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Name: [that girl]
Location:
Gender: Female
Interests: Books... lyrics... songs... phone calls... swinging... playing at the park at night... listening to music... musicals... theatre... singing... writing... acting... thinking too hard... cute boys... emo boys... traveling... the UK... fantasy... sci-fi... Shakespeare... black... movies... my friends... the meaning of life
Expertise: being the prettiest wreck you've ever seen
Occupation: Student
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
11/13/2005
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| How warm the air, and yet how cold the tomb
A monument for cold and clouded eyes
The day is gone, it feels the weight of years
With understanding lost beyond the grave
Under the trees lies the shadow of death
Afraid to creep too near our bleeding hearts
There was a time bereft of broken hearts
When we all laughed and sniggered at the tomb
Oh, not for us the cold, hard scythe of death
As though the blinding sun glamoured our eyes
This place was for the old to make their grave
Not for us who had seen so few years
How wise we felt, and yet how fast the years
That scratched their tally-marks upon our hearts
Now full of shouts, now quiet as the grave
And mem'ries kept as though locked in a tomb
A day that dawned, full of your dew-fresh eyes
Was tripped and felled by the black cloak of death
How strange a villain, silent, watchful death
Who simply sits and watches all the years
No life escapes those ever seeing eyes
And on his walls hang centuries of hearts
He brings the richest of us to the tomb
And follows even beggars to the grave
The father's voice is soft, his face is grave
As he tells us to never fear our death
Though we have seen you entered in your tomb
We cannot let it waste away our years
And though this scar will never leave our hearts
We try to ease the pain out of our eyes
I know that I must go, and yet my eyes
Will not look anywhere but that new grave
Oh, God, why have to given mankind hearts
If only to be broken by cruel death
For though we run from him all through our years
He will, at last, catch us within a tomb
Thus lacerated hearts and red-rimmed eyes
Walk from your tomb and unto our own graves
As toward death we go throughout the years
(steal it and I'll disembowel you with a spork)
[that girl] | | |
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It's just she and I.
She's obsessed with sex, in a Marla-esque way. She wears random clothes that look good and has her hair in a bob, and her slightly protruding eyes always look sharply into a person, daring them to get too close. She has been taught to suffer for her art, that she should suffer, almost has to suffer, to be a "true" actress. She said when she was a freshman at another school, she had to quit all four clubs she was in, because the theatre department wanted her to suffer for her art, and she wasn't suffering enough. I can't picture her bright-eyed, but always see her hardened, in my head; hard, cynical, pessimistic, the way the department shaped her. She told me, honestly, that she can't have a family, that she's training herself in being poor, that she sees washing herself in gas station bathrooms a very serious and real possibility, someday. It is as though she doesn't do theatre because it is enjoyable, but rather because without it, she would simply cease to exist. It is the entire reason for her being alive, and she can't do or be anything outside of that world, a character locked inside a ragged, jaded fairytale which she both loves and hates.
She fascinates and frightens me, imposing and explosive in her sudden bluntness, this person who does drugs and sex and alcohol to hide her addiction to the substance with even greater highs and lows; the one that dresses the world and paints the faces and has everything work out just the way it's supposed to, only to vanish after a few short hours, draining her blood and soul and intellect until she can't survive without it. She will sacrifice love, food, shelter, clothing - everything society deems "necessary" - for her drug, and she will never want to escape its vice-like dream of ecstasy and pain.
I couldn't live that way, and she towers above me because she can. She can take the fact that she is smart and hardworking, knowing that she "could" work anywhere, and tie herself to this glamourous cross, this sequined charlatan, until she does.
What strength is this, oh two-faced god? Why must your prophets also be your sacrifices, your words issuing from their mouths even as your holy fire sears them on the alter, consecrating their blood and flesh and souls to your hungry maw? Your blessings are fleeting, and never do they fit your promises, your cunning, gold-rimmed eyes as fickle as a woman with two lovers, a trickster who plays puppeteer with hero and villain picked on a whim. Your worshipers adore and despise you, they pound against their cells but cannot live outside your monasteries, and you can hear them scream in anguish even as applause rains down on them.
I envy and pity her.
[that girl] | | |
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I feel like a cereal box.
I wore bright colors today, the kind that go together because they don't go together at all.
I walked around this grocery-store of personalities, today.
