing Portfolio

I'm trying to start a writing portfolio. Although I haven't been published to any great extent, I am trying to write samples. If there are any interesting and though-provoking topics you have encountered, please leave a comment. Any ideas would be great! Thanks.

Otis Redding - Open The Door

Another absolutely fabulous song by Otis Redding entitles "Open the Door."

URL: http://hypem.com/track/597929/Otis+Redding-Open+The+Door

Just click the "play" symbol to hear!

Otis Redding - Higher and Higher

The Guard at my Door

Her right leg is placed between his two over-sized, thickly grown thighs. Her left laying near the warmth they radiate. Her torso is curved slightly, so that she may lay comfortably on his chest. She spreads her two hands, and ten delicate fingers, and rests her chin within the triangle her thumbs create. Her eyes have adjusted to the dim light, the yellow gaze of the street lamps, that seek the nights stories. His arms are lifted, and hands elevating his neck to look low at her resting head. They have revealed their fears, their passions and have sung songs, trying desperately to figure out the lyrics that are so easily forgotten and replaced with sound-a-likes. He's the songs alto, it's constant, soulful and reliable; she is the songs soprano, sings low and sweet to not awaken the others. They have talked and have dreamed of horrors and pleasures; of what should never be and what is only a fantasy; they have dreamt of others, that have found that weak and battered door to their sub-conscious. Those are the dreams that seem too real, too possible - like the risks we endure everyday.
She reveals to him her dream - that black and mischievous mask, that is discreet during daylight but blunt and unapologetic when all is asleep.


She had been at a strangers house, possibly a party where she could not find familiarity - in faces or in circumstance. She was sober and aware, unfortunately her greatest faults. She had walked down a white, bland hallway with doors to her right. She stopped at the furthest one, and without hesitating opened it. She shouldn't have. What brought her to do so is unknown, but that was not her fear at that moment.
Laying curled on the bed, lined directly to her right - was a girl. Her face is irrelevant - it could be anyone's, any girl so vulnerable and exposed to the demons of immorality, indecency, temptation and control. She commanded, in a quick but calm voice - like those of professional firemen or officers that invoke safety in those in need with their tone,
"Get out. I'll stay."
She left. It wasn't clear what would happen to her. Maybe he'd realize it wasn't the girl he wanted, but some stand-in with less appeal. Maybe this is what she wished would happen.
She climbed onto the bed, every movement sure of what she was doing - although her mind did not grasp the severity of the situation.
She lay on her stomach, arm hanging of the bed side, head resting on her chin - on a pillow that brought someone comfort but relished in the few moments it would witness more than a sleeping mind. She lay and heard voices outside the door, people enjoying themselves - people unaware.
With only a few moments, not nearly enough the convince her to get out... he entered.
A tall man but thin. That's all she can recall.
That is when her heart began to race, when her mind began to scrabble - attempting to figure a way to get out or a way to achieve protection. God! If anyone had only known the anxiety and the fear that made every nerve, every spec of common sense lose itself - uncoordinated.
For having always tried to be safe and sure, expecting the unexpected, she was lost.
He stood over her...

That is when she awoke. The fear had been too great, too real - that not even sleep could constrain her in her adrenaline.
She was stunned. And looked hastily around her room... just to make sure....


But now, she was resting above a heartbeat that would not falter, that would not commit her to brutality.
And when she would leave, and return to her room where she thought that nothing would ever betray her - she would remember that she was here. That she was not in harms way, that if he could he would stand all day and all night at her conscious' door and refuse all trespassers. That she could be brave and save another from rape, but would rather be in the presence of a man, who would understand her needs and treat her body with innocent passion, with care and concern but not restraint. He would let her guide, and listen to her moans and decipher that they were inviting. But if she were to go silent - he would pull away and show her that sex was merely an outlet for the intensity of his feelings. Because even in lying there - his arms wrapped behind his head, and hers laying and listening on his chest - he was feeling immense and true love.

Our Shadow

I laid there and I could not see my shadow.He lay on his right side behind me, and me curled into his overbearing but protective chest. The light came from behind both of us. I stared at the wall... I couldn't see me. I saw him, his arm spread across my hip, and his broad shoulder poking at the air. But i did not see me. What a feeling! I was there, but unseen. I was hidden in his presence. I liked it that way, until i was tempted by the fingers and the light - what can i conjure?

Scent Or Stench?

I came across two words the other day...."scent" and "stench".
Although they seem to be referring to the same thing - "an aroma in the air, which can be detected through scent" - they imply very different meanings.

At their basest understanding "scent" is a more positive and inviting description. It says "smell with me!"
On the other hand, "stench" is negative and can be tagged with adjectives such as "putrid," "foul," "stinking," and "rank".

These two words can serve as evidence to an idea that has been stressed over many years - and that is that language in itself is an allegory.
We use words to represent things, whether paintings or actions, and as a result, create a more abstract understanding of these 'things'. However, over time semantics have developed and now there is a common understanding of words and what they meaning, what it acceptable and what they cannot refer too - context.

Thus, is my concern with expression in writing. How well are we actually expressing ourselves? How well are those who are reading actually understanding our emotions?
The aim for writers, is to evoke a feeling whether awareness or simply goose flesh from their readers, so although they may not know exactly what it is the writer is feeling - they know that something is being felt.

Coming to a mutual understanding between emotions that are so obscure (abstract thoughts, ideas) and telling it to someone is incredibly difficult. A common language can never be established - because we, as individuals, impose our own meanings onto "words."

Thus I choose to stand apart and say,
"That flower has a beautiful stench!"

Do you agree?

Abandoned in Silence

The world is quiet, hidden discreetly under a white screen.
Never has it been so quiet.
The screaming and whining of mouths are silenced, lost in sleep.
They are mutated, blurred and unknown.
Mouths that are similar but hold false truths. Now
they are quiet, with the rest of us.
The hands of time, are not quite however,
they continue to protest that there are moments in which silence is expected,
required -
"night!" they declare, is when all is at peace,
when reality is put on hold, hung to dry
thus, mouths are silent but minds...
minds they continue on executing the acts of theatre,
continue to conger up false realities - dreams i think they're called.
Sometimes we awake slowly, and remember, if only for a moment,
these characters who play a part...
sometimes it is our faces we see, and faces of others we thought we had forgotten
but it is never us. It is always a disarray of ourselves...
us as evil, us as confident - us without our insecurities or us battling our fears.
But now the city is silent.
And although our mouths speak irrelevance when we are awake,
and our minds search for something more lively than the bodies they inhabit -
we awaken to the hands of time,
reminding us we live in a world that ceases to be quite - no matter our will,
no matter the time,
no matter.

I Love... Where We Are

“I love you”

For so many it’s the ultimate feeling, eternal bliss.

For others it is comfort, responsibility.

For me… I’m not quite sure.

