Here, Amy is frustrated and wondering about all the events that are happening. When finding out the truth behind a man she'd met 2 hours prior, Amy realizes it's her duty to finally fall in love.
After about 30 minutes of trying to have an epiphany and enjoying the crisp wind that blew through the window, I wrote down about 2 more sentences. The anger and frustration boiled inside of me, threatening to leap out and really damage the cool and collective, mature exterior I’d been trying to create. I leaned against the wall, sank down to the ground and rested my head against the wall.
My day with Scott hadn’t been so bad, after all. Even though the guy was a little bit full of himself, he did most of the talking, and I asked just enough questions to keep the conversation flowing. He talked about NYU and it’s benefits, he talked about my dorm and that I’d be sharing it with someone, and the main, nagging topic was about my writing.
I understood that he was interested in the fact that I was an aspiring author, but the guy seemed to have written all these questions down. I nodded to most of them, stared down at my coffee, watching the steam rise into the cool air and fade into oblivion, until he would pause and wait for an enthusiastic answer. “Well see it all started when I was going through rough times, and then I realized, hey, I can vent through writing it down instead of cutting and drinking… So I started writing. It was a sob story, basically, barely passed off as a diary, and then it sort of evolved into what I really wanted to be happening, instead of the reality of my situations. Then, boom, stories sprouted. I realized I had a passion for creating other worlds. That’s it, really,” and then he would smile and give me a string of eulogies. “Your really talented, you know that?” Talented, but clueless about what the most obviously beautiful feeling in the world felt like.
I had the biggest urge to ask him if he knew what love felt like, not to hold back on any details, but I held my tongue. That would be a bit awkward, don’t you think?
“Something wrong?,” he asked, noticing the stress lines poking at my forehead. “Oh, um, no. I’m fine.” Now or never bud, ask if you really want to get this book published. Or anywhere near halfway. “I was just curious… For the sake of my book… Have you ever been in love, Mr. Bryans”? There, choked it out. Might as well take out my pen and notebook…
He gave a little laugh, then fidgeted with his tie. “Well, Amy, that’s a personal question, don’t you think? Are you sure it’s for your book? Or are you really just curious about what handsome old me is interested in?,” he teased. Normally, I would have smacked someone who just had the brains to think I would be interested, but in his tone, I did not detect any vanity. Pure joke. Okay, I’ll let the guy have his fun. “Mr. Bryans, as handsome as you are, and as much as I’m dying to hear about your love life, I’m purely just taking notes on this”- I used my hands- “ ‘love’ thing that’s been going around. Because unfortunately, I’ve never felt such a thing for a particular other.” He gave me a shy smile, then fixed his gaze on my notepad and determined hand. “Okay, if you must ask. You better have a quick hand, because I’m not pausing for you.” He started to recollect his thoughts. He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, I saw the hurt and the burden that he had carried on his shoulders, pushed out front and center, ready to be told, ready to be revealed. When he opened his eyes, I didn’t see the young, cheerful, ready-for-life guy I’d met 2 hours ago. I saw a little boy who had seen too much that he wasn’t ready for. “Mr. Bryans, forgive me, but if this is an uncomfortable topic, I’ll ask someone else…” I tried to say it in my softest, most gentle voice. He held up his hand. “No, I’m fine, just give me a second.” With each second, my sympathy grew for this man who I’d just met, yet felt his hurt and his heartache like it was my own.
“Her name was Jane. We met in college. We were both in our graduate year. We’d been dating for almost 5 years, and, believe it or not, I thought that I was ready to settle down with her. You know, after we finished our studies, bought a house, and had everything the way we wanted. I proposed, and to my surprise, she couldn’t have been happier. When the semester ended, we moved into our new house, ready to begin the lives that we both we were ready to put into practice. The wedding was already being planned perfectly, a package deal in our all to good to believe lives. Time passed, we said our vows, and I couldn’t have been a happier man. Amazingly, after 3 months of marriage, we were expecting our first child. She said she would be thrilled if we ended up with baby twin girls. In a few months, our wish was granted, and the ultrasound had the proof. In the 9 months that passed”- he cringed, took a deep breath- “the time came. It was 11:38 p.m. I remember holding her hand, hearing her screams, eager for the arrival of our baby girls. And at 11:54, she stopped screaming, and we were all left listening to the sound of the heart monitor going dead… and no baby girls crying…”
“Mr. Bryans… I’m so sorry, I should have never asked. Please, don’t say anything further if it’s to painful.” I urged, almost wanting to take this guy into my arms and let him cry, and maybe, with a bit of luck, heal his shattered heart.
“No, you have a future depending on this. Anyway, I guess, to answer your question, yes, I have loved another, and I’m sure you’re wondering what it feels like? It’s the connection and the bond you feel to a person, the string that keeps you clinging to them like a starving cat, and when that persons gone, so is your heart. Like invisible scissors snapped that string, and tore you away from everything you’ve ever wanted. But when their with you, you feel whole. You feel like everything in the world falls perfectly into place for you.”
I would have never guessed that someone so optimistic like Scott would have such a terrible past, such grief clinging to them like Velcro. But never judge a book by it’s cover, right?
Scott’s epitome, honestly, did not help. It made me understand what heartbreak felt like, what he was feeling now, but not what merriment and the joy that love apparently brought did to you. That’s what I needed to know, needed to feel, in order to save this book from becoming a blind description of “the love of my life”.
After about an hour and a half, I gave up. With a solemn realization, I accepted the fact that if I really wanted this, if I truly wanted to reach beyond my microcosm and see the possibilities, I had to experience love myself.
Daylight begun to seep through my fogged, dirty windows. With a quick glance at the clock, I plopped myself back down on the mattress and shut my eyes in pure frustration.
In an attempt to find an ounce of unrelenting peace, I strained my ears, tuned my thoughts to listen to the silence and feel the still air at work in my apartment.
Silent. Agitation transfiguring slowly- or trying- molding into the peace that I yearn for, that I dream of acquiring only through what I know best. Transform the silence, the beauty, the wonders of this earth, of this environment around me into pictures that play along the eyes of those who will seek my testimonies, those who might read my material. They almost feel, see, smell every thing that I jotted down, and in that way, experience is never wasted.
