The naïve men ever on the outside.
I am fascinated by the mystery creatures, the women with seductive allure so consuming you cannot help but follow them into fire, let them burn you up and smile slyly at your blackened ashes.
Their big hair covers half of their face as they shoot you with teasing side eyes, rounding corners in slow motion. You know there cannot be good things around those corners, but still you follow. They put you in a trance and it is not about their thighs and hips and waists and chests and necks—their faces: it’s their expressions that say so much, that convince you to move your feet, surrendering your consultation with better logic.
When they get you to where they want—the point where you are convinced that you know them through and through and you’ve never known such truth than what lay in their narrowed eyes—they speak with loud clarity: I will fucking eat you alive.
And you knew your efforts were worth it. You knew, one way or another, you’d get inside.
Free-write // 5 June 2014
To know what you had.
The time had come when walking on the moon was the norm. They had ventured there many times before; their impressions colored their expectations. She donned her space suit, which was much sleeker than what you may be picturing with your primitive-times-filtered vision. He wore a matching suit.
A picnic of sorts was what they had planned. Same as last time.
But when they stepped from the craft, something felt different in the weightlessness. They could see hints of green on the blue earth, who had wasted all of her tears on the simultaneous neglect and greed of humans. In those days she gave warning signs: I cannot sustain your habits any longer; I’m serious this time—you’re killing me, ripping holes in my atmosphere, drilling me dry. I ca—her quivering lips lost their ability to form coherency. And then it was too late.
Moisture formed at her bottom lid, holding the reflection of him seeing her for the first time again.
Free-write // 30 May 2014
Today’s plants thrive on yesteryear’s tears.
She felt like waste because all too often she had been left wasted on the ground. She did not realize that one day the earth would have its way with her, the compost of today made of yesterday’s worries and wash-ups giving life to tomorrow’s garden of cornucopia.
She began as pale and gray as cement, but soon the wet soil covered her body and soul. Her skin became a rich brown, attractive to the seeds of potential that blew across her. The spider silk roots thickened with her blood and tears and sweat, sprouting green leaves that eventually covered the rich brown of her skin that still remembered the pale and gray. As the small plants grew into hardy bushes, she grew more strongly connected to the earth and, thus, her soul, herself. She soon let go of her fear of loneliness, finally understanding that she was never alone.
Then the flowers bloomed and she was an array of colors and lessons learned, her smile reaching the sun.
Free-write // 22 Apr 2014
The moment spring sprung.
The breeze whispered to the grass a soft suggestion. Obliging instantly, the blades bent at the knee, shivering with lust. They hadn’t been noticed for quite some time, but the breeze never neglected them for long.
The clouds danced in the heavens, charged by the intimacy happening far below: a checkered blanket lay sprawled onto one small area of a backyard. A picnic is what it had started as, but the lust of the wind and the earth had a contagious effect. Instead of sneezing with reaction to the pollen, the lovers embraced and made crushing love to one another, their song rising up through the air.
And in that very moment, spring let herself go all over the land, moistening and heating each of its occupants until they were quite satisfied with her.
Free-write // 17 Apr 2014
Tics are good for metaphors, but little else.
Frustration is like a tic, fattening up for as long as you will allow. You have control over your frustrations, but all too often it can be tempting to ignore the tic.
Don’t ignore the tic. Blow out a lit match and burn that fucker off. There is no reason to hesitate in doing so. The moment you hesitate is the moment you bring your frustrations onto yourself. Confront the issue. Deal with it. Expel it.
You are not doing the tic a favor by allowing it to suck you dry. He’ll be spoilt and lose the drive to find a new host by that point. You’ll kill each other if you don’t just confront the issue at hand. You cannot allow your fear to confront the tic to keep you from protecting yourself and demanding what you deserve: a parasite free life.
So just go on and do it. Blow out a lit match and burn that fucker off.
Free-write // 19 Jan 2014
From day to night.
The sunshine breathed through the veil-like curtains. Her eyes stayed with the beams while her mind wandered until she had white spot-filtered vision. Blinking once, twice and with effort, she turned her head to the blank page in front of her.
Words filled her. They were a part of her. Not only in her heart and head, but in the muscles that begged to be challenged.
She put the pen’s tip to the page, her mind wandering beyond the places that she had physically explored. The blankness filled with swirly line upon swirly line, soon turning into flowery landscapes that resembled henna on hands and forearms.
Her thoughts sent her eyes adrift. A sight she had not anticipated caught her up, ripping her out of those wandering thoughts. Nothing fingered its way through the veil. A blue-black night accepted its place quietly behind the white see-through curtains.
Her eyes widened with fear at the lack of protest.
Looking away for solace, she only now realized with a jolty heart and a strained head that she had done nothing upon nothing for hours and, possibly, for much longer. The doodles stared back at her defiantly, their laughter screaming in her ears. The words were still all over and within her, but she could feel that they, left there, had become a little weaker.
She left her nook in search of something to eat with the edge of hunger.
She breathes a sigh of relief. Ahhhh. At last, it has come, she coos to herself, referring to the swift and forceful wind that blows down that blockage, precariously put up with straws, but productively enough to suppress her own productivity.
The roar of the wind alone quivers the obstruction—second thoughts tug at her mind strings, inflating insecurities. Perhaps I have not yet reached my haven.
But alas the words from her flow.
Once again and perhaps not for the last time she realizes that this obstruction was alone built by her. Likewise, she alone can inhale the breath that blows her through to the other side, which houses words set in ink from her mind translated to the material world.
She hopes she will not forget this lesson, but knows the lapse in memory is inevitable. For now, while it is preserved in her mind, even if only temporarily, she closes this Word document. Retrieving another story started, she continues, happy to be at the more hopeful step in the cycle.