There are moments I have, while he’s speaking to me and my mind wanders to think of how much he means to me.

There are moments where I am proud of him, like when his friends congratulate him or laugh at his jokes.

These are the moments I want to scream “I LOVE YOU!”

These are the moments I want these words to be released from my mind,

Because I’m so tired of them causing confusion in my mind.

But my mouth never recites those words.

I’m not sure that it will allow me to – for a while to come.

Because I don’t want it to be said without care, without passion, or as merely a need to reciprocate.

I want it to mean something to me – it should stand as a stone marking a new path, a new level of entry…

What I want it to mean is also my fear of every saying it.

I have constructed this idea of “loving,” and although it is not the most positive – there is truth in it somewhere (for all those commitment phoebes, at least).

The words “I love you” are means to building a concrete wall to the freedom once had in the relationship. Because before they are said, it seems as though you can leave the relationship whenever and no feelings will be hurt. Maybe its my impression that there will be a smaller degree of hurt feelings – nevertheless, you can always say it wasn’t serious, “we didn’t say I love you”.

This theory, of course, is absurd because merely saying the words does not mean that you don’t or do have the feelings or the emotions.

But wouldn’t you agree it’s easier to let go of something if there is no concrete evidence of it ever existing?

Once the words have been said, the relationship starts anew – it’s more cautious, careful because the consequences are more severe.

I’m not entirely sure if I’m concerned more with my feelings or his…

"Soon We'll Be Found"

Just recommending y'all to listen to Sia's "Soon we'll be found".
Great song, also check out the video.

Here are the lyrics:
Come along it is the break of day
Surely now, you'll have some things to say
It's not the time for telling tales on me

So come along, it wont be long
'Til we return happy
Shut your eyes, there are no lies
In this world we call sleep
Let's desert this day of hurt
Tomorrow we'll be free

Let's not fight I'm tired can't we just sleep tonight
Don't Turn away it's just there's nothing left here to say
Turn around I know we're lost but soon we'll be found

Well it's been rough but we'll be just fine
Work it out yeah we'll survive
You mustn't let a few bad times dictate

So come along, it wont be long
'Til we return happy
Shut your eyes, there are no lies
In this world we call sleep
Let's desert this day of work
Tomorrow we'll be free

Let's not fight I'm tired can't we just sleep tonight
Don't turn away it's just there's nothing left here to say
Turn around I know we're lost but soon we'll be found

Wanting

*came across this on my other blog (that i forgot the password too) and thought i'd post it up here. I wrote it in 2006 and damn... he he


A person you've never met - only seen.
how could you want, need?
to have a longing for what you can never have - a weak grasp.
to stand in one position, one place and live one way.
to have subtractions of hope at every airing.
how can something you never hadbe taken away?
a possession only believed by you.
the theory is what hurts.
picture perfect exists in the minds of those who believe.
flaws, the stones which pave the road to intimacy.

flaws, my worst enemies.
nothignw ill be picture perfect.
i don't believe - not yet.

a cure for the unfaithful, seems futuristic.
will a medicine heal the eyes of oblivion?
will therapy endure the unsatified mind?
a listener to the web of errors, could only be another ticket sold
to the already existing audience.

if things were picture perfect.
could one sitll be faithful?
could the stones rearrange themselves again?
the grasp of a hand couldn't clench any tighter onto something -
if a pulse is not there.
with a pulse comes the conscience
which will prevail? will the pulse grab on; reasons of the physical
or will the conscience grab hold; reasons of the good and moral?
Perfect is impossible but the chase for it; neverending.

The Common Cellar of Cries

A commonality, in which we can't live with out.
A need that we so desperately seek to fulfill.
The cause of an effect we fantasize.

A tear I let escape.
The quick twist of my neck, to hide my weakness.
But as the trees and cars blur their way past me,
my reflection does not smear with speed,
it stays poise and searches my face for a reason...

Why is it you cry Cristina?
i don't know.
Are you sad?
no.
Are you scared?
no.
Are you lonely?
no.

Are you happy?
no.

My reflections blurs, and a cool sensation holds tight onto my lower lids.
My feelings cannot be placed into the ambiguousness of words, or images i could describe.
But i will try...

I cried because...

Finally I was standing in a dark, cold cellar - with someone else.
Two souls, so unsure of what lay ahead of them, but so sure of finding their dreams.
Me and him - trees of the changing seasons,
at moments blanketed in lush, vivid emotions but more so,
left bare, naked, desperate for warmth.

I cried not because i was lonely, and that i found someone...
I cried because finally someone trusted me enough to stand by them in their cellar.

Keys Playing my Escape

Here's an idea - let's escape.
just me and you.

Let's open the door, watch as another world is revealed to us,
one we have yet to discover, explore, enjoy.
We'll stare at the floral wallpaper, gleaming in the moonlight - so late at night.
I'll stand behind him and peer beneath his lengthened arm drawing the door wider and wider.
I'll see the chestnut dresser and think,
tonight my clothes will not be folded and guarded by its walls,
they will lay sporadic, loose on the floor.
What's the floor like?
I'll look down and see a dark, stained carpet - who walked upon it? what were they like? what were the expecting of the night?

What will it be like to finally close my eyes, and sway to my own rhythm? What will be like to lift my arms in the air and dance slowly upon that stained floor? I will dance.
And I'll think of nothing,
but me dancing.
How it feels...
how my body flows over the piano keys,
how i reach on my tiptoes as the notes fly into the stale air,
how all my energy is concentrated on letting go.



That's my escape.
Would you come?

What if?

I can't stop thinking about him.
He is welcome but he should not be.
I am confused - unable to understand my own motives,
reasons for writing the blizzard in my mind.
He is nice. He speaks of friendship as if it were necessary,
and relationships, unnecessary - a hassle.
I see in him moments of consideration - what if?
I see in him moments of consideration reflected from me.
Is it I who is asking, what if?
It is I who wants to try it out. Get the sensation
of doing wrong - the adrenaline of running away.
I welcome it - the childish woman who pulls me into an abyss,
of raw emotions - wrong emotions.
I know who you want me to be - but I am not her.
I do not - cannot - be her.

So goodbye darling, I must find someone new to lay at my side.
I must travel to a new world and discover its glory,
feed upon what it offers me. Sink my nails into its earth.
I must travel because attachments, I fear.
So goodbye darling, I must find someone new to welcome by sexual submissiveness.
It has been great darling. The moments of security, smiles of understanding and lips pursing for more.

But goodbye my dear.
I must runaway with these raw - wrong - emotions.
And find fragmented moments of peace.
It is all I deserve - all that I want.

I always thought that I'd be better off if i isolated every part of my life - never let them bleed into one another.

Now I realize, that we're better off holding everything we care about in one hand, rather than reaching in mid air for each one individually.

What do you know?

Which is better?