The thoughts that seemed to be mine silently encouraged me to listen in, to intertwine myself with the sounds of early morning New York.
A symphony of chirping begun to break out along the boundaries of my window; a group of birds harmonizing themselves for their morning song assembled themselves merrily in the trees surrounding my apartment. They sung, oblivious to the angst flooding the streets of New York. They almost seemed to be laughing as their cares flew away with the melodic stream of their songs; beauty emerging from the very depths of their tired throats.
Then, breaking my aura of utmost tranquility, a car road along noisily through the streets with an anger that seemed to radiate up to my window, stealing any ounce of peace that I had obtained.
I sighed, running a hand through my tangled hair.
Laying in bed no longer seemed comforting, at the very least, it built up on my impatience. With a grunt, I sat up in bed, resting my heavy head in my hands.
The sunlight did not leave me, not like my moment of peace rudely did. It warmed my skin with a gentleness that almost reassured me, that almost told me it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t strong enough, not prominent enough to leak through my tired skin.
I put one lazy foot on the ground. Might as well freshen up. Maybe a nice, warm breakfast will lighten my mood.
As I placed my foot and weight on the ground, I met my luggage, and not the floor, sending me toppling over face first, scattering all my personal belongings over the carpet and giving me a nice, swelling bruise on my arm.
Inches away from my idiotic accident, lay my phone, vibrating in its place and making all the noise it can to catch my attention.
With a puff of anger, I reached for it, and saw with a stab of shocking nervousness which hit me in the gut, that Scott was calling me. No one ever called me.
“Hello?,” I answered clearing my throat and releasing the hoarse sound of a long, sleepless night.
“Hello, Amy. I didn’t disturb you, did I?,” Scott whispered on the other end of the line.
“No! No, actually I was just getting up to get something to eat. What’s up?”
“Oh, well then I’ve got some good timing.”- He laughed. “Well the reason I’m calling is completely unprofessional and you have every right to deny without hesitation…” Scott paused, either gathering his thoughts or expecting an acknowledgement for me to continue. I opened my mouth to encourage him to continue, but he spoke the next line quickly enough to interrupt me.
“What I’m asking is, would you like to come over today for a cup of coffee? Maybe contemplate the aspects which would be your career as an author? The courses I can personally and professionally suggest to get you where you’d like to be? It’s quite personal, I’ll clear that up, but it has a professional outcome… and well, to be honest, I enjoy your company. If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t much contact with the outside, social world. Well, enough babbling. What do you say?,” he ended with a breath of nervous relief.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the effort that it had taken for this man to simply ask me if I wanted to hang out with him.
“Of course, Scott, of course. New York seems like a very lonely place. I’d like to spend my day with you,” I replied merrily.
The car, streaming along the paved road, only hummed as our chatter filled about the vehicle; while absorbed in the mystery of the other, the world could have crumbled to pieces, withering away and cascading into the dark, and yet it would not have affected our animated conversation. “… No, really, I’ve never lived in a city. But you know, there isn’t that much difference. This probably won’t make any sense, really… But… I was trapped in an open field. The broad landscape was there, spread out in front of me, calling me to it’s world of wonder- but all I could do was sit there quietly, marveling at everything, never once reaching out to touch reality. I’d been exposed to the scents, the warm fragrances of the dusk in the country… But my mother would always call before I stood, before I sprinted out to fall into nature. So this… Isn’t that big of a shock, really.” Scott nodded, lost in his trance, and pulled into an exit. From the distance, near the dock, I could see a Ferris Wheel slowly turning, working and grunting with it’s efforts to steer smoothly and not quiver with the weight.
“A fair? In New York?,” I asked, not bothering to detain my shock. Scott chuckled, steering with ease towards our destination. “Well, listening to your story, I felt bad. You basically are a city girl, Amy. So we’ll see some sights, ride some of those rides over there, feel the ocean mist swirl in your lungs, and maybe take a break on a boat for a little while. And talk, in the center of it all.” I smiled lightly at this. “Well… Okay. That sounds nice. Rides though… Um…,” I trailed off, cringing slightly at the screech of metal emitting from the amusement festival only a mile or so off in the distance. Scott could not contain his laughter. “Oh! Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights and harmless little rides like these?” I let him finish. “Okay, I’ll lie and say I’m not. But really, let’s just go with the sight seeing for today…”
With another shake of the head and a little laugh, Scott drove off the road towards the fair and made his way towards the dock.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
When In New York (Part 2)
In this entree, Scott and Amy commence their outing. What lies ahead of Amy is confusion, wonder, and a man who is willing to open doors.
I was right, the stairs creaked with every pound pressed on them. How could a Dean- a Dean from New York University- live in a dump like this? The only reasons I could think of were immense greed with saving money and wasting small bursts of it on essential things like a home, one that the underprivileged stayed in. The other less judging reason was that he didn’t want to be to showy, and just sort of blend in with all the craziness of the Big City when he himself was a celebrity of New York University.
I paced behind him along the long corridor. G14, G15, G16, G17.…
He turned to door G18. He fidgeted in his pocket for some time, his plastic face beginning to crease with the impatience as each second ticked by. I looked around to pass the minute or so, and couldn’t help but grimace.
Nothing like home, alright. Nothing like the wide open ranches with the smell of grass lurking in the air, nothing like the laughs and the voices partying at dawn; it was just a collaboration of factory smells, misty air, and unnerving sounds. The city sounds were distant from here, that was a relief, but I could very well hear angry men shouting at youngsters, cars beeping and honking, and loudest of all, Scott unlocking and rattling the door.
It budged after a few grunts and sighs. Scott looked at me with an apologetic smirk. “It’s a fighter,” he murmured. I smiled and he gestured for me to walk inside, which I did hesitantly.
Whoa.
I’d underestimated his ability to spend.