I met a girl who was like a generic cereal. The kind that try to mimic the name-brands but can't quite manage it. She had a lip ring and blue streaks she did to herself at home, but she talked in that same, oddly begging kind of voice that I remember from high school, the kind that calls for attention because she hasn't gotten over the fact that just because she was awkward in high school doesn't mean she has to be awkward here.
I met a boy today who was like a box of crackers, odd but nice and, though plain, wholesome and a bit awkward. It was as though talking to him, he was nervous enough that it was hard for him to keep talking, the way a cracker breaks when you bite into it. We're only talking to each other for a class project, after all. But it was oddly endearing, like a shivering puppy. Not that you want to keep it. You'd just like it to feel better.
I met two girls today who were like bright, sour candies. They popped against the dull grey background of a snowy, January day with their bright, oddly mismatched clothes and genuine, friendly smiles. They shocked me into happiness, and made me wish I was a bit sour, as well, not simply sweet.
I sat by a girl today who reminded me of a Pop Tart, a thing that tries to be a food group and fails. She had bleach-blonde, blunt-cut hair and eyeliner like a black hole around her baby-blue eyes. Her t-shirt listed dancers and she said she was the lead singer in a band, but her bubble-gum voice was too sweet to sound like something for breakfast. I'm a little glad we didn't really talk.
And I am a cereal box, grabbed in necessity but rarely to snack. I sit on the shelf in my bright colors waiting to be picked up and taken home, my nutrition content low but sugar high guaranteed, as well as the subsequent, sudden drop in blood sugar. The kind of cereal that goes in phases, one you can't get enough of for a few months and then one that must be retired completely for the next few months, only to be picked up a few months after that. A rotation that alternately leaves me scrambling for enough time and sitting around, drumming my fingers.
I'm a little tired. The nice thing about having a room to myself is that I don't have to worry about anyone else coming in, thumping around, and waking me up. Sadly, it's a little late for a nap.
I guess I'll practice my audition, instead.
[that girl] | | |
| The hollow heart is weak. The hollow heart lies.
And within me the hollow heart beats, it pushes at my chest until I can't get back up.
It's awful to sit beside someone you want to be close to, want to reach out to, and can't touch. For whatever reason there is a thin wall between you, something you spread your fingers on and can't quite break. You look at them until they look at you, and then you both look away, confused. It wasn't there yesterday. It probably won't be there tomorrow. But it's there now, and it's painful.
My hollow heart is cracking, and it is leaving me dazed. I have given so much for this happiness, and somehow I always feel like I've fallen just short of the mark.
I live in a museum and I don't much enjoy being put on display.
[that girl] | | |
| Life comes wrapped in cotton, each blow painful but slightly blunted, like if I wanted to I wouldn't have to feel anything, just coast through it in this odd pillow, wrapped in fog, and then I wouldn't have to face the cracks that have started to appear.
All I've wanted all my life is what everyone has always wanted all their lives - to be happy. To be able to wake up in the morning and be content with everything in the world. To not have to worry about what will happen the rest of the day, to have that crease between your eyebrows become more defined. To just... be.
Somehow life hasn't really helped me with that, much. It's sort of pushed me around and asked me why I want that, why I would want something that unexciting and... 'normal'. Ask for adventure, ask for a challenge, but please God don't ask for contentment.
Life can't give you contentment. It just can't. It can pretend for a while, but then something else will happen that makes you wish for something to right it again.
All my life I've thought 'When I go, I will be ready. I will face it and I will conquer it and I will pass through it'.
But what about when THEY go, the other people in your life that seem to be necessary to existence, the simple things you have expected to be there always because they always WERE there? That takes more getting ready than I thought, and suddenly I'm realizing that they always won't be there.
I'm scared, scared that I'm not ready for the leaving. I'm not ready to face a life that doesn't have a vital part in it, like missing an internal organ - something will always be inherently wrong with the way the world operates, and I'm not so sure I'm ready for that to happen.
I feel very small and alone, like a child lost in a grocery store - suddenly everything familiar and mundane has turned oddly strange and surreal, the stuff of nightmares.
Everywhere we go little bits of my mother fall off like peeling paint, and I can't seem to walk fast enough behind to pick them all up.
And sometimes I don't even think she wants them back. It's her way of letting go, all these pieces falling gently to the ground. They lay like broken petals from flowers that have faded, a sweet memory of time that she might never get back again.
I've ben such a selfish child. | | |
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