I know, then, the purpose of the moon and its arrival over my burial site.

Ask not of me what I do with my time, it does not hold relevance anymore,

The hours and days may pass swiftly, but I lay still, cold and un-grown.

But when the ocean waves crash and collide as if they cannot decide, the earth trembles in fear,

That is when I know that my moon is full, maybe new, but unquestionably near.

I cannot gaze at its sight, my view blocked by a headstone,

But I feel its unusual pull, and I know the moon is not alone.

Ah sun! The torch of my yesterdays; an unattainable appeal,

It conspires with the moon from a distance, allowing a corpse to once again feel.

And as the earthworms race for me and the nightingale whistles above,

My body breaks into pieces, yet in tact remains my love.

i’ll be keeping to myself much more now.

goodbye blogging world.

“Time for you to come give me company. In the crevice of my bosom. And with the affection of my heart. Hold your breath. The only sounds my ears shall hear is of the mind expanding and the distance contracting.”

2.

“I find it a bit amusing. You know, watching birds learn to fly.” A grin spread across her face as she turned towards me. Then back again, with the same grin, searching in between the tree branches, “Have you ever seen them lolly gag along?” She politely pointed to a small nest atop a nearby branch. Inside sat two tiny birds. Two more stood on the branch, doing just that: lolly gagging.

“And then, op! One jumps off the tree limb, neck sticking out, all sprawled out with it’s little wings.” She giggled and crouched as if she may have been about to take off herself. Finally. I let out a silent sigh. There she was. Arms spread out, happily waiting for one to take flight. I couldn’t help but smile. It was amusing. The sight of her bottom aimed directly at me. Had she and I been 10 years younger, I ought to have kicked her right in the ass. She would have chased me down the street to my mum’s.

“Here he comes!” she squealed. The little champ stuck his neck out and bounced down the branch. It’s little wings shrugged, unsure of their strength. “Come along now little one! Take a jump!”

I’m pretty sure someone else or many others have come up with it before me, but that’s not the point. I’ve been trying to find an error in this, so any comments would be appreciated.

Ok, here goes.

Imagine yourself and one other person standing over a stone. You both are human, and alike in characteristics, but you are different beings.

Both of you are looking at this one stone with two different pairs of eyes and minds. Two different perspectives for one object.

Now imagine the stone having a color. Don’t name it. Just see it.

The color theory presents the idea that you and this other person are seeing this one stone differently. You see it as one color, the other person sees it as another color. But there are no names for these colors, so you cannot tell the other person what color you see. Instead, you and this other person decide that the color (which you believe is the same as what the other person is seeing) should be named. So you both decide to name it ‘black.’

Now imagine this happening in the beginning of time. You, along with other humans, are creating and coding the first language. This color, and other colors in the world, are seen differently by each pair of eyes and each mind. But everyone agrees on naming each color the same name. To you, your ‘black’ is the same ‘black’ as someone else’s. There is never any room for confusion or overlapping of perspective. You each carry your own perspective, while thinking and living and communicating under the same pattern.

How would you ever be able to figure out that in fact, the colors are different? How could you ever relate what you see to another person?

The color theory really scared me when I was young. It made me feel really alone. Mostly because I knew I wasn’t just thinking about colors. I know there’s a way to prove that the colors I see are the same as the colors you see. But what if those ways to prove it all wrong, were the colors? What if the color theory permeated into every single part of existence, every piece of whatever our mind could lick? That’s what scares me. The thought of connections and links based on man-made chains. The thought that we don’t even use half of our brain. That our balance rests upon a naive understanding of who we are. What else is out there that we haven’t yet touched?

ok granted i’d be sickly and cough a lot and be in pain. but i’d also be cool.

mysterious. unapproachable. relying on my body movements for conversation.

everyone would all of a sudden want to talk to me. they would gather around and wonder ‘can she really not speak?!’