Though it was small and shaggy, the interior was that of a millionaire’s home. The floor was polished linoleum that gleamed in the dim sunlight that cast through the sun window at the far end of the apartment. As I stepped on them I was conscious of the intricate designs that flowed from tile to tile. He walked over to the large window and draped them shut, cringing and blinking as the contrast took place. I could no longer see the marble floor, so I looked up, honestly disappointed I could not study it any longer. He pointed to the leather couch that was positioned in front of a plasma TV that clung to the wall.
“Make yourself at home, I just need to change, pack some money, and then we’ll be on our way. The kitchens over there, the bathrooms down that hallway, first door on the left, and the remotes right there on the coffee table. If you like music, I got a couple CD’s stacked on there to. Excuse me,” and he left the room, down the other hallway and into his bedroom.
I looked around, pouting. He really didn’t have any creativity.
The floor was the most interesting thing in this place. Even though the kitchen’s décor and the living room’s furnishing was divine, it was just so simple, so expected of him. The walls were a plain bold blue, boarded with a pattern that was of no interest to me after 2 seconds. Where were the art sculptures that left you gaping until you could dig out meaning or beauty in them? Where were the out of place books, the scrawled handwriting on a to-do list or, best of all, the chunky white cat greeting guests?
But I didn’t want to stand here scrutinizing his home with displeasure when he got back, so I sat on the smooth couch and fidgeted with my fingers.
I heard the soft sound of water trickling from a drain, and I sighed with annoyance. Of course, he had to take a shower. Just couldn’t take the smug in the air could you?
I looked around and wondered what I could do to pass time. TV was out of the question. It was just an excuse for global mind control- either that or the attempt to clean mind’s of all creativity. I scanned the room for family portraits or any type of photos, but found only a little snapshot of him in a graduation gown, holding his diploma with a large grin all over his face, standing with pride in front of NYU. I searched for books; maybe the guy did appreciate literature but was just to much of a neat-freak to leave them scattered, but found only old textbooks tucked neatly away into a cabinet.
He owned the place alright, but it could have been anyone else‘s. There was no sense of home here, just a neatly stuffed room with essential tools to live and a TV.
I stared at my suitcase. Oh well, it never hurt to review.
With quick fingers I pried open the case and pulled out my manuscript. Not yet named, not even a full 4 chapters. Had to start somewhere, right?
“It’s…how do I put this? Beautiful plot, that goes without saying. You have incredible potential, dear, but it lacks… it lacks knowledge. Have you ever been in love, sweetie? Have you ever felt those stomach turning butterflies when you looked into the most wonderful set of eyes you’d ever seen? Looked into them, thought for a second or two, and realized that it was that person who kept you standing on the ground when everything else tried to push you over? Don’t get me wrong, honey, you are an amazing writer. But to write a romance novel and just… just seem to guess at these powerful feelings doesn’t click. You can imagine what it feels like to be near death. You can sort of put tears in your eyes when you think of your cat dying. But you can’t guess what it is to want to spend eternity with someone else”.
Martha Edwards. She really is an amazing editor.
She read and re-read this piece of senseless writing, making notes and scheduling chats with me to discuss what she thought, professionally, to better my chances of making a living out of it. So her honesty did strike me as hurtful, I won’t deny that, but I was thankful as she placed the pages down on the table and smiled, the criteria echoing in my head and already running through the pages to edit.
Because not only did it make me realize this piece of writing was useless, but it made me ask myself a question that I couldn’t snag off my mind, no matter what else I distracted myself with.
Have I ever been in love?
No. I haven’t. And it didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon.
Before I could think about it again, I heard the water stop.
I placed the manuscript into the suitcase carefully again and looked down the hallway.
He came out of his room, nicely dressed, but casual enough to roam the streets of New York, I suppose. He smiled at me, noticed something on my face, and his eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong”?
“Nothing. Why would you ask”? I didn’t feel any discomfort, just the present nagging question of why he took interest in me, let alone how he was so comfortable with a stranger in his home. “You look… you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your face was blank, but held some sort of frightened tint in it. Just scared me there for a minute…But any who, shall we”?
Of course, he had to have a sports car.
As taken aback as I was, I couldn’t help but marveling at the jet back polishing of the Ferrari, glowing in the few rays of sunlight casting it’s back.
It looked brand new, smelled brand new, and even ran like he’d bought it yesterday, but according to him he’d bought it almost over a year ago. This wasn’t a surprise, of course, because we’d had to walk over to the nearest building complex’s parking lot to find his car, lost in the sea of luxuries around it. So he’d kept amazing care of it, hiding it in the other cars that had security guards posted at all entrances.
We kept casual conversation flowing in the car on the way to Starbucks. He’d spoken of his degrees and employment at the University, of his majors (which was Dentistry, no surprise, given his perfect smile), and of pretty much his whole education. He was proud alright. Proud of the old western money he came from, proud of the privileges given to him by his parents as a boy.
I couldn’t help but nod and just let him babble as I numbly ran my fingers through the leathery feel of his chairs. The seams pressed lightly against the tips of my fingers, sending a quick ripple of amazement up my arm. The sowing was the finest there was, no way possible that something so beautiful could be made. I ran my hand down the chair, onto the top of the glove compartment. I felt around for dust, for the feel of a speckle of flaw, but found nothing. Just smooth wood.
Distracted by the sudden rain that hit the window, I looked up, maybe to suddenly, and he noticed at once that I hadn’t paid much attention. But I’d been able to soak up the important things, so I was safe.
“You are one curious little writer, you know,” he said, staring at my face as I studied the droplets of frozen rain trickling down the window, pushing through the thin fog that clouded the glass, leaving a trail behind it.
I looked up, startled. So he knew I was an aspiring writer, too. Well I wouldn’t be surprised if next he spurted out my social security number.
“You knew I wrote?” I failed at hiding the shake in my voice. He looked at my suitcase, then back up at me as if it was the most obvious question he’d ever been asked. “I’m the Dean of the school you plan to attend. You’d sent almost all of your abilities, past education and background information you could give. Who do you think reads all that? But either way, I’ve known authors in the past, and each and everyone of them seem to find enjoyment in the simplest of things. Like sitting on a bench and watching the pavement. Or studying someone’s home, not even bothering to peak at the television right in front of them. And being able to hear every word I just said while making note of the tiniest details in a car. I’ll never know if it’s just absent mindedness, or the ability to get completely lost in your thoughts and be aware of the world around you at the same time. But it’s amazing, never the less, and I admire you for that, Ms. Miller. That is why I’d like you to attend my school when it goes back in session after the holidays. You are brilliant, Amy- do you mind if I call you Amy?- and I’d never be happier to have such talent get an education at my own school”.