To be ignorant as a result of knowing?
Or
To be ignorant as a result of not knowing?

Blah Blah Blah.

He is Back.

He’s here again.

He follows me now.

I thought I got rid of him, I thought I figured out how to escape his faint but powerful grasp.

I’ve failed myself.

I thought I knew myself better than that.

But now I realize, I fooled myself all along – I am no better than I was before.

I am still sad.

I thought that if I didn’t involve myself in relationships I could figure out why so many of them had gone wrong. I believed it was the false terms under which my previous relationships occurred that made me want to run in the other direction, only a few weeks in. But now I find myself back to where I’ve tried so hard to run from. The sadness that finds it’s way into a perfect situation. The sadness I wish I could control and ward off with a bright smile. But I can’t. I keep trying to blame everyone but myself. “Why are you doing this to me?” But it's no one’s fault. I’d like to blame myself, but I don’t know what is wrong. “What’s the problem?” I’m angry because I really believed I was in control. But then he comes back. The faint shadow, enveloping me in his grief and making me suffer too. He has not sympathy for me! He doesn’t understand how he affects me – how he drives me into the ground.

Well this is what happened…

I was walking home and He came. He just decided that He wanted to make this walk hell for me. He made me let go of his hand. He made me keep silent and yell screams of annoyance in my head. “Can’t you leave? I can walk there on my own.” He wanted me to tell him to go away, to stay away. “It’s been fun. But our time together has run out.” He wanted me to make him feel insignificant. He wanted to blame him for my sadness and loneliness. But it wasn’t his fault. It’s no one’s fault.

So I’m fighting him. I’m digging my bloody nails into the grounds moist dirt. I’m fighting my way back to indifference (it’s the most realistic state I can achieve at the moment).

But my thoughts always betray me. They give into him. My body can do nothing but follow my thoughts back into the ground. I just hope it doesn’t rain tonight.

Walking With Confidence

She said, "Walk with confidence. With your chin up high, but not your nose in the air. Remember you're not better than anyone else, but rather yourself at it's best."

Now I walk just for fun.

Rain, Rain Come Today

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I decided to call him my ‘boyfriend’. I had too many times come across labels and their false attractions to be fooled once again. But this time it happened on my terms. This time, I know that the label helps to identify who he is to others but unimportantly sails the surface of the deep sea I have the pleasure to explore.

I’m still unaware of the future… and I’m pleasantly wrapped in the present. I know that the terms you enter a relationship with aren’t guaranteed the whole way through … they’re not written in stone. And without fail, the circumstances will change and challenge what at first we think is forever – that blind love. The love that sees no wrong, that looks beyond the questionable moments, a love on steroids drugged with unicorns and rainbows.

What happens when we find out unicorns are a fantasy, false? Or that rainbows only show themselves after a storm?

I don’t know…

But just as a fantasy is yours to control…

Just as the rainbow always shows itself after a storm…

The moments of blind love are great. And they are forever.

The feeling I’m feeling… I cannot label but I know a change or a challenge is welcomed with open arms. Because if victory is a reassured love… then I’m addicted.

Working Script: Title?

Looking through my notebook I came across a script I was thinking about. Anyway here are my notes. Let me know what you think... is there potential, even if its just a pinch?

Summary:

the homeless man gores through his pile of junk and chooses one at a time and describes a situation and person who may appeal to the item. What I want to establish is how the things we buy or use greatly define and affect our character and who we are viewed as to others.

in the end, because he has a pile of junk, i want him to consider what is being said of him.

maybe that he is a blank slate deciding who he wants to be... or that he views these items as the only means of surviving... or that he is not reliant on these objects to define who he is or... that it is only through these objects that he can define those around him...

Throughout the act, people walk by him on the stage and he offers them an item (which they decline). Knowing that that was the wrong item to offer, he searches for one while describing the person who it would have appealed to.

Setting:
In an alley surrounded by knick knacks and other random things (auto parts, magazines, boxes). A homeless man has made a home in the alley encircled by garbages dumps at sunset. He makes a living by selling these 'things', seemingly useless to passing people. The scene begins with him trying to fix a couple of pipes together for a roof water drainer.

An older man walks onto the stage and nods as he passes the man hard at work. The man sees this as an opportunity and tries to sell his newest discovery.

Homeless man: do you need a water pressure gun?

Passer-by: No. (responds without stopping and shakes his head. continues on his way)

Man is unaffected by this because it has become routine to be turned away and refused.

He continues to work at his draining pipe and begins to nod his head continuously to himself.

Man: Oh yes, this will defintetly sell , if only for a few bucks. Everything sells... eventually, just need to find the right buyer. Everyone comes across that thing thats's missing... to complete something else... everyone...

He lifts his work into the air, spins it around in a full circle, nods in satisfaction and lays it gently on the pile. He begins to look over his pile and counts inventory.

Man: one water pressure, one water strainer, one rubber tire, one long rubber hose, one window frame, one extension cord (lifts it, extends it and adds...) with minimal extension, one wheel-less skateboard, one headless doll...

(a man appears on stage), one...

(noticing the man) ... you need some rope?

Passer-by: No (shakes his head vigorously , quickens his pace and walks off stage).

Man: (tosses rope aside) Ofcourse he doesn't need rope...

While describing the perosn, he reveals his own strony of how he got to where he is and his feeling of beign there.

Another local homeless man carries a cart onto the stage. He speaks to his fellow mate and asks:
"Wanna take a look (points to his cart)? May find something that'll sell.

Man: No (shakes his head vigorously).

Seller walks away mumbling to himself.

Man continues to work on another piece of junk.

________

That's pretty much what i have so far...

This was written underneath...

People are reflections of ourselves. The situations we choose to base a person's character are relative to ourselves, our own hurts, joys and fears. We judge through relating and thus, define ourselves in the process.

:)

Any titles that you've thought of?
A name for the main character or nameless?
Let me know what works and what should change?

Thanks!

Just A Thought...

For some reason I see sadness in his eyes. Of course this may be the reflection of my own feelings in his eyes. I feel like I must know his past history – I feel like he needs that person to listen. This just sounds like crazy talk. He knows what he needs. A stranger can’t tell you what you need or how you feel – can they? Even if they could, who would? Fear accompanies knowledge, especially knowledge of something each individual tries desperately to hide.

