12 Months More and Counting

Almost exactly a year ago, I wished for myself to keep these things in mind as the year progressed -

Blink. Think. Proceed.

To middle class morality and other asinine things we believe in, I hope this makes you uncomfortable as you read it even if it doesn't get you to re-evaluate your belief system. That is all.

Be a Theatre Girl, Not a Drama Queen

Be a girl who lives life queen size and not as a queen. A girl who lives larger than life knows that there's more to the script that she's given. She understands characters on several levels and she's adept at reading between the lines. Be a girl who can switch from demanding stage presence on stage as an actor to being humble backstage with the crew. Be that theatre girl who believes in saving her "Drama Queen" tendencies for the audience because she knows her Diva-act is in poor taste if she shows it to her crew. Be a theatre girl because life is just too mundane without the passion behind the flamboyance. Embrace the flamboyance, even if it does make you look crazy. "You're only given a spark of madness. You mustn't lose it." -Robin Williams.

Senses

Your words, they move.
Over the page,
And under the grain.

Tale Telling Trials

A shattered mirror,
A broken chair,
And a rocking horse left unattended.
Her love, lost.
One word.
Taken.

Love and My Other Cynical Thoughts

Love, they say, is undying. Unpredictable. Unconditional. Blind. Some of my friends are in love. Or so they think. Or rather, they tell me. I can never tell if they're trying to convince me or themselves. Could be a little of both, for all I know. Isn't reassurance a part and parcel of the game? Yes dear, you're playing the game right. No dear, forgetting our anniversary isn't acceptable. Of course love, why wouldn't I want to spend ridiculous amounts of time and energy leaving post-it notes in random places for you to find? Not at all love, I don't think it's pointless in the least to buy that horrendous vase which will neither see the light of day in our already cramped apartment, nor be gifted away to make room for actual furniture.

Rain

They said rain would come.
It did, but it wasn't the kind she needed.
They said that the rain would wash away her fears.
That it would wipe away her tears.
Maybe there are different kinds of rain.
The rain she felt somehow didn't wash or wipe away anything.
The rain she felt on her parched skin, seeped through her shrunken pores,
Drowning her soul with every drop absorbed.
The rain that fell on those frizzy curls framing her face didn't hydrate.
Instead, the rain dampened and dragged them down,
All the way to her knees.
The rain she felt on my tongue,
Was not sweet, soft nor refreshing.
The rain that lashed at her taste buds,
Burnt, tore and drew her breath out.
The rain, somehow, stagnated around her,
Flooded her boots that swore to keep her dry.
Each drop festered on her skin,
Each square inch of sensation fumbling to drink it in, swallow it down,
Fighting for the moisture,
Feeding the furrows of dread.
They said the rain would come.
It did, but it wasn't the kind she needed.
They said the rain would come.