“You can call me Amy,” was all I got out. He laughed, pressing on the gas and turning the corner as the street light flashed green.
“Oh! Manny, will you please come with me? Manny kiss me before we must part!”
With an irritated sigh, I shut the T.V off. That was the end of my attempt in trying to find inspiration.
Shakespeare and his fluent descriptions of it were somewhat helpful, if not completely useless. My first resort, of course, was Shakespeare. Who else, but the author of the greatest love story ever told?
When that failed, I’d interviewed my close friends and relatives to get a small clue of what it felt like. “It’s just… this swell in your heart. It’s there and it grows with every moment you spend with that person, passing as a comforting heat, and when they’re gone… it sort of inflates. With every second without them, it feels like your heart just might explode.” I’d put that note down, along with the many others that had endless descriptions on the effect of love.
Then, surprisingly, I’d given T.V a try. Sop Operas that seemed to be a monologue of cheating lovers and incest bored me to tears; broken hearts and cheesy goodbyes made me want to gag.
Now here I sat, staring hopelessly into the starry night through my window, straining my brain to think of a way to get past my predicament.
I was right, the stairs creaked with every pound pressed on them. How could a Dean- a Dean from New York University- live in a dump like this? The only reasons I could think of were immense greed with saving money and wasting small bursts of it on essential things like a home, one that the underprivileged stayed in. The other less judging reason was that he didn’t want to be to showy, and just sort of blend in with all the craziness of the Big City when he himself was a celebrity of New York University.
I paced behind him along the long corridor. G14, G15, G16, G17.…
He turned to door G18. He fidgeted in his pocket for some time, his plastic face beginning to crease with the impatience as each second ticked by. I looked around to pass the minute or so, and couldn’t help but grimace.
Nothing like home, alright. Nothing like the wide open ranches with the smell of grass lurking in the air, nothing like the laughs and the voices partying at dawn; it was just a collaboration of factory smells, misty air, and unnerving sounds. The city sounds were distant from here, that was a relief, but I could very well hear angry men shouting at youngsters, cars beeping and honking, and loudest of all, Scott unlocking and rattling the door.
It budged after a few grunts and sighs. Scott looked at me with an apologetic smirk. “It’s a fighter,” he murmured. I smiled and he gestured for me to walk inside, which I did hesitantly.
Whoa.
I’d underestimated his ability to spend.
Though it was small and shaggy, the interior was that of a millionaire’s home. The floor was polished linoleum that gleamed in the dim sunlight that cast through the sun window at the far end of the apartment. As I stepped on them I was conscious of the intricate designs that flowed from tile to tile. He walked over to the large window and draped them shut, cringing and blinking as the contrast took place. I could no longer see the marble floor, so I looked up, honestly disappointed I could not study it any longer. He pointed to the leather couch that was positioned in front of a plasma TV that clung to the wall.
“Make yourself at home, I just need to change, pack some money, and then we’ll be on our way. The kitchens over there, the bathrooms down that hallway, first door on the left, and the remotes right there on the coffee table. If you like music, I got a couple CD’s stacked on there to. Excuse me,” and he left the room, down the other hallway and into his bedroom.
I looked around, pouting. He really didn’t have any creativity.
The floor was the most interesting thing in this place. Even though the kitchen’s décor and the living room’s furnishing was divine, it was just so simple, so expected of him. The walls were a plain bold blue, boarded with a pattern that was of no interest to me after 2 seconds. Where were the art sculptures that left you gaping until you could dig out meaning or beauty in them? Where were the out of place books, the scrawled handwriting on a to-do list or, best of all, the chunky white cat greeting guests?
But I didn’t want to stand here scrutinizing his home with displeasure when he got back, so I sat on the smooth couch and fidgeted with my fingers.
I heard the soft sound of water trickling from a drain, and I sighed with annoyance. Of course, he had to take a shower. Just couldn’t take the smug in the air could you?
I looked around and wondered what I could do to pass time. TV was out of the question. It was just an excuse for global mind control- either that or the attempt to clean mind’s of all creativity. I scanned the room for family portraits or any type of photos, but found only a little snapshot of him in a graduation gown, holding his diploma with a large grin all over his face, standing with pride in front of NYU. I searched for books; maybe the guy did appreciate literature but was just to much of a neat-freak to leave them scattered, but found only old textbooks tucked neatly away into a cabinet.
He owned the place alright, but it could have been anyone else‘s. There was no sense of home here, just a neatly stuffed room with essential tools to live and a TV.
I stared at my suitcase. Oh well, it never hurt to review.
With quick fingers I pried open the case and pulled out my manuscript. Not yet named, not even a full 4 chapters. Had to start somewhere, right?
“It’s…how do I put this? Beautiful plot, that goes without saying. You have incredible potential, dear, but it lacks… it lacks knowledge. Have you ever been in love, sweetie? Have you ever felt those stomach turning butterflies when you looked into the most wonderful set of eyes you’d ever seen? Looked into them, thought for a second or two, and realized that it was that person who kept you standing on the ground when everything else tried to push you over? Don’t get me wrong, honey, you are an amazing writer. But to write a romance novel and just… just seem to guess at these powerful feelings doesn’t click. You can imagine what it feels like to be near death. You can sort of put tears in your eyes when you think of your cat dying. But you can’t guess what it is to want to spend eternity with someone else”.
Martha Edwards. She really is an amazing editor.
She read and re-read this piece of senseless writing, making notes and scheduling chats with me to discuss what she thought, professionally, to better my chances of making a living out of it. So her honesty did strike me as hurtful, I won’t deny that, but I was thankful as she placed the pages down on the table and smiled, the criteria echoing in my head and already running through the pages to edit.
Because not only did it make me realize this piece of writing was useless, but it made me ask myself a question that I couldn’t snag off my mind, no matter what else I distracted myself with.