Sweet Home, Alone

There is a fear within me that continues to claim victory over my rising happiness. This feeling can only be described as imprisonment. Applied to all avenues of life, it seems to me that my material self has been taken hostage. Imagine this:

a girl, young and beautiful. She has golden blonde hair that has grown beyond the small of her back. She is porcelain-like – the smooth, pale skin untainted by the demons of puberty. She wears a flowing sun dress, with small delicate flowers embroidered on the fabric. She lives her young life like every other young girl and boy but she lives a less desirable life beyond the ‘things’ that define our world. She is the same young girl, but in her mind she is kept within four invisible walls. She can see kilometers ahead – the fallen birch trees and the hills elevated in the sky – but she doesn’t dare walk past the four walls she has designated for herself. Some may say this is her comfort zone but it is not. To create a comfort zone she must know what makes her uncomfortable but she has never made this contrast. Maybe, she has established these walls to ensure she will never feel anything unknown. She has imagined what love is, what commitment is, what responsibility is – but she would rather keep separate the imagination from reality. For what if she does fall in love or if she commits and invites responsibility? Who then will she become?
These invisible walls have been her knights – standing tall, coated in silver armour, holding with confidence spears that ward off any intangible feelings. She has decided to fight with nothing but her mind.

In my reality, I sit legs crossed on the misty grass and let the sun shine through my invisible home – the safest place I know – a home of nothing.

Holding Hands

She can't help but picture what it would be like to run her smooth, gentle hand along his sculpted arm. As soon as the thought occurred he hastily grab her hand from between her tense thighs. She leans in and rests her head on his strong broad shoulder and hopes that it will allow him to relax and enjoy the moment. She knows that he is shy because he uses it to define the boundaries of his relationships. She also knows that as she was thinking how it would be like to touch him, he was nervously concentrating on the perfect moment to do so. He must have repeated the scenario over and over in his mind - when he should do it, how he should do - carefully imagining the movement his hand is to take, where it is destined to go and what it will do when it arrives at the inviting destination.
She smiles to herself while all the eyes in the theater - few and far between - are intently watching the flickering lights cast on the gigantic screen straight ahead. Her eyes are watching the screen but her mind wanders. She is convinced she has fallen... She has fallen into the welcoming arms of temptation, she is unable to grasp hold of anything stable or sturdy, she is loose, light and likely to break a sweat. He is strong, tall and muscular - the ingredients to the universal representation of a man. She runs her free hand up and down his arm, lightly brushing the soft and vulnerable area on the underside of the elbow. At this place the veins run wild, hidden beneath the pale porous skin. Here she realizes is where the drugs are injected, where people seek refuge through artificial means. The scars left behind serve now merely as scars of addiction but of evidence that self infliction is the only way to heighten all senses - evidence of Temptation's victory.
She runs her rounded nail tips down the front of his arm where the hair is coarse and uneven. She slides her fingers between his knuckles and feels the dryness and roughness of them. She is able to feel each groove of his chapped skin - the hands of a working man. His free arm begins to slowly caress her thigh nearest to him. She looks down and senses the urge of reasoning surrendering itself as temptation and sexual tension make her stomach cringe. He could take her now, she would not fight but the movie isn't over just yet.
As soon as she has become comfortable and settled with his fingers on her thigh she lays back against and enjoys the night for what it is.
A night that allowed for clumsy movements, reassuring looks and comfort. Its was him knocking at her window late in the evening and her replying with a swift welcoming hand signal. It was him asking to be given a chance and her allowing it. It was him and it was her innocently holding hands at the movie theater - but it felt like so much more.

He Is a State of Mind

He raises his right hand and directs it to his sweat covered forehead. He stands tall with his feet welded together

at the ankle. His muscles are tense and determined to execute any command given by his exterior authorities. He

remembers when life was not so strict, so contained within boundaries. He use to play. His life was an early

morning to make the school bell and the rest was enjoyment. His witty actions and entertaining sounds

accompanied by less amusing actions (to the girls anyway), would leave him satisfied. Every day was a new day.

When one is so young, everyday holds mysteries that must be unlocked, discovered and understood. Everyday he

could learn, everyday he was finding new ways to define himself - but only today is he truly deciding what he

believes himself to be. All the adventures he journeyed in grade school he is now discarding and accepting - he

discovering who he is at this moment.

He obeys his command 'at ease' and makes his way to his cot in the less than glamorous cabin. He unbuttons his

coat, removes his leather black boots and lays on his impeccably made bed. He thinks. When he was young he was

never alloted time, there was never a schedule of how to spend his time. He'd always have tasks to complete but

rarely were these tasks given with a strict way of completing them. The freedom he had is lost. Now he fights for

freedom. He does not regret his choice but sulks for a moment in the idea of having kept his young spirit of

recklessness and easy laughter. But what he did has now been seen by everyone - their is no more discovery for

him. He must now obey his boundaries and be satisfied with remembering how life once use to be.

He decides that he has not evolved from boy to man, instead he is boy or man depending on his state of mind.

Given In

Mother, ground me for my thoughts. Take me into solitary - diagnose my insanity. Punish me for the pain no one can see. Give me a physical alternative to this human gift - the ability to think. Let everyone witness my hurt. Let others acknowledge me in physical pain and let me be convinced it is my tortured mind they see. Mother tie my scarred wrists and weakened ankles with cloth, fabricated of white purity. Let them see the contrast as it irritates my skin - the sheet which disguises my sins.
"Can't you see mother?
Can't you hear the screeching going on in my head?
Don't you hear them mother!? Don't you hear them yelling at one another?!
Dozens of personalities competing for a body to enact, to fulfill their unreasonable and selfish desires."

"Mother can't you see...
I'm no longer me..."

What keeps you adrift?

The morning dawns and the adventures of the day await him. He instinctually drops himself into the arms of the atmosphere. He does not question whether his wings will keep him adrift and without a thought he trusts that nature’s gift will keep true its commitment to him. His ability to fly has become an unconscious act. He does not know why or how he flies but only that he flies whenever the circumstances bid him to. What will happen when this butterfly realizes that his wings have limits or that they are not as beautiful as the others’? Given the ability to think, how will he react to the knowledge of his flaws? Will he continue to fly with confidence knowing that he is imperfect or bid his wings to retire?

The Diary of the Unspoken: Day 2

She doesn’t understand why she still feels for this man.

She had once ‘fallin’ in love’ with a man, many years ago. But she no longer cares for that man. His time has run out, the feeling will never return. But this man, that she spend her time with on rare occasions – one night of undeniable bliss. Unforgettable delight. Why has he abandoned her? Left her to wonder what went wrong, how things could have turned out different? But as she continues to replay the night within her mind she is convinced that nothing went wrong, there was nothing she would change, nothing she regretted. And yet there was nothing made of this unforgettable night. She fears that because there is no future she may forget with the time and the tedious tasks that everyday brings.

She is confused. What is it that keeps us attached? She asks herself. She would have answered routine at one point and maybe even love, but she is unsure now. He wasn’t a routine, nor did she love him, then why is it that she lays in her darkened room and wonder what could’ve been? Why is he bringing her to delirious emotions, deepened like the buttons of a tufted sofa.

He lives so close to her, she imagines him right by her side – but he is far and indistinguishable.

