of jacques, part two.
the first time i fell in love, i was 6 years old. he always jabbered along in french and i always pretended to understand him. he taught me how to ice-skate and why the sky was blue and he used to hold my hands even if they were sweaty. when i was 8, he kissed me on the cheek and blushed. i’ve wanted love like that ever since he always climbed trees (and consistently broke his limbs) he...
of jacques, part one.
the first time i fell in love, i was 6 years old. his name was jacques and he played the violin. he lived 3 and a half doors down from me (the half a door was a cat flap) and his father owned a stand in the market. when it was sunny, he’d bring his violin outside and he’d play it all day. it annoyed me at first, but as we grew up together, i learned to love that violin, too. he...
treesquirrrel: That moment when you finish a book, look around, and realize that everyone is just carrying on with their lives as though you didn’t just experience emotional trauma at the hands of a paperback.
close your eyes and open your senses. the rustling of the autumn leaves, might as well be the trickling of a summer spring. the smell of the chimneys, could easily be the barbecue getting started. the winter chill you feel on your skin, raising hairs and goosebumps and making you feel so alive, it could be the cool water sink deep down, where the silence is heavy. feel the weight press down all...
i run with the wolves along treetops and bluegrass countrysides, through crunching leaves, tasting of brown earth through shattered glass and burning coals. along crisp train tracks which gleam in the moonlight over mist-covered meadows that whisper secrets in the dawn under the birches through which the sunlight shines beside the tigers, the lions, the bears. i swim with the salmon, fighting...
this is the truth of it.
we were laying on the soft, green grass as sunlight filtered through the leaves and the tree branches above us, trying to discern shapes within the clouds. “i wish i was a lost boy,” you whispered, your voice hoarse because we’d talked the whole night through. i smiled and reached for your hand, “i’d find you, if you were a lost boy. i wouldn’t let you get...
writer's block is terrible, but i think the flood...
when i get into this zone, nothing can stop me. i don’t want to sleep or eat or go to school. nothing can distract me, and sometimes i can’t even get my thoughts down onto the screen fast enough. so many good ideas pass me by, and that makes me bitter. and once i calm down a bit, i try to remember the feeling, the brilliance coursing through my mind…but there’s nothing....
writer's block so bad. i'm in a rage.
she speaks with the dusty voice of an insomniac, with the wisdom of one hundred and one books read under the covers using a flashlight, with flecks of gold scattered across her skin. her eyes see colors of the dark, the majestic blues that cloud the earth’s senses the deep purples that shadow the night’s sky, but never black. black does not exist. she hears whispers in the walls in...
thank you all for the support. it means the world...
lips on lips onthighs and hips make them regret their folly under the goassamer moon, dancing barefoot on the moonbeams that trail the sand glimmering shimmering dust. stars that flicker. a candle that is about to go out. the moon now tinged bittersweet. like sad words inked across parchment. like the sighing of a willow tree. like the call of a whipporwill. dancing faster, chasing away the...