Have I ever been in love?
No. I haven’t. And it didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon.
Before I could think about it again, I heard the water stop.
I placed the manuscript into the suitcase carefully again and looked down the hallway.
He came out of his room, nicely dressed, but casual enough to roam the streets of New York, I suppose. He smiled at me, noticed something on my face, and his eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong”?
“Nothing. Why would you ask”? I didn’t feel any discomfort, just the present nagging question of why he took interest in me, let alone how he was so comfortable with a stranger in his home. “You look… you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your face was blank, but held some sort of frightened tint in it. Just scared me there for a minute…But any who, shall we”?
Of course, he had to have a sports car.
As taken aback as I was, I couldn’t help but marveling at the jet back polishing of the Ferrari, glowing in the few rays of sunlight casting it’s back.
It looked brand new, smelled brand new, and even ran like he’d bought it yesterday, but according to him he’d bought it almost over a year ago. This wasn’t a surprise, of course, because we’d had to walk over to the nearest building complex’s parking lot to find his car, lost in the sea of luxuries around it. So he’d kept amazing care of it, hiding it in the other cars that had security guards posted at all entrances.
We kept casual conversation flowing in the car on the way to Starbucks. He’d spoken of his degrees and employment at the University, of his majors (which was Dentistry, no surprise, given his perfect smile), and of pretty much his whole education. He was proud alright. Proud of the old western money he came from, proud of the privileges given to him by his parents as a boy.
I couldn’t help but nod and just let him babble as I numbly ran my fingers through the leathery feel of his chairs. The seams pressed lightly against the tips of my fingers, sending a quick ripple of amazement up my arm. The sowing was the finest there was, no way possible that something so beautiful could be made. I ran my hand down the chair, onto the top of the glove compartment. I felt around for dust, for the feel of a speckle of flaw, but found nothing. Just smooth wood.
Distracted by the sudden rain that hit the window, I looked up, maybe to suddenly, and he noticed at once that I hadn’t paid much attention. But I’d been able to soak up the important things, so I was safe.
“You are one curious little writer, you know,” he said, staring at my face as I studied the droplets of frozen rain trickling down the window, pushing through the thin fog that clouded the glass, leaving a trail behind it.
I looked up, startled. So he knew I was an aspiring writer, too. Well I wouldn’t be surprised if next he spurted out my social security number.
“You knew I wrote?” I failed at hiding the shake in my voice. He looked at my suitcase, then back up at me as if it was the most obvious question he’d ever been asked. “I’m the Dean of the school you plan to attend. You’d sent almost all of your abilities, past education and background information you could give. Who do you think reads all that? But either way, I’ve known authors in the past, and each and everyone of them seem to find enjoyment in the simplest of things. Like sitting on a bench and watching the pavement. Or studying someone’s home, not even bothering to peak at the television right in front of them. And being able to hear every word I just said while making note of the tiniest details in a car. I’ll never know if it’s just absent mindedness, or the ability to get completely lost in your thoughts and be aware of the world around you at the same time. But it’s amazing, never the less, and I admire you for that, Ms. Miller. That is why I’d like you to attend my school when it goes back in session after the holidays. You are brilliant, Amy- do you mind if I call you Amy?- and I’d never be happier to have such talent get an education at my own school”.
“You can call me Amy,” was all I got out. He laughed, pressing on the gas and turning the corner as the street light flashed green.
“Oh! Manny, will you please come with me? Manny kiss me before we must part!”
With an irritated sigh, I shut the T.V off. That was the end of my attempt in trying to find inspiration.
Shakespeare and his fluent descriptions of it were somewhat helpful, if not completely useless. My first resort, of course, was Shakespeare. Who else, but the author of the greatest love story ever told?
When that failed, I’d interviewed my close friends and relatives to get a small clue of what it felt like. “It’s just… this swell in your heart. It’s there and it grows with every moment you spend with that person, passing as a comforting heat, and when they’re gone… it sort of inflates. With every second without them, it feels like your heart just might explode.” I’d put that note down, along with the many others that had endless descriptions on the effect of love.
Then, surprisingly, I’d given T.V a try. Sop Operas that seemed to be a monologue of cheating lovers and incest bored me to tears; broken hearts and cheesy goodbyes made me want to gag.
Now here I sat, staring hopelessly into the starry night through my window, straining my brain to think of a way to get past my predicament.
When In New York (Part 1)
This is the beginning of my story, When In New York. Chapter one, or however you may like to put it. As it is the beginning, I shan't provide you a description, for I'm sure you'd like (if you even have bothered to read this far) to unravel the story for yourself. Thank you so much, once again, and I hope (in sheer honestly I truly hope) that you enjoy this. ;
The pavement was a tad bit chilly.
My first observation of the great New York. Not the glimmering lights or the rushing taxis, not the celebrities looming in large crowds with those do I look hidden? expressions on their faces- no, it was the stupid cold floor.
I tapped my feet on the brittle ground, just idly at first. I began to pick up tempo, and then found myself making a song out of it. Soon enough, I was making my whole body an orchestra out of a simple beat that was dull and flat. I hummed, out of tune and terribly, probably looking insane to the bystanders that paced on the sidewalk. But I was content at the moment, content in this sad, lifeless little place they call New York. And damn it, I was entertained, something the sullen faces that these people wore lacked miserably.
I took a raspy breath, felt the tickle of freezing air swirl within my empty lungs, felt it come right back up and saw it sprout into a tiny puff of smoke, then disappear into the foggy sky. I was cold alright, just about shaking with sudden jolts that tested my balance seriously, even though my buttocks was plastered to the billboard chair underneath me, and all I could do for about another hour was stare at the building in front of me, maybe even keep up the stupid beat I had going on.
With a few more taps, I sighed again, taking in the nasty, rusty New York smell, and gave up. I killed it. No creativity, little Ms. Author?
Author. Right. Yes, my suitcase with the “beautiful” manuscript inside was slacked neatly across my shoulder. Yes, my thoughts sometimes went to places that a normal person wouldn’t, and maybe for the best part. But “talented”? Maybe they had phoned the wrong person or-
My thoughts were halted with a loud yell from across the street.
