napkin.

She sits at the bar, irish creme glass #2.

Her bracelets jingle as her lips touch the sweet alcohol,casually sipping while observing her surroundings.

Man #1, casually dressed, jeans, t-shirt, hair cut short, two day stubble, probably likes a girl if she is a cheer leader or model, could care less what her mind flutters, and probably just wants someone to bring him a beer while he watches football. He laughs with his friends as if he were actually funny, occasionally uses a lame pick up line, and thinks the world is his oyster.

Man #2, armani suit, gel greased hair, a hair cut between 200-500 dollars, cigar smoker, and oh yes, married but still in bars at 3 am. Not usually looking for anything serious, and pretentious as to what her breast size is, always a joke teller, perhaps even funny, he thinks he still is young and can run around like a 20 year old boy.

Man #3, interesting style combination, punk rock meets classic windsor tie, long but soft hair, typically pierced and tattooed in numerous places, drinks european beer, and knows when the next great rock concert is, doesnt agree with who is president, and never wears abercrombie and fitch, is highly opinionated when it comes to music, and can discuss art for hours.

Normally she would go for Man #1, but now she is lust.

Lust being a human emotion generally used to describe a heightened state of sexual desire, often exclusively physical in nature.

She makes her decision, she will have Man #3 tonight, picking up her glass she passes him and purely by accident drops a napkin on the ground, slightly bending over to pick it up, she spins a web he cannot refuse.

Small talk is exchanged and the bathroom is their next stop.

Quite agressive as he is, she enjoys it and is refreshed by the new events taking place.

As she reaches climax she remembers how innocent of a child she was, pig tales and all.

An ironic laugh signals the end.

She makes her exit, and doesn’t look back.

Tags: , , , , , , ,

see.

Her every step hits the ground one after the other.

As if letting go of each unhappy event occured that day, she runs.

She has found it.

The one thing that can actually give her peace.

Alone in silence, she passed each house, wondering what those people might be doing, if they are happy, or sad, or maybe even content.

The end of the street approaches, her ankles shake, this is the only pain worth it.

A release of all tension through her bones, sweating all stress through tiny drops of eliminated water.

At the corner of the street, she stops, to possibly catch her breath, or perhaps admire the night sky.

A cloud smeared over the sky, as if strokes from a painter, the stars arranged in no particular order, but still indescribably beautiful.

Feeling as if she is watching through windows of the mind, she pauses, takes a deep breath, and realizes how truly amazing this world is.

Forget bills, forget the new car you want next year, forget that you need a new couch, forget.

Remind yourself of what beauty you can expierence by just opening your eyes.

Truly opening them.

She took a seat on a rock, cars passed, but time seemed to stop, tears filled her eyes, overwhelmed by what she had missing all along.

Freedom.

Freedom of the soul, the freedom to let go of all problems, all fears, and just live.

Just feel the air enter you, the blood flow, the heart beat.

If only this moment would last forever, she did not want to get up from there, ever.

For she knew she would return to the life everyone leads, ever stressed to accomplish and make it.

Never to realize how time passes and never to really stop to look at the world around you.

She returns leaving the spot where she had been reborn, a simple corner on the street.

The wind ran through her hair is if desiring to stop her.

Her lips dryed by the physical exhaustion, but her soul kept going.

The night had changed her, and entering the house she felt a feeling of hope she hadnt felt in a long time.

Although lost, she can still hope.

Just hope.

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

porcelain & lace.

What is true art?

Is it when we see a painting and admire the artists vision?

Or is it when we can connect with the actual image, perhaps see ourselves in the painting, feeling sad, happy, or completely nuts.

I believe that art is the human desire to be different, unique. Although we do share the same feelings, and maybe even the same events in our lives, we all interpret it different.

Imagine a bowl filled with fruit, how would you draw it?

Big and plentiful? Maybe small? Would you have all the fruits in a bowl, or would you leave one out?

What fruits would you draw? Bananas? Apples?

Could all of these describe who we are? I for one would draw mangos, not many people like mangos, does that make me strange?

As a child I used to draw something, and be impatient to show it to someone, why is that?

Does art actually express our utter need for attention?

Could the most beautiful paintings,sculptures,or drawings actually portray what an emotionally disturbed person the artist really was?

I heard something interesting once, it went something like: “You can tell if a painting is good when you feel like throwing up, because you know if something is truthful when your body feels it and not your mind.”

I found that brilliant really, and maybe it is the fact that it is so raw and striaght forward but I truly believe that we should try and see art with our bodies instead of our minds.

The mind is something very powerful, it can play with us like we are little puppets on strings, especially when influenced by so many things, the people we surround ourselves with, the way we grow up, the things we study, and the things we believe.

We are taught to think a certain way, and we are constantly trying to fight it.

Think of picasso for example, in his time, when he began to draw the way he did, people said he was completely out of his mind.

Now, people will pay thousands upon thousands of dollars to have it fixed above their living room chimney.

Why?

Because we are trapped in a body that twitches when it wants, that absorbs what it wants, and thinks what it wants.

Art is our escape.

When you draw something without thinking twice if it is good or not, that is the real you.

That is you saying “mind, you know what, today im doing what I feel and not what you think.

And in conclusion, that is true art.

The pure expression of human beings soul.

His soul and nothing else.

Tags: , , , , , ,

fall.

Turn her inside out.

For when she heard his voice it was pure ecstasy.

Her stomach hasn’t hurt this hard in a while.

The butterflies are in complete frenzy.

She feels like she is ten again.

She wants to get in the car to go see him, after just departing minutes ago.
Desire other men?

No way in hell.

He is not a man, he is a god.

Desire has mysterious ways.

Thoughts are consumed with him, from morning to night.

Complete chaos when he looks into her eyes.

Obsessed adoration.

Love is born.

Tags: , , ,

page #120.

The lonely life consumes her.

Perfect habitat for this growing creature.

Local library visit ⧣241,here we go.

Step one, step two.

Tip toe her way to “the corner”

A carefully thought out spot where no one could see,hear,or disturb her.

Oh yes, please do open your books to page 120.

Word by word, page by page, the hours pass.

Then it happens.

“Oh wow, still a vivid reader aren’t we?”

Handsome teacher of my childhood, is that you?

Tis indeed.

“Yes, Mr.Holl, indeed still a vivid reader.”

Dialogue continues and in respect for other readers they leave to have a coffee.

At his invitation, of course.

Telling of her expeditions all around Europe.

He listens as if mesmerized.

Lost love in France, Italian cooking.

“And looking into your innocent eyes I always knew you would become something grand.”

Not knowing whether to be proud or appalled, she withdraws herself politely.

The wind moves with her every step.

Looking into the sunset, she forever wonders what destiny has in store.

Lonely bliss.

Lost is born.

Tags: , , ,
Page 19 of 20« First...«1617181920»
Syndicate this site using RSS