Nothing has changed; everything is as it has been.

Excerpt (end) from 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles'

"Upon the cornice of the tower a tall staff was fixed. Their eyes were riveted on it. A few minutes after the hour had struck something moved slowly up the staff, and extended itself upon the breeze. It was a black flag.

'Justice' was done, and the President of the Immortals had ended his sport with Tess. And the D'Urberville knights slept on in their tombs unknowing. The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and remained thus a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued to wave silently. As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on." -Thomas Hardy

Never has a story pained me so, and never has an author conjured in my mind so many beautiful and harrowing images, with such poetic grace and emotion. I stand in awe; completely entranced in this world between cover and binding. I never want to leave, but my heart can't take all the pain.

What a handsome flower, you are, planted amidst the others in my torture garden. I've had my fun with you. I've done the dance and buds have bloomed. Stars wept shimmering songs. Yet, I am still the same.

"A sinking bell tolls," he crooned in my ear, delicately lifting a tuft of hair gone astray, uncovering my face, "you look so beautiful beneath the stars."

The darkness shines and my weeping grows, "take me away--away from the world. I cannot stay long or I think I'll grow old!" I tug at his sleeve like a lost, little girl.

"But, that is life, my dear!" Stay. Mold. Grow old. He glides a backhand against my cheek, breaking the solid wet stain that streams down my face.

"I'm afraid of whom I will become.."

My voice trails off as a raven flies by with ease as it fades away out of view, leaving a profound distance between us. Yet, my eyes search for it in desperation; for some grounding image to bring me back to reality.

Day followed night followed day. Sun followed moon followed sun. The fox chases the hare. The hare hides in the earth, giving it sweet, soft heart beats from below. The earth trembles under the hands of man. The man plants his flag abound and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and builds, and destroys.

Socializing

Festivity invitations dolled up with a smile. I politely nod my head and incline my eyes to the ceiling as if to ponder something great.
"That sounds like fun," I say brimming with excitement - the kind of superficial emotion that you use for fear of seeming disinterested. Although, I never seem to follow through with any of these invitations. Left up to me, I'd rather cuddle on a cloud with my pup and a good book, but the world awaits!
"Maybe I will see you there," he says with a calm excitement, one that has had many years to master his emotions. He nods and turns to walk but with one last glance to flick a smile my way.
I wander into thoughts of varying intensity of a life that I am not living.
I wonder if he has looked for me; sitting anxiously with his friends positioned just so. Near the entrance, scouting for a head of messy curls and a young face. A face with a faint dreamy stare as if the folds of the world were translucent, delving into dimensions unknown.

Taking a break from writing (and everything) while I plow through this bad boy, Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace. And, holy shit, I'm pale..

This is dedicated to G.R.R. Martin and his obsession with exterminating characters with, I assume, a smirk upon his face and a spinster's elongated cigarette holder sticking up from his taut lips. Ha-yuck, yuck, yuck, he chuckles with a jutting jaw. I will beat you senseless with plush toys if you've done this for sheer shock value, Mister Man.

I saw a face when I closed my eyes.
A crooked face with wrinkles blooming from the corners of her features,
like miniature florets of folded skin; a garden abound upon her face.
When she spoke, motes of dust formed pillows surrounding her lips,
searching, as if hungry, for a confined space in which to wallow.
Outward, slowly ascending, her words tangled together obstructing my view,
like a swam of bees en masse, kicking up a raucous noise that soon distracts me.
What was I searching for?