Oh, just a homeless man. In his scrunched up little cardboard box, he pleaded with frozen tears at the tips of his eyes, widening with each “no” that he took to the heart. His drapes, excuses for clothes, wrapped around him with a thinness that I could see- even from across the street. His burnt, exposed skin was peeking through the thin coat. I could see that he really was starved; his ribs were pressing against the skin. He had a heavy beard, uncared for and greasy, moving with each yelp and each movement of his little lips. His eyes were relatively large, but something about his shrunken, condensing figure made them small against the bridges of his cheekbones. They were high up and plainly visible, adding to the starved look on the poor man’s exterior. His nose looked like it was once pointed and sturdy, but now, as I stared with a sadness that I couldn’t put away, it was bent and old, along with the rest of him. As the selfish, angry people passed him and refused to give him a cent, the man relented, and crawled quietly back into his corner in between the apartment and the department store, disappearing into the utter blackness that seemed to lead to no where.
I felt so bad for him, so guilty that here I was, waiting to start my life and become somewhat successful, he was shrinking away to a street rat, his only hope of eating was to be reduced to begging.
I kept pondering on such a helpless creature, seriously considering getting up and following the man to offer him a couple bucks, when I noticed sudden movement in the apartment across the street from me.
There wasn’t much to see. It was a typical New York style apartment complex; withering and fading behind the local stores and new buildings around it. The paint was chipped and far from bold, the water stains and rust crusting the sides of the buildings with snake like creases. The stairs were rusty and old, creaking with a sudden rush of wintry air that seemed to be testing it’s strength, which didn’t seem like much at all. I would give it about another month, before the repair men would be grunting with effort to fix the age-old railings, just enough to be passed off as crappy stairs, but their work regarded for never the less. The window I thought I saw something out of was square, plainly white and dusty with a cheap lock dangling from the hinge. It was no different from the hundreds of surrounding ones, but I was positive I’d seen someone peak out that one, watch me for a few seconds, and retreat. I thought I’d seen it from the corner of my eye, but I could be imagining it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had.
So I kept still and never changed my composure of a 21 year old girl, out to see the world around her and begin her thriving new life in New York.
Maybe I should start that hopeless song again…
I was in the process of actually getting somewhere with my sad beat, when someone stood in front of me, either expecting me to move, watching me like the little stalker they are, or expecting me. Their figure was rigid, reacting to the teasing cold in the air.
I looked up slowly, stopping my progressing music, and stared at whoever stood in front of me.
“Are you Amy Miller? Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Scott Bryans, Dean of New York University. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Miller.” He held out his hand, with a polite smile expanding on his All-American face.
He was a good-looking guy. Nice smile, great body, and a pretty face. He had the rounded cheekbones that gave him about 10 years off his real age, the picture perfect Colgate smile, the beach blond hair to brighten the clear turquoise eyes and compliment the artificially tanned skin. His muscles flexed as his jaw set into the smile that would leer me in, his arms stiffened at my touch. The polo he was wearing hugged the athletic body he was sporting. I subtly ran my eyes down his body. He was something to look at alright, but something about him just screamed plastic. So no, I wasn’t going to think about him for the remainder of my stay.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bryans,” I said. I wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted or how in the world he knew my name, let alone know I was that individual, but years of experience taught me to get on everyone’s good side, no matter how much they freaked you out. He was, after all, the Dean of my dream school.
He cleared his throat as he dropped my hand. “Boy is it cold out here! Mind my asking, but what exactly have you been doing out here in the streets alone in this weather so long, Ms. Miller?,” he asked, with honest curiosity.
“I was waiting for the bus. I was going to see the sites before I started moving in and all. Got to see New York you know,” I mumbled, starting to feel a little uneasy with his curiosity. He seemed to find that intriguing, because he looked at me with concern, thought, and then smiled with a question already tickling his lips. “I could take you sight-seeing. I need to speak with you about the University anyway, so why don’t you tag along for lunch and we chat there, eh?,” he suggested.
The thought of going somewhere with him flipped my stomach and my immediate thought was “hell no”, but this was my education pending on the line. “That sounds wonderful,” I said with the lightest voice I could manage, extending a smile on my face. “Great, just let me get some stuff from my place and then we’ll go around town, okay?”
The pavement was a tad bit chilly.
My first observation of the great New York. Not the glimmering lights or the rushing taxis, not the celebrities looming in large crowds with those do I look hidden? expressions on their faces- no, it was the stupid cold floor.
I tapped my feet on the brittle ground, just idly at first. I began to pick up tempo, and then found myself making a song out of it. Soon enough, I was making my whole body an orchestra out of a simple beat that was dull and flat. I hummed, out of tune and terribly, probably looking insane to the bystanders that paced on the sidewalk. But I was content at the moment, content in this sad, lifeless little place they call New York. And damn it, I was entertained, something the sullen faces that these people wore lacked miserably.
I took a raspy breath, felt the tickle of freezing air swirl within my empty lungs, felt it come right back up and saw it sprout into a tiny puff of smoke, then disappear into the foggy sky. I was cold alright, just about shaking with sudden jolts that tested my balance seriously, even though my buttocks was plastered to the billboard chair underneath me, and all I could do for about another hour was stare at the building in front of me, maybe even keep up the stupid beat I had going on.
With a few more taps, I sighed again, taking in the nasty, rusty New York smell, and gave up. I killed it. No creativity, little Ms. Author?
Author. Right. Yes, my suitcase with the “beautiful” manuscript inside was slacked neatly across my shoulder. Yes, my thoughts sometimes went to places that a normal person wouldn’t, and maybe for the best part. But “talented”? Maybe they had phoned the wrong person or-
My thoughts were halted with a loud yell from across the street.