i would be fascinating. a traveler with the circus. i would even have my own booth with a sign outside: ‘the amazing girl with no voice. $5.00′

and maybe i would even add a few tricks to my show. for $2 dollars more, i would read people’s minds. you know, make them believe i could communicate with a different part of my body. the root. where speech starts. obviously, i would have to write it down for them on a piece of paper so they could read it later. but that could be another talent of mine. ‘the amazing girl with no voice who can read minds. $7.00′

flash forward to now, when i am somewhat grown up. or growing still. and i have in actuality lost my voice.

and just as i used to think, i am sickly, i cough a hell of a lot, and i am in pain.

cool? maybe. people do want to see or hear for themselves whether or not i really can’t talk. and when they do, it’s followed by “ooohhh”‘s and “no waaaay”‘s and laughter. often they even try to have a conversation with me, until i stop trying to whisper and they realize once again, that i’ve lost my voice. it’s brilliant to watch. people are seriously amazed by my lack of voice!

and with all of this attention, i should be thrilled. but i’m not. in fact, i’m pretty sad.

i’ve been thinking, what happens to voiceless people who need a break? can God hear them?

and i want to know, how does the lack of my voice in the symphony of life affect this world? does it matter?

i mean, this is serious stuff here. if i don’t laugh at a co-workers joke tomorrow morning, will it result in someone in tokoyo forgetting to put down the toilet seat? my lack of voice could seriously disorder the perfect balance of this very planet you are living on.

and i also want to say… or write rather, that my voice was a good voice. it was always there when i needed to stand up and say something. it never said no to what pleasured me. and it was just the right mezzo-soprano, not caprine, not mousy, just comfortable. i miss it. i really do.

so i say write: dear voice, if you are reading this somewhere, please come home. i took you for granted, and i sincerely regret it. i will never abuse you, or make fun of you, or sell the lack of you. i will coat you with pure goodness and gift you with the best languages of this world. i will from time to time, sing you more. and i promise to share you with other voices. but most of all dear voice, i will make you laugh more and acknowledge your due credit.

A rosebud quietly grows inside her.

Tiny, and soft.

It waits for a letter, a word, a whisper.

Carried, and cradled.

She waits for a nudge, a kick, a temper.

Warm, and sweet. 

It fills her cavity with fragrance, perfume, an elixir.

Blossom, and blood.

It’s thorns jet out, sharp, they prick her.

Sting, and pain.

She crumples and squeezes, control, a fixer.

Burst, and stain.

The damage leaves bruises, purple, and sinister.

Cold, and confused.

It dies slowly, wilting, within her.

Empty, and numb.

do you like?

try the song titled ‘Manzoor.’ of course :)

“Make me not your bride, your mistress, nor your concubine. Make me your house of worship.”

He took my lead. “What shall I worship?”

“Yourself.”

“That is not fornication, lady. That is rape.”

“Quite opposite. That is revelation. Truth. And the light to my flame.”

“Why do you need a cause? I am made of fire. The hottest of its kind.”

“You as you are now, are not enough. I seek not warmth, nor light, nor any of your other properties. I seek reflection.”

“This is a lofty wish.”

I had never had such a being, but I was not afraid. I knew that the pleasure, unfamiliar as it was, would be so fulfilling, I would either not stand it and die in an acute orgasm or live the rest of my life disapproving the rest. I was willing to take that risk.

“Come. Let me kiss you.”

And so we kissed. And I felt his glow brighten. He shaped himself in between me like a man, and took me. His smokeless body muted, but wild. And he released into me his witholdings from another life, another world. I felt not power over him. Instead, it was his worship inside of me that reflected my own inside him. A mirror image we were, yet so vastly different. We bowed, our weak bodies covered in sex, tangled flesh and flame. 18th century hell. Pre-century speech. Isn’t that all it is in the end? A few mumbles of rhyme, dirtied by spit, and delivered by drunkards. Aren’t we all just trying to speak? Trying to be heard? If not to one another, then to who are we screaming. To who are we coming. Who are we wanting.

“Leave, lover. Leave me be. Let me write the last of my memoir.”

He commands me to speak. I cannot escape it. It is a constant madness in my mind and soul. It is who I am. Whether I open my mouth and utter a few words, or take in a few cocks. The words of my life are nothing but symbols; stars in the heavenly skies, reflecting.