…

Fuck him. Fuck everything about him, his desirability, his mystery, his stupidity and unpredictability. Fuck him. I just don’t understand. Let me understand, help me. I drink bottles of wine hoping to come to some realization, to figure out something I have missed all along – I figure out nothing but instead reassure myself that I’ve fallen head over heals for you. I think we could have learned so much together, experienced so much – but our time was cut short because of you. I’m sure there is a good explanation – or at least I hope there is one.

God! I want to understand. My heart has never really been broken, even in situation I though that it would – it held strong. The feeling mustn’t have been there all along I guess. But my feelings have been hurt, for whatever reason. Just knowing that you could have hurt me, doesn’t make you feel anything? Not the need to explain? The need to make it up? Anything?

How are you so satisfied one moment and then not the next? How do you make me feel like the only one and then take it away so selfishly? Why have you but me in this position, a seat in a dark room filled with contemporary rhythm?

I want to leave both feet from the ground, while the piano plays a solemn tune, and jump into your arms, safe and guarded – where I’d feel safe and guarded. Where is this peace, this serenity? Where is the place I want to call mine? Why have you taken it from me? Don’t I have a right to it to? Can’t I claim it as well?

My arms are convinced that they must envelop you, contain you – but my mind finds fault in this idea. What will I envelope? A fantasy? A chance that could have been reality? But if it is not reality, then why imagine it? It doesn’t hurt, but it feels empty – my heart. Fuck!

I really thought…. I did…. I really thought… we could be… together finally. But I soar into empty arms with only the obligation to catch me, but not to protect me… and not to…

I’d like to hope for the better but I know that I’d receive nothing that I don’t already have…

Stepwells

I don't have anything to write today but I was












looking through the National Geographic and found these incredible pictures of 'stepwells' in India. They were used ages ago for easy access to groundwater during India's driest months. They are currently being restored. Here are some pictures I found online.

Secret Desires

This is an oldie but a goodie.

To lay a fingertip on unknown flesh,
To feel around with nothing but a need for a sense of relief
Gliding along smoothly, freshly polished marble.
Unique in every way, veins profusely protruding,
so flexible to your touch (musn't be rough or they will hide).
I want to see them, on a white chalkboard,
Drawing me in the right direction. Downward.
To his beating cage. Oh how it beats.
Oh, how mine beats in compliance.
Hormones multiplying. Instinct ridicule morality.
Blood richer, pumping faster.
The chamber of love does not struggle to keep up.
The speed of our bodies.
The need of our bodies.
I no longer want to be deprived of this,
don't tease... please...

The warmth of the sheets is no longer necessary,
as they roll along to the foot of the bed.
Our heat is overwhelming. Heat!
Sweat! Pores no longer resist.
No more resisting... you are my desire!

Bring me home, lie me to sleep.
Tuck me in and thank you for tonight.
No more secrets only fulfilled desires.
To be continued when I awake.

Written Sept. 12 2006

Sounds of a Forbidden World

I just began to write and this is what came out. But i think I might have a good idea here. I think I might use this idea to begin to write a play. I'll keep you informed. Enjoy this for now!

You gaze at the brick wall, fixed a meter from your grid-patterned pane. You hear heavy rain drops, not falling from the sky, but from your neighbour’s large peach tree to your far left. The water drops of rain, fall (if you prefer). The crimson coloured bricks glisten ever so slightly from the few rays of the fading sunlight that victoriously made it through the thick overcast clouds. You hear an electric saw in the distance and for some reason it brings you pleasure and relief. There are others beyond this place. Instantly you turn your head and hear an enraged male voice off to your right. You stare passively at the brick wall while your energy and mind work to figure out what he yells about or who he yells at. Could be anyone you decide – a disobedient child pedaling to quickly and gaining to much distance; a woman who brings to light a discussion which should have left to be discussed in the security of his home; a stranger who so aggressively collides his shoulder and deserves nothing more than a foreign curse. You hear nothing for a long moment and decide that it was just another moment of frustration that is so easily disregarded. You sit. You jolt back to the pane and listen. A screeching car makes its way east to your left. You picture a young boy sitting in the driver’s seat holding a lit cigarette, leaning towards the door, cap pulled low. He doesn’t slow down for the warning speed bumps and you hear the scratch of metal on the wet concrete floor. Another car is turned on; it must have been parked along the road you have never seen before. It drives off. You wait another moment for another intriguing sound that will help you to define the work beyond the brick wall, but you hear nothing. You sit and wait as you have been doing for eternity, it seems. You hear a plane, stand, stare, listen until all has gone quiet and sit again. This routine has become your only stories, your only knowledge of what was so generously given and harshly taken away. The world has become a brick wall and sometimes, water drops of rain.

One Lane Dash (Pt.1)

She stands outside the station and takes a few puffs of her last cigarette. She observes the smoke as she exhales and smiles at the pink lipstick residue. Underneath a building overhang she reaches into her red quilted purse and retrieves her cell phone. She stares at it. Take another drag. And unlocks the keypad. 'Create new message'.
She knows she shouldn't put any more effort into him, she'll, once again, be left hanging on the side of a cliff, awaiting her arm to grow numb and strength to drain her hope. But she writes anyway.
'Why haven't you called or texted? And please don't ignore this message,' she writes as a last attempt to convince him to say something, 'Be honest'. Send.
She stares at the spinning letter and takes another drag of her dependable other, 'message sent'.
She doesn't understand why things that can be so simply resolved, so simply defined, are so hard to say and make definite. She wants to believe that he is just confused, scared and isn't sure what to say because of the obligations which may ensue. She wants to believe this. She sees no other appropriate explanation for just leaving her. Weeks before she had spend the most memorable and satisfying night with him, filled with affection and undeniable connection. How could he pretend there was nothing there?
She realizes this isn't the first time things have come to be this way. Time and time again she is taken for granted and left to stand alone on the city streets watching others say their loving goodbyes until tomorrow. She knows that she must change the way she views herself and the ways in which relationships must begin. She doesn't know whether to give it all at once - her trust, her affection, her time and her love. If one wants to give this all to him, should one schedule it so that no one is overwhelmed? Should one put her feelings on hold until the next hurdle arrives? Are relationships tracks which we run, racing to finish the next lap, to make another move, reveal another piece of ourselves? So when do we stop running?
She figures this is her last lap, she's reaching the finish line awaiting the prize to come into sight. What will it be, an empty victory or arms spread open allowing her into his life?
She arrives home an hour later - no reply. Zero messages.

"Tell me what this restlessness is.

Tell me how much longer it will last

Or how I can get it to stop."

I'm Yours by Jason Mraz

Here are the lyrics to Jason Mraz's new song 'I'm Yours'.