Oh, just a homeless man. In his scrunched up little cardboard box, he pleaded with frozen tears at the tips of his eyes, widening with each “no” that he took to the heart. His drapes, excuses for clothes, wrapped around him with a thinness that I could see- even from across the street. His burnt, exposed skin was peeking through the thin coat. I could see that he really was starved; his ribs were pressing against the skin. He had a heavy beard, uncared for and greasy, moving with each yelp and each movement of his little lips. His eyes were relatively large, but something about his shrunken, condensing figure made them small against the bridges of his cheekbones. They were high up and plainly visible, adding to the starved look on the poor man’s exterior. His nose looked like it was once pointed and sturdy, but now, as I stared with a sadness that I couldn’t put away, it was bent and old, along with the rest of him. As the selfish, angry people passed him and refused to give him a cent, the man relented, and crawled quietly back into his corner in between the apartment and the department store, disappearing into the utter blackness that seemed to lead to no where.
I felt so bad for him, so guilty that here I was, waiting to start my life and become somewhat successful, he was shrinking away to a street rat, his only hope of eating was to be reduced to begging.
I kept pondering on such a helpless creature, seriously considering getting up and following the man to offer him a couple bucks, when I noticed sudden movement in the apartment across the street from me.
There wasn’t much to see. It was a typical New York style apartment complex; withering and fading behind the local stores and new buildings around it. The paint was chipped and far from bold, the water stains and rust crusting the sides of the buildings with snake like creases. The stairs were rusty and old, creaking with a sudden rush of wintry air that seemed to be testing it’s strength, which didn’t seem like much at all. I would give it about another month, before the repair men would be grunting with effort to fix the age-old railings, just enough to be passed off as crappy stairs, but their work regarded for never the less. The window I thought I saw something out of was square, plainly white and dusty with a cheap lock dangling from the hinge. It was no different from the hundreds of surrounding ones, but I was positive I’d seen someone peak out that one, watch me for a few seconds, and retreat. I thought I’d seen it from the corner of my eye, but I could be imagining it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had.
So I kept still and never changed my composure of a 21 year old girl, out to see the world around her and begin her thriving new life in New York.
Maybe I should start that hopeless song again…
I was in the process of actually getting somewhere with my sad beat, when someone stood in front of me, either expecting me to move, watching me like the little stalker they are, or expecting me. Their figure was rigid, reacting to the teasing cold in the air.
I looked up slowly, stopping my progressing music, and stared at whoever stood in front of me.
“Are you Amy Miller? Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Scott Bryans, Dean of New York University. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Miller.” He held out his hand, with a polite smile expanding on his All-American face.
He was a good-looking guy. Nice smile, great body, and a pretty face. He had the rounded cheekbones that gave him about 10 years off his real age, the picture perfect Colgate smile, the beach blond hair to brighten the clear turquoise eyes and compliment the artificially tanned skin. His muscles flexed as his jaw set into the smile that would leer me in, his arms stiffened at my touch. The polo he was wearing hugged the athletic body he was sporting. I subtly ran my eyes down his body. He was something to look at alright, but something about him just screamed plastic. So no, I wasn’t going to think about him for the remainder of my stay.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bryans,” I said. I wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted or how in the world he knew my name, let alone know I was that individual, but years of experience taught me to get on everyone’s good side, no matter how much they freaked you out. He was, after all, the Dean of my dream school.
He cleared his throat as he dropped my hand. “Boy is it cold out here! Mind my asking, but what exactly have you been doing out here in the streets alone in this weather so long, Ms. Miller?,” he asked, with honest curiosity.
“I was waiting for the bus. I was going to see the sites before I started moving in and all. Got to see New York you know,” I mumbled, starting to feel a little uneasy with his curiosity. He seemed to find that intriguing, because he looked at me with concern, thought, and then smiled with a question already tickling his lips. “I could take you sight-seeing. I need to speak with you about the University anyway, so why don’t you tag along for lunch and we chat there, eh?,” he suggested.
The thought of going somewhere with him flipped my stomach and my immediate thought was “hell no”, but this was my education pending on the line. “That sounds wonderful,” I said with the lightest voice I could manage, extending a smile on my face. “Great, just let me get some stuff from my place and then we’ll go around town, okay?”
Shall I?
Well, in my course as an amateur but aspiring writer, there must be a goal in which I yearn for, in which I labor and pant, struggling to accomplish. My goal, is a novel. Of course, I have eons of time to complete such a thing. But in the passion that has driven and steered me as far as it has, I have begun an attempt at one. In the following blogs, I will post chapters and bits of this work, in a hope that whoever is reading this (and thank you, whoever you are, it means the world to my young soul) will gasp at such a piece, and itch with the curiosity of the outcome. I ask that you so kindly follow the posts, comment these entries, and help in my attempt at pursuing my dream. Thank you so much, God bless.
Someone Might Just Steal Your Seat, Honey
the flames swerve ever so slowly.
with each second, the desire to grab the danger lying so closely in front of me expands, tries to delude me into thinking that it will only be a tiny sting. branded and ashy, the first crackle of fire begins to fill the starry night, begins to pervert the innocent air with it's prominent and foul smell. "it won't hurt so bad, just pick it up. you'll save the grass underneath it. be a good little girl, now, won't you?" whoever whispered that into the polluted air, I’ll never know. but I gave in to my sweet temptation, smoldering into the nucleus and transfiguring into nothing but ruble. at level with the fire, sadistically it begins to move fervently along with the angry wind, yearning to be saved, yearning to be lifted. as my fingers tap the burning wood, almost a hiss is heard out of the wild fire that has begun to cling, not to my fingers as would seem logical, but to the root of my heart; that has begun to clasp it's agonizing sting around the soles of my most inner memories, to the newness of my heart, and devour the innocence into it's dead, miserable soul. an image of a young boy seems to form in the center of the fire, one which takes away the pain, one which seems to extinguish the searing heat playing along the organ which keeps me breathing, which keeps the blood circulating in me.
no. not now. not again. not when I just dragged my feet along the leaves in this long and lonely forest, with nothing to cling to but the memory of the one who left me in the cold with memories playing at my tired eyes. I’d made my way here because of that one, because of the journey that was the revival of my heart, the trail to no longer have to live in the depth of those memories. and now, as he all but tickles my memory, someone is being branded into my heart, being fitted nicely so that ill have something to ponder over.
and at the smallest wisp of air, the fire is gone, and I’m left with the aftermath of blazing heat still settling in my heart, with the image of this beautiful boy sitting in my head.
