The Sky Is Not The Same Shade Of Blue

This past week has been insane. Mixed emotions, but overall, it was crazy wonderful. Who would have thought this could happen? I don't think it hit just how gone over you I was until this week. We said it, always, but somehow, hearing me say it right to your ear, and hearing you say it right back while you held me made it all real.

At least, I pray to the Goddess that that was all real. I wouldn't put it past things to have it all been a dream. But I look around me now, and everything I see has your ghost in it. The CN tower, the ROM, High Park, my kitchen... my bed. Memories. Lovely, lovely, bittersweet memories. It was the simple things, the silliest things that's playing over and over like a looped movie. Groceries shopping. The bus, train, streetcar. Oh, god, I'm not going to be able to go to that plaza without thinking about you. I'm not going to be able to do anything in this damn city without thinking about you.

Groceries. Shoppers. Blockbuster. Second Cup. CN Tower. I hate my life! *boom*. ROM. You're in a museum, eh? VIP Pool. Purple Rice. O'Grady's. Yonge & Eglington ~ Pirates of the Carribean. Where's the thump-thump? Highpark. What's her complexion? Green! My old highschool haunts ~ The Abbey, Mill park. Wonderland. Terminal 3 and that damn transport thing.

A week wasn't long enough. As blissful and eventful week that it was, it wasn't enough. There was still so many things I would have shown you. So many things I would have done with you.

I miss you. I miss all the little things. Holding your hand. Distracting you while you did things - cook, play video games, talk on the phone. Kisses. Gods, the kisses. Leaning on your shoulder. Claiming my nook. Looking at silly websites together. Watching tv. Movies. Yeah, yeah, your movie taste is ok.

...But I think it's sleeping in your arms and waiting up with you next to me is what I'll miss most. My bed - my whole damn apartment - feels so empty without you. It's too quiet. God. The girl who always thought she'd be just damn fine on her own... It was good to have you around. Felt good to take care of someone and be taken care of. You look at me and I can't think properly. If my skin was lighter, I'd've blushed - but I settled for hiding my face in your neck, or shoulder, or chest, or back...

Gods, the girl with the broken heart's fallen all over again, and this time... it's woah.

Broken Angel

"You're so beautiful," he told her.

"Liar," she replied.

Her voice held such conviction. She was ugly. Unappealing. Stupid. Useless.

Broken.

The night was dark. Rain fell heavily, fat water drops spattered on the windshield, reducing the world beyond to shattered pieces of light and colour.

His strong fingers caressed her cheek gently. He didn't understand. To him, she was a goddess. The light reflected and bounced off her hair, casting a soft glow around her face. She was angel. His angel.

Long ago, she had convinced herself that he didn't see what was really there. The mirror showed what never was. Her reflection was a farce. Inaccurate. He didn't see her. He saw what he wanted her to be. They all saw what they wished her to be. It was easier that way.

Easier to look past the empty stare. But the gleam in her eyes were from unshed tears, not happiness. Her smile wasn't genuine - it was laced with cynicsm. The bounce in her step was induced from the perpetual stumbling; her ankles unsteady from having fallen too many times.

No, they didn't see her. They didn't see her at all.

In the dark hours of the night...

"So, uhm, can I ask you something?"

The night suddenly felt a few degrees lower, and the near empty parking lot seemed to expand, the distance to the car painfully stretched out.

"Shoot," I responded. My voice was light, cheerful even, my face a careful mask of exuberance.

"Why don't you write poems anymore?"

Suddenly, my feet were mesmerizing. The clicks on the cement from the uncomfortable work shoes that graced my feet were steady enough, no one would have cought that slight fumble in my steps as my mind raced.

Why don't I write poetry anymore? I've never really thought about it. Sometimes, if you bury a thought deep enough, you'll forget its importance, or even its existence. Eventually. Sometimes.

It had been more than a year since I've written anything worth writing down in my not-so-little book of poetry. It wasn't so little because once upon a time, I had enough of a muse to write several poems in a day. How did days suddenly turn into years? Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of internal clock going on? Bring. Wake up call. It's time to start living life again.

How did it come to this?