Well you done done me and you bet I felt it
I tried to be chill but you're so hot that I melted
I fell right through the cracks
And now I'm trying to get back
Before the cool done run out
I'll be giving it my bestest
Nothing's going to stop me but divine intervention
I reckon it's again my turn to win some or learn some

I won't hesitate no more, no more
It cannot wait, I'm yours

Well open up your mind and see like me
Open up your plans and damn you're free
Look into your heart and you'll find love love love
Listen to the music of the moment people dance and sing
We're just one big family.
It's your God-forsaken right to be loved love loved love love

So I won't hesitate no more, no more
It cannot wait I'm sure
There's no need to complicate
Our time is short
This is our fate, I'm yours

I've been spending way too long checking my tongue in the mirror
And bending over backwards just to try to see it clearer
But my breath fogged up the glass
And so I drew a new face and laughed
I guess what I'm saying is there ain't no better reason
To rid yourself of vanity and just go with the seasons
It's what we aim to do
Our name is our virtue

I won't hesitate no more, no more
It cannot wait I'm sure
There's no need to complicate
Our time is short
This is our fate, I'm yours

Well no no, well open up your mind and see like me
Open up your plans and damn you're free
Look into your heart and you'll find love love love love
Listen to the music of the moment come and dance with me
I like one big family (2nd time: I like happy family)
It's your God-forsaken right to be loved love love love

I won't hesitate no more
Oh no more no more no more
It's your God-forsaken right to be loved, I'm sure
There's no need to complicate
Our time is short
This is our fate, I'm yours

No I won't hesitate no more, no more
This cannot wait I'm sure
There's no need to complicate
Our time is short
This is our fate, I'm yours, I'm yours

Quoting 'White Fang'

Here's a great quote from 'White Fang' by Jack London.
Opening paragraph...

"Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild" (London, 91).

Third paragraph...

"In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At the rear of the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over, - a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man - man, who is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against dictum that all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement" (London, 92)

Recommended to all.

Recalling the Abyss

He walks with no where to go. He pauses here and there to find some sort of direction. He heads west. He doesn't

know what he's looking for (that's if he is looking at all). He wears sea green canvas pants. A cherry stained sweater

stained with the obstacles he encounters as he makes his way along darkened alleys and ruptured wood fences. He

wears his matching cherry socks over his pants - a blossom growing beneath the sea. He walks with liquor bags in

his hands, heavy and full of sharp edges and rusty nails. He is not sure whar he will do with what he finds on his

journey but it is well known that another man's junk is a strangers treasure.

His long skinny legs take long purposeful pases along the cemented road, his knees bending with every step. It is a

sunny and breezy day. He squints his left eye as he walks towards the setting sun - his right eye covered by the

single filled sunglass lens. He is unshaved and untainted. He has grown accustomed to the judging stares of passing

people. They have an agenda to fulfill, hurriedly walking to reached their pre-scheduled appointment. He, on the other

hand, has no agenda to follow, no appointment to hurry to attend and no destination other than the ambiguousness of

the 'west'.

He walks along Boswell Avenue and faces a dreadful encounter ahead - two beautiful women smiling at the gossip

their day has brought them. He pauses and becomes motionless. His mind draws a blank when he urges it to guide

him in this delicate matter. He is ugly beneath the filth that has made his skin dry and blemished. He has stood in

front of building windows and has tried to figure out what he looked like before his unforeseen runaway. He couldn't

recall a thing. If he were asked how he became like this - a lonesome wolf outcasted by the rest of the pack - he

would reply,

"I don't recall how, but I know that I am here. The past is the fallen edge of a cliff. All I know hot to do is walk onward

and away from the debris."

But no one would ask, instead they would assume and feel that to be a relatively correct summary of the broken man.

They stare at him standing awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk. They furrow their eyebrows and divide to pass

him on either side. One stepped onto the neighbouring law and the other off the curb - just enough distance. He

stared straight ahead until he couldn't hear the quickening steps behind him. When the world once again became

silent he took one step forward and turned his neck slightly to see no one behind him. He continues to walk west -

onward. His mind does not begin to analyze his actions. He has done that for far to long, and unsuccessfully.

He knows what is wrong with him. He has only ever been able to make one decision in which his body and mind both

agreeably set forth - to runaway. Every other decision has been a failure because they've all been expected; actions

foreseen by others as correct and appropriate. He fears decision already made for him - decision he is unable to

uphold.

He walks on and pauses often in the middle of the street. He does not want to go back to deal with the void of his

past but struggles every moment not too. But his clenched hands around his heavy bags hold his sturdily. He

refuses his knees to buckle and his hands to disguise any tears that may fall beneath them. He sees the world

through one unprotected eye and leaves the other in darkness, fallen away into the abyss of the past.

His is a journey of walking away from the edge - west and onward.

The Diary of the Unspoken: Day 1

Her mind commits its own crimes. She doesn't know how to control it and with every attempt at trying to control it she realizes how serious her own deception is. Her mind if not contained nor the product of reality - her body is a victim.
Everyday, every moment that she feels she should say something, do something - anything - she must consult the consequences in her mind.
She must first enact the possible situation in her mind. Her life resembles novels that guide you to many, varying endings - which one would you choose? The possibilities are endless and time consuming.
Each time her physical body and a little space of her insecure mind want something it is minutes before a decision is made, and by that time it's too late - the moment has gone.
If she were to describe her mind, she would compare to the life of a teen searching for acceptance. in her girlfriends. No matter how wrong a situation may seem if it achieves the desired end, any moral and ethical thought can be forgotten until later when the deed has left her conscious paranoid and guilty.
The larger portion of her mind is a bully, but rather than forcing her to do something - it doesn't allow her to. It is protective over her, like that boyfriend she once had (much too over protective).
It is hard for her to describe something that she is not fully aware of, especially something as complex as the mind.
What the mind wants, it gets - always. There is never a need to think ahead, prepare or be cautious when the mind knows what it wants.
She drives herself insane. She is going insane. It is subtle but it is happening with great intensity in small doses.
She wants to run until her damaged lungs grant her no more breaths. She wants to run from her thoughts and force them to be left behind, to capture another vacant body. Maybe she'll find peace someday - maybe. How would she find peace? She doesn't want to have to sacrifice who she is. Can someone do that? Find peace and still be who you are?
There is a rage within her - anger and hate. Towards who? Herself?
So many personal issues can be tracked to mishaps in childhood. There was nothing wrong with hers. So what does she turn to know for answers and reasoning? Where does she go when her enemy controls every move she makes?