with each second, the desire to grab the danger lying so closely in front of me expands, tries to delude me into thinking that it will only be a tiny sting. branded and ashy, the first crackle of fire begins to fill the starry night, begins to pervert the innocent air with it's prominent and foul smell. "it won't hurt so bad, just pick it up. you'll save the grass underneath it. be a good little girl, now, won't you?" whoever whispered that into the polluted air, I’ll never know. but I gave in to my sweet temptation, smoldering into the nucleus and transfiguring into nothing but ruble. at level with the fire, sadistically it begins to move fervently along with the angry wind, yearning to be saved, yearning to be lifted. as my fingers tap the burning wood, almost a hiss is heard out of the wild fire that has begun to cling, not to my fingers as would seem logical, but to the root of my heart; that has begun to clasp it's agonizing sting around the soles of my most inner memories, to the newness of my heart, and devour the innocence into it's dead, miserable soul. an image of a young boy seems to form in the center of the fire, one which takes away the pain, one which seems to extinguish the searing heat playing along the organ which keeps me breathing, which keeps the blood circulating in me.
no. not now. not again. not when I just dragged my feet along the leaves in this long and lonely forest, with nothing to cling to but the memory of the one who left me in the cold with memories playing at my tired eyes. I’d made my way here because of that one, because of the journey that was the revival of my heart, the trail to no longer have to live in the depth of those memories. and now, as he all but tickles my memory, someone is being branded into my heart, being fitted nicely so that ill have something to ponder over.
and at the smallest wisp of air, the fire is gone, and I’m left with the aftermath of blazing heat still settling in my heart, with the image of this beautiful boy sitting in my head.
The Road Less Traveled By... The One I'm Compelled To Choose
I surfaced.
The gasp was audible, probably heard from the room across from her. No one stirred, for they were used to her spontaneous behaviors; they took it as just another one of her moments in which she would silently take care of her aches and bruises. But this one had resurfaced, one which she was certain was buried deep down into the abyss that was her heart, snuggled into nothingness; so that she could live her life without glancing back at the past that was regretfully hers. Her eyes widened with the most sympathetic pain that eyes could hold, pools of sorrow opening and realizing the truth or her situation, spreading all over her like a mad disease, determined to kill and to devour. Her heart was in chains, lagging, beating furiously to try and escape this infection which was going to claim her prisoner once again, which was going to make her drag herself back into the light which she was blindly living, and frankly, enjoying. She wept. No, take it back, she pleaded. Why have you come back? What have I done? The questions would never end, the voices would never cease to be resonant in her poor little head, nagging at her, trying to extinguish the fire that was her happiness. This was just her all to real nightmare, creeping up back into her world. She had dealt with it before, defeated the misery that had captivated her. But could she rekindle the strength that she had used?
She pondered, wondering if she was back in the slopes that was her pitiful self, asking herself is she really was that broken little girl wailing at her in the mirror.
The gasp was audible, probably heard from the room across from her. No one stirred, for they were used to her spontaneous behaviors; they took it as just another one of her moments in which she would silently take care of her aches and bruises. But this one had resurfaced, one which she was certain was buried deep down into the abyss that was her heart, snuggled into nothingness; so that she could live her life without glancing back at the past that was regretfully hers. Her eyes widened with the most sympathetic pain that eyes could hold, pools of sorrow opening and realizing the truth or her situation, spreading all over her like a mad disease, determined to kill and to devour. Her heart was in chains, lagging, beating furiously to try and escape this infection which was going to claim her prisoner once again, which was going to make her drag herself back into the light which she was blindly living, and frankly, enjoying. She wept. No, take it back, she pleaded. Why have you come back? What have I done? The questions would never end, the voices would never cease to be resonant in her poor little head, nagging at her, trying to extinguish the fire that was her happiness. This was just her all to real nightmare, creeping up back into her world. She had dealt with it before, defeated the misery that had captivated her. But could she rekindle the strength that she had used?
She pondered, wondering if she was back in the slopes that was her pitiful self, asking herself is she really was that broken little girl wailing at her in the mirror.
Battle Of The Mind
The sun’s boldness reflected my fear on this scorching day,
The fear that with a blink of an eye, we’d all have to pay.
My feet are dragging lazily on the heated pavement to no end,
We all march with weak spasms of adrenaline, we all yell out to the sky like tortured wrens.
The battle field is laid out plain and clear,
The enemies smirk with a sadistic delight, waiting for us to groggily appear.
The invisible line that divides the evil and the good wavers with the fierceness of the event,
Hoping to somehow falter and get itself out of this Bedlam, out of this predicament.
Blood is strewn across the land, those of the brave, and those of the weak.
Not one soul is standing now, I’m breathing alone, but in their place are the remains of those who fought to the very peak.
What does humanity do now, but wait until sunlight returns, to look upon their destructive complexion?
It’s a never ending battle, one that has no victor; can I make a suggestion?
Think before you raze your own kind,
Strive to save those that will be left behind.
For are we not all human, are we all not related?
It’s a sobering thought, the one that nags at our minds- what more chaos can be created?
The fear that with a blink of an eye, we’d all have to pay.
My feet are dragging lazily on the heated pavement to no end,
We all march with weak spasms of adrenaline, we all yell out to the sky like tortured wrens.
The battle field is laid out plain and clear,
The enemies smirk with a sadistic delight, waiting for us to groggily appear.
The invisible line that divides the evil and the good wavers with the fierceness of the event,
Hoping to somehow falter and get itself out of this Bedlam, out of this predicament.
Blood is strewn across the land, those of the brave, and those of the weak.
Not one soul is standing now, I’m breathing alone, but in their place are the remains of those who fought to the very peak.
What does humanity do now, but wait until sunlight returns, to look upon their destructive complexion?
It’s a never ending battle, one that has no victor; can I make a suggestion?
Think before you raze your own kind,
Strive to save those that will be left behind.
For are we not all human, are we all not related?
It’s a sobering thought, the one that nags at our minds- what more chaos can be created?
My Path To Comfort
Through oppressing darkness and