"I... I don't know." Even to me, my voice sounded weak. The silence dragged on. She was waiting for me to elaborate. But I couldn't. Once again, words had failed to express just how derailed my life has gone. I was so far over the edge, I couldn't even see the tracks anymore. Just swirls of obsidian stretching out to oblivion.

Lost? Who, me?

Yeah.

Temporary can turn into forever

I love Gilmore Girls. I love being able to relate to something. Catharsis.

My temporary everything has turned into forever. Sloth days turned into weeks, months... almost a year. 21. Two digits never looked so scary.

I have a problem. Somebody call Dr. _____.

No, I won't go there. Not a suicidal moment. Sorry, Sylvia... even though the jar refuses to break. Bells ring. Watch out, she's crazy.

Hey, did anyone think that maybe Sylvia wasn't crazy? Maybe she was just cold.

Ah, Gilmore Girls.

Cold means numbness and numbness is better than the splitting, blinding, pain.

Never felt so useless, worthless, so lost in my life. That's what I get for living on the fast track. The wind in my hair felt so good, I closed my eyes and went spiralling out of control. That's the thing about speed. More of it, less control you've got. Control freak. Why do you want to get so wonderfully trashed, rip-roaring, absofuckinglutely drunk, then? Coz you know you're a freak, and you need to lose it.

I think she's lost her marbles.

I wish the meaning of that statement was the same as to when I was a kid, and playing Ker-plunk.

Doctor's Office. Ironic that the institution that's supposed to help people get better is what's driving me absolutely mad. Bonkers. Crazy. Insane. Smile, lunatic. You know you have a gorgeous smile. Even strangers on the bus who sniff your hair, say so.

No wonder guys scare me.

So, Step 1 to get out of the Crazy House: Finish . Write the e-mail, set up the meeting, finish what should have ended a year ago. That's right, a whole damn year. Year of the Sloth. No bloody kidding.

Step 2, that actually has to be done while Step 1 is in process: Get a fucking full-time job. Walk away from the problem. Isn't that a novel idea.

Step 3: Write. Your passion, your catharsis, your re-fueling station. No poems have been documented for over a year. Used to be able to crank them out 3 per day. Fuck, I'm getting old. The passion's gone? Yeah, right. You bloody well fucking get it back, then, don't you?

Step 4: Photoshoot that's been talked about for ages, that still hasn't happened. Wait, nevermind. Put some damn pictures on the empty walls, already. Empty stare reflects an empty mind. Maybe if you had something to actually look at, you'd be able to think of it. Plaster Paris on the wall. Might even be a source of inspiration. Or nostalgia. Melancholia. No. Inspiration.

Step 5: Snip-snip. Ties have to be cut. No more moth-to-a-flame jibberish. Gotta kick the habit somehow. Misery loves company, but the company doesn't have to be you. How are you supposed to actually be happy if everyone's so intent on telling you how miserable they are? Silver string go snap.

Step 6: Wake up in the bloody morning. Morning, being the operative word. Rise and shine, sleepy head.

Step 7: Follow through.

The steps aren't even in order. How fucking perfect that the dis-jointed process should have disordered remedial steps. Fantabulous.

Sloth year ends: tomorrow.

New year begins: Monday.

And she's off.

Evanescence - Breathe No More

Dark cloud. Watch out. Wonder how long this one will last?

This song's beautiful.

Evanescence - Breathe No More

I've been looking in the mirror for so long
That I've come to believe my soul's on the other side.
All the little pieces falling shattered
Shards of me too sharp to put back together;
Too small to matter,
But big enough to cut me into so many little pieces.
If I try to touch her
And I bleed,
I bleed
And I breathe,
I breathe no more.

Take a breath and I try to draw from my spirit's well.
Yet again you refuse to drink like a stubborn child.
Lie to me, convince me that I've been sick forever
And all of this will make sense when I get better.
But I know the difference
Between myself and my reflection.
I just can't help but to wonder:
Which of us do you love?
so I bleed,
I bleed
And I breathe,
I breathe no-
Bleed,
I bleed,
And I breathe,
I breathe
I breathe,
I breathe...no...more.