Acoustic Man

Let me see if I can remember that night:

It was a small hot cafe. Three bands were to play that night. I watched two. He poured me a beer - the main man of the final gig. Tall and sweet would be two words to describe him (many more, I'm sure, would be less flattering).
The second band, consisting of five musicians, were upbeat and karaoke-like. Nevertheless quite pleasing to see. The room was located at the far end of the cafe, with only an emergency exit as the source of circulation, if it were open. The stage, small and unflattering, lay a meter away from the nearest table. I was sitting to the left surrounded by his numerous supporting friends, that I was briefly acquainted with, and my best friend. We spoke little but shared a look or two of 'that's deep' throughout the night.
When the final song was finished, and we were introduced to the members of the second band we awaited the man of the night to begin. Sadly, the right half of the room was vacated with the previous band, but encouragement and support was not sacrificed (a room filled with disinterested observers does not compare to that of a few people who believe and cheer for what they observe). He began to take the stage. Playing a few strings, he adjusted the main soundboard to compliments his acoustic guitar and vocals.
Acoustic guitars. I'm not sure what is so intriguing about them. I have associated them with the bearing of one's soul. Each string playing in unison, creating a melody which allows those who watch and he who plays to feel insecure and exposed. The lyrics which accompany the melody are irrelevant but crucial nonetheless. An acoustic guitar mimics the soul for all the hear, even if 'all' is just one.
His hands trembled slightly while he adjusted the knobs. Whether the nerves were the result of playing for an audience or fearing that he would reveal to much - I'm not sure. He settled himself into his seat, laying the groove of the guitar on his right thigh. He played his list of songs, many of which intrigued me to know more about this 'acoustic man'. As he played, he stomped the his feet heavily to keep time. His hands delicately played the chords while his feet furiously shook the floor - a contrast we all exhibit.
A song is the escape for a much deeper feeling, feelings which can easily be misunderstood and thus, unexplainable. His whole body jolted and swayed with the rhythm - adjusting it to the mood the song invoked. Is this not how we all live - according to the moment? Not at all.
By the end of it the half-filled room was applauding and whistling in appreciation. He sighed with relief and patted his neck with a handy towel. The night was over and I wasn't sure what I had come away with. Possibly an enjoyable night. Possibly the desire of wanting such a soulful man. As he was playing a sombre tune I remember imagining him in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, pen held in his mouth, recording a note or two on a lonesome blank sheet of paper. Maybe I came away with the desire of wanting to play - to find a way to bear my soul for a sweaty, drunk audience who may relate. What I am sure I came away with is the desire of wanting. I just wish I knew what it was...

Short Story: A Real Fantasy

Title: A Real Fantasy

Written By: Cristina DM.

Narrator:

The following is a tale of an unexpected date.

She lay angled so that she could see the glaring television. Her head moved in unison with his breathes – up, down, up, down. It seemed she was more than content with being in that very moment – no pressure to fulfill any expectations. It was not planned that she would find her way to him, but the ruthless night sent her in any direction. As long as the night was not already constructed beyond her will and capabilities, it was bound to be satisfying. She had been let down by this man again and again but felt that by seeing him her sins committed earlier would be forgotten or justified.

…

She was on the streetcar late on a Wednesday night, trying to settle plans for the upcoming weekend. The few moments between messaging her friends, she began to think over what it was she really wanted and how, when she decided what it was, she would achieve it and release all her obligations to her insignificant others. With an abrupt jolt, the streetcar came to a stop meters before the turn into the station. As the driver stepped outside to clear the track, it was decided that the night would end with another unanswered message.

Once the streetcar made its screeching turn into the station, she realized that she was rather hungry. Stepping out, she noticed that her bus home was waiting in its designated space – a coincidence which rarely occurred. She was faced with a dilemma: go to sleep hungry or eat and wait for another bus. She makes a right and walked into the McDonalds (her only choice at this hour) and ordered herself two cheeseburgers to go. Walking passed idling buses a quarter filled, she made her way to an isolated bench and sat down awaiting her bus. Suddenly she heard her phone beep – she received a message. Quickly fumbling for her phone she unlocks it and reads the message – ‘I’ll be there in 10 minutes’.

She began to think that maybe this night wouldn’t be all the terrible, although she thought she’d be more excited knowing that she was going to see him in a few minutes. Until the very moment he messaged her again and told her that he was finally at home and that she could pass by, she doubted the whole thing. Throwing away her wrappers and bag she began to walk a block from the station to his complex. It was drizzling so she wrapped her white pashmina loosely over her hair. In less than five minutes she was at his front door - ‘I’m outside’. Send.

She didn’t know where the night would lead her. Previously, when she would meet with him, on the rare occasions when circumstances allowed it, she had a great time, each night with its own progress, regression and experiences. She’d known him since she was very young and whether this is the reason she feels a connection towards him, she was not yet sure. In the most recent time she’d met him, she was sure that there was a feeling of sexual tension between him and her – but nothing happened to solidify or reject this feeling. He opened the door after a moment, closed it behind him and she walked up his steps to hug hello.

She wanted to smile and joke with him but the one thing she was determined to do before this was to confront him.

“What happened yesterday?” she asked awaiting another well calculated excuse.

“I told you I had family over. Well, my cousin got kicked out of her house and she wanted to come over and stay the night. It was like, 2 am and I was worried so I called my dad to pick her up but she took a cab here” he paused. “Her parents keep arguing with her and accusing her of things she doesn’t do, so she needed to get away. I had to sleep on the coach because my dad offered her my room.” There was another slight pause and then he continued, “I was going to tell you and I thought that there was enough time to meet but things didn’t work out.”

“Ok. Why didn’t you message me and tell me that you couldn’t meet with me? You messaged me and told me you’d call me at six, but then six came along without a phone call. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t a phone call all night.” She pauses to stare at him as he lets his head hang trying to hide a smirk.

“All I needed you to do was tell me you wouldn’t make it. I don’t appreciate you just forgetting about the whole thing and not letting me know what’s going on. Why are you laughing?” she asked wondering if it was her that he was laughing at.

“I don’t know. I meant to meet with you. I don’t know,” he replies shaking his head and smirking still.

“Are you laughing at the coincidence?” she asked, knowing that that was exactly what he was laughing at.

“Yes. I’m usually doing nothing. Like, I don’t usually have plans or anything. I just wasn’t expecting my cousin to run away from home,” he replied with a serious tone – a truthful tone.

Convinced that she said what she was determined to say, she concluded the topic by saying, “All I ask is that you let me know when you can’t make it. Don’t just leave me hanging. Ok?”

“Ya.”

There was a rush of relief that fell over her. She set herself out to do something, say something, and she did. Better yet, she received the reaction she wanted – slight guilt. This reaction helped to reassure her that the connection she feels towards him is reciprocated.

It has always been a fault of hers to re-create relationships in her mind, according to her own laws, ones that change in relation to her mood. The division of fantasy and reality are always blurred, but even more so for her. She would vicariously live through her thoughts, her imagination, her re-creations. However, his reaction justifies it all.

“Did you want to come in and have a drink?” he asked, possibly wanting to reconcile.

“I was just going to stop by. I can’t stay long,” she replied, hoping that he would insist. He did.

“Come on,” he said with a smile, gently ushering her towards the door, “you have to come in and have a drink now.”

