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Glistening off the fallen snow. Sizzling in the bleeding hot sun. Adequacy just isn’t a consistent imagery for me. I know I’m the special in the sense of knowing that everything I’ll do will lead something good, or something productive. I just like to think that I’m doing these small things, spreading these vague plans into a minuscule masterpiece of comprehension. But no one understands what is going on in this little pea holes of a brain I have.

Submitted:Mar 12, 2012    Reads: 40    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Glistening off the fallen snow. Sizzling in the bleeding hot sun. Adequacy just isn't consistent imagery for me. I know I'm special in the sense of knowing that everything I'll do will lead to something good, or something productive. I just like to think that I'm doing these small things, spreading these vague plans into a minuscule masterpiece of comprehension. But no one understands what is going on in this little pea holes of a brain I have. My mother always told me that I was something of an underachiever. And I suppose the woman was right. In all honesty, I haven't a whole lot of accomplishments under my belt. I guess, I don't want to move on from things. Rather stay in one place for as long as I can. I hate change. And when Joan left things seemed to dissipate all around me. She was my world. My comfort. Now I'm stuck lying in this stiff bed, wondering what she's up to, during every moment of the day. No free space left for anything happy, just the constant reminder that I have lost her, and to touch her is only a dreamer's wish. Now, I'm talking to you all, explaining in a bland description of what happiness use to be like for me. It use to be like a sunset, or something cliché and meaningless like that. This society has overplayed such feelings like how someone feels during a sunset, or kissing in the rain. I have yet to experience any of those things, mainly because I've heard about them so much, I feel like I've already felt there is to feel towards it. Cynicism is my nature; I don't expect anyone with an optimistic perspective to grasp the shaking in my fingers while I type this. While I think this. I guess, I shouldn't be so down. I have a great girl now. Celia knows how to treat a man. She knows how to caress which places with such a soft expectancy. I love her. Or, I'd like to think that I do. I mean, she's helped me through so much. Yet, I tarnish all she's given by repeating past again sins. Sneaking off to secret crevices while she's away, leaving a body print on someone else's mattress in the morning. Yet, I can't feel guilty. I'm hurting so much from Joan. She was my best friend. Now I have no one. I feel for no one. I only pretend, put on a fantasy show for family members, Celia, and any other prop that would like to take place on stage with myself and the others. I guess, it's stupid to be explaining all this. I should have known better than to write. Everything just comes out into a vocabulary catastrophic mess of pessimism. I shouldn't be frail though, I'm a man god damn it. Things shouldn't be this emotional. You open a tender door and five more open immensely more violent after that. I think I'll go to my mother's house. Sandra is the only keeper of what's left of my youth, and I'd like to rekindle some of that feeling back. Sandra was never around throughout my childhood, though my father played an impressive role as leader of the house. When he was still welcomed in the home. Sandra wasn't much for authority. I guess, I sound all new age, calling my mother by her first name, but if you knew Sandra at all, she'd greatly appreciate the tendency. The cars interfere with my thoughts. My head turns up from the computer screen, and there scampers in Celia. About to be traffic treat for all the horrendously dangerous drivers of New York City. I guess New York is a pretty cliché place all in itself for aspiring creativity but I shall continue. Crushed dreams are also a common occurrence around the streets of New York. Celia has awaiting eyes as she sits down beside me. She's waiting for me to shut down the laptop and dote upon her. I guess I should. She's invested so much of her heart into my empty chest with the gapping hole for compromise of the lacking thing that should be there in its place.


I only see him when it's raining. He doesn't go anywhere else otherwise. He likes the feel of liquid on his skin when heading out for a daily write. Though, acknowledging the condition of the weather just really isn't like him at all. I met Silas on the eve of my birthday. I was turning twenty-three this year, and offers of conventional marriage proposals were off the table entirely. I had just gotten over a serious ex, longing for some attention, there was Silas in the back corner of the bookstore, eyes widen, staring directly at me. The pathetic puppy dog look drew me in closer, something that's somewhat uncommon for me. I like my men to be protective, strong, and with a hint of mystery to them. Yet, his growing look for me made myself determined to ask him his name. Also, various other questions on why he was staring so intently at me. I went across the room, and sat myself on the green leather chair beside his plaid. I asked him his name. His eyes had sunken a little, or maybe the reason why they looked so open was only a distant figment of my memory, because now he looked of average portions up close. I introduced myself, and with a brief nod of his head, and a look of intent, I followed him out of the bookstore and into the rainy streets of New York. He grabbed my hand and before I knew anything of it, we found ourselves in a taxi, going back to his apartment. He asked me the stereotypical first date questions before we arrived. Who my parents were, what I did for college. I almost regretted the decision to abandon the bookstore during this probing. I hated awkward 'get to know yous' I'd much rather just get to know you. Natural, but than again, what's natural without it's mistaken route down Unnatural Lane. We left the taxi, giving the Hispanic driver his pay in full. We went into an elevator and induced upon ourselves a couple moments of nothingness. He led me to his room, 4589. I found the surroundings all to be a little too serial. Approved films from the Sundance production all carefully framed and placed on the navy walls. A rug of European taste sprawled in the in the middle of the living area. He placed his hands on my hips, kissing quite passionately without shame. I didn't know what to do but join in with the rhythmic pace of each event. "Celia," he whispered, after I found myself underneath his suddenly ruffled sheets. "What?" I whispered back, his eyes sunk further into his skull and I felt the apprehension course through me. "I love you," I love you? What did he think this was? A Nicholas Sparks novel? I got up at once. "Wait," he said, almost monotone, the sincerity of the response lacking. "What I meant was that I love what we've found ourselves in." I glared at him, almost offended, "And what do you suppose that is?" He shrugged, while still held captive under the covers. "Something doable." he answered. And with that statement, I saw Silas for a total of seven months. Little did I really acknowledge that those seven months were seven promises of hidden dedication, all formatted in a different script, lay out before me to choose. We went to plays, saw the Raven on several accounts. I knew I found myself in a drastic change, a movement. He changed every outer exterior of me, and I liked that. The old me was getting much too dark, far too aggressive. I liked being this little submissive princess he made out of me. And if it wasn't me? Well, who cares? The diminishing of my personality was only a mere process, he wouldn't get sick of me, he created me for god's sake. The kisses were warm, the deceptions unknown. Unknown, until I finally unraveled the colorful spool of yarn, mummifying myself from the world.


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