But that is what life is, corect?

A correlation of beauty and irony, perhaps the dependent equation upon which we live on.

Without the bad, the good does not taste as sweet yes?

Home alone, Italian music plays along with the sweet smell of traditional romanian dessert. 

Humming along to the language that surpasses any combination of words or phrases, I smile, perhaps ironically, perhaps happily.

Two days ago, I found myself at the bottom of all hope.

Staring into the emptiness of faces and places, I did not feel the need to breathe much of the polluted air in any way, shape, or form.

Today I have drawn, I have cooked, I have hummed, and I have danced.

Indeed it is a lonely life for many reasons, but my utter belief in higher purpose keeps me going.

There is meaning.

There is reason.

Somewhere in this money driven world, there are people like me, like my friends, who dream.

Who dream of a better world, a more caring, more loving, more ambitious world.

Once believing I am alone in the cause, I realize as each day passes, that the youth of today is not forever lost.

There still is a chance, we are not ignorant, our opportunities just overwhelm us.

So many choices, so many possibilities, so many thoughts and chances.

A young mind can pass by so many beautiful opportunities and not even realize it.

We are given everything, from the beginning.

No longer do we need to fight for our passions.

This is where it is ruined.

This where we must work, remedy, and improve.

We must find ourselves before we find life, and purpose.

Perhaps I am a pessimist, perhaps I am naive, perhaps I am simply a hopeless romantic, but in all these thoughts and fears, I find myself happy.

There is a possibility that I am only happy when I forever wander.

I am always thinking, asking questions, and living further and further over the edge.

Just maybe this is my purpose.

To find, understand, and change.

And although I do have days in which the asking subsides my love for life, I do also have days such
as these.

A majestic contrast of good and bad.

An interest, a thought, a life.

Present, Past, Future.

Today was a good day.

Her victims dental record will be floating in the Pacific Ocean in approximately half an hour, perhaps to wash up to shore in about 20 years, looking like a beautifully formed seashell.

Goleta is her destination, near the Santa Barbara Canal, according to her research, this canal will most likely take her discarded evidence all the way to northern california, somewhere near Santa Rosa, depending on its trend, and by then the jawbone will be eroded to a small rock of hard matter.

 She smiles, perhaps deviously, or perhaps just because the sun is shining. In epic content, she grabs her hot pink towel and proceeds to the beach.

The fun role of beach girl 101 is quite the adventure, as she takes the small bag out to the “deep” end.

The green of the algae reminds her of a beautiful painting she saw the other day, feeling the current run against her back thighs she dips under water playfully.

Not to distort the actual event that is taking place, she naturally just lets go of the contents in her hands.

To suffice adrenaline she even whispers a faint “goodbye, you asshole.”

The sand tickling her between her toes, she remains in the water for a while, her cheeks burning from the heat the loving sun sends her way, noticing a couple new beauty marks on her right arm, she hums along to a random song.

A normal process of murder has just been reversed, from random to calculated, from spontaneous to premeditated, this is so much more than she expected.

 A never-ending abyss of thought and feeling, the human mind will guide her next moves.

This can only take place in the next two years. Once every two years she will proceed to an event of this nature.

Silently studying criminology books in the local library, she has registered every cold case in the past 10 years, all of which died down after a mere two years.

Security in knowledge preaches her motto.

Throwing herself into her exquisite car, she silences a call from Portland, and continues her journey back home, risking a ticket she speeds twice the normal speed limit, she needs to get to Blythe in order for a plausible alibi to take place.

Walking into the gas station on Lovekin Blvd. she grabs an ice tea, pays for it, and while waiting for the cashier to swipe it, she is inspired.

Nobody is around, and the camera is not pointed towards the cashier as it should be, she grabs the cashier by the tie, kisses him passionately, and walks out, ten dollars in change left untouched.

A strut in her walk, she keeps the smirk on her face the whole drive home.

Perhaps a good song, and a good thought.

I find it funny how we consider ourselves different yet we are so much alike.

The continuous search for love? Interesting. Lately I have really thought of what this thing might mean, not actually being in love, but the actual need for it, I find life could be very hard without love, or any emotion from one human being to another.

Is it the search for attention though? Or do we give genuine emotion just because we feel like it.

Morose feelings flow as the notes to this song play second by second, I sometimes think of you, and regret many, maybe a lot, but I smile, because remembering is all I have. You know who you are.

The sweet irony of loving someone, yet being able to love another too, is this advantage? Or burden?

Could I ever accept such a thing? To be loved by someone who loves me, but declares to love someone else too?

It is interesting to see these sort of relationships around me, and when it comes down to it, I see myself a very confused and apprehensive young woman.

I would like the classic idea of the man being the “man” of the house, I will not go out and mow the lawn, and I will not change the oil in the car, although I know how to.

Nor will I ask of my husband to fold clothes, or sew, or iron clothes.

I know this seems sexist, or perhaps I am pushing against the furthering of female independence, but it is who I am, I like the idea of each owning their own tasks and keeping the woman a woman, and the man a man.

After somebody told me a saying about a chicken and a rooster, I really got to thinking, I really got to wondering, could it be right? As long as the rooster knows that he can have the chicken whenever he wants, that is all that matters. Just as long as he knows.

There are a bunch of sayings that suggest a woman should know her place but in the same time use it wisely.

The man is the head, but the woman turns the neck?

The strongest men, Greek, Roman, many of them, had smart witty women behind them, A Roman would go home at night and discuss with his wife all of the problems, and she would express her feelings in their own home, but in public, allow him to announce it.

I really do not have many persuasive facts to denounce my actual liking of this perhaps “conservative” idea on couples, but I do know one thing, out of all this, I have earned something great. Something new. Something good.

The knowledge that this is something I like, for no particular reason, and although people may disagree, it will still be me, it will still be my own personal feeling.

And walking into my own skin, I will keep my head high, because these are the years,
and this is the time. 

And so the song continues.

He was never the kind to fall in love, to be completely crazy about a woman, but with her,
it is different. She is different.

She can be so fun, yet so sexy in the same time.

He gets in the car, he will go and make up with her, three days without her has seemed
like an eternity.

Italian love songs can be heard from her windows, he knocks, no answer.

He calls, she answers, her nose sniffling.

Him: Do you feel like opening the door? I am kind of in front of it and it won’t open.

Her: Oh, um, alright, but I look like crap, um, oh well.

Him: I am sure you look fine, just move your butt over here and open the door.

The door moves and her dark eyes reveal a hard couple days.

He can see she has been crying, but she crys alot, so maybe it wasn’t for him.

She jumps in his arms and hugs him so very tight it hurts his rib cage, she could not help it, although she is very stubborn, she has been dreaming of feeling him next to her for so long.

Their love is not the perfect kind, the one where they know they will make it, it is not destined.

But they feel something so strong, when apart, all they think about is each other.

She wonders if this is the right kind of love, the passionate extremely jealous never wanting to be far from one and other kind of love.

Most stories of this love end in tragedy, one will do anything for another, and whether it be nature or god’s wrath, something bad always happens.

Yet the soft touch of his hands upon her arms melts her into tiny little pieces.

The way she raises her eyes at him he can feel something so grand, so poetic, that it makes him fall in love with her time and time again.

A love so powerful, yet so very dangerous.

Take me away my love.