“One drink,” she replied. Her mind began to race hastily, to figure out how the night would end. Or had she already figured it out?

She stepped in his home, side tracking the misplaced bicycle, closed the door and began up the steps to his living space. Removing her converse’s she walked in his TV room and placed her jacket and purse on a white Victorian chair leaning against the wall opposite of the television stand. He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, handing her a fresh beer.

“You haven’t been here in a while, right?” he asked noticing her searching the room for the synthesizer and guitars that used to lie underneath the kitchen bar.

“I guess so. Where’s your equipment?” she asked, wondering if this would be the moment that would lead her to see his bedroom, a flight of stairs up.

“It’s in my room. Come and check it out,” he invitingly commanded as he began to climb the stairs.

She followed, wondering what his room would look like. When she lay in her own room watching television late at night she always wondered if he was doing the same. As she entered the room she was greatly surprised to find it neat and decided not to question whether it was his work or the work of his mother, two doors down the hall. She was pleased that now she could realistically create his room in her mind. All that she had to imagine and invent was him – where he was seated, what he was doing and what he was thinking. Sometimes it was easier to determine the facts first.

He had returned a few weeks ago from visiting his paternal father and brother in Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands. He had mentioned this to her in one of their exchanged messages. He had videos and pictures he wanted to show her as they made their way to his room. Before doing this, he showed her an armadillo guitar that his father gave to him as a gift and played a note or two – the sound reminded her of a night of never-ending festivities.

He had returned from a karaoke bar when he invited her over. He had much to drink already and wasn’t shying away from a few more beers. She had seated herself on his bed and was watching him stumble to start his DVD of photos and videos. While viewing them, she indefinitely saw how much this young man looked up to his father and how fulfilled he was for spending a month there with him. Nevertheless, jokes were made and laughs shared.

She had finished her drink but did not acknowledge it – she wanted to stay a little longer. Her subtleness gave way when he had finished his and offered her another. She politely reminded him that she was only going to stay for one – if she had another, she’d have to leave. When he returned he asked if a movie would be alright. She knew that a movie would take much to long to view but he insisted and tossed a few DVD’s at her to choose from. In the end, it was he who chose to watch a concert DVD of the Foo Fighters.

In the mist of watching the concert and small talk, he left the room. With a book in his hand he returned a moment later. It was an astrology book that described your own personality to you in relation to your sign in unison with the moon, mercury and the sun. He read pages to her. She listened intently and nodded when the book was partly correct. Finishing another beer, he went downstairs. In the meantime, she lay back on his bed, resting her head on his mountain of pillows and read a page or two to herself.

When he returned he placed the computer wicker chair back into its place and sat near her on the bed. She stood up and sat near him. They continued to talk of the book and its similarities to her personality. Once all the pages were read, he turned on the TV for cable late night shows. He lay down but his feet remained off the bed, to the side. She lay separated from him, with her own pillow, wondering when she would lay with him. As she was watching the show, he was silent, and for fear of him falling asleep she would look up and catch him staring at her.

“Are you awake?” she asked, slightly embarrassed that she caught him off guard, but pleased nonetheless.

“Ya.” He replied and began to fiddle with her hair draped along the back of her pillow.

After a few more minutes, she looked up at him again and he grabbed her gently by the arm and lifted her towards him so that she may lay her head on his chest. She loved it there. His beat was strong and unpredictable. She would glide her hand along his chest to test whether she made his heart race. She enjoyed being where she was in that very moment, and did not expect any more good to come from a night which convinced her to turn out the opposite.

…

It was approaching three a.m., her mother had called and wanted her home – even if she was just down the street.

“I have three minutes,” she told him.

And without a moments thought he approached her, head slightly bent, as she rose her head and kissed. She had wanted this to happen for so long and now she was sure that it was to be worth the wait. She tipped his cap of his head, and leaned in closer. Their heads weaved with one another as though they were created a blanket to envelop themselves in – a moment to which no one could intrude. She had known him for many years, since childhood, and never believed that he would be able to do this, and so she was proven wrong. But more importantly, he did it right, confidently and with purpose. He lifted her arm and placed it near his head and traced her arm, done her side and engulfed her in a powerful and protective hug. She wanted him to hold her tighter and tighter, she loved how it felt to be inseparable for a moment. He couldn’t let go and she didn’t want him to.

He began to lift himself and placed her on the bottom. He lay between her legs and lifted hers so that they wrapped around his. She held him tight. The kissing was relentless and satisfying. She didn’t think it could get any better – but it did. She held his face in her hands but he began to lift them away and guide them above her head. He held them down. She felt incredibly vulnerable but had no reaction to cover, protect or refuse herself to him. He held them down with one hand and began to trace her side along down to her hip. She was lost. His hand began to ascend once again and as he let go of her hands, she did not defensively bring her arms back down but kept them there as he intertwined his fingers with hers. She questioned if this was even possible – how could he know just what to do and when to do it? She didn’t wonder how many came before her, she just wanted to know what else was awaiting her. She yearned and he lifted her again, so that he lay under her. The kissing began to grow softer, slower – less intense. She knew that it was over, she had to return to the complication and intricacies of life.

She lay on him, head nuzzled into the crevice of his neck, waiting as her breath began to return to normal. He continued to play with her hair, combing it out of the way, kissing her forehead. As she lay there she thought how satisfying the wait was, as well as how much more complicated this has made everything. She knew that she was not ready for commitment and he as well, but she wanted this night to happen again – and again – and again. She would look up and see him smiling to himself, for whatever reason, and she reciprocated.

“I love how we both can’t help smiling,” she said cunningly.

He just continued to smile. After a long moment of rest she fell off to his right – both staring at one another.

“So what do you think of this?” she asked, uncertain of what she wanted to hear.

“What do I think of this?” he replied, with a smirk.

“Yes…”

“I think it should’ve happened a while ago,” he replied with a contrasting serious tone.

She did not reply but allowed the answer to absorb. In previous times they had met she wondered when she was walking home if he really did like her – he did.

“What do you think of this?” he asked mockingly.

“I’m not sure,” she said. She feared saying something that she may regret later.

“It was something, right?” he asked, scared that she may say it was nothing at all.

“It was definitely something,” she said with a smile on her face, looking at him as his smile began to grow and fear exit his mind.

After another moment of content and rest, he continued, “I just think you’re a beautiful person.”

She couldn’t help the smile that grew steadily on her face. She was ready to throw everything away and commit all of herself to him. Nothing else mattered then the moment in which they both, wholly, participated in, with unquestionable conviction.

______________________________________________________________________________

Narrator:

The problems which tomorrow will bring her will without a doubt be hurtful, complicated and unresolved. She will return to her re-creations, insecurities and vulnerable self. But although these two people, who seem to be made for one another, may never be so – this story will be looked upon by both whenever one is in need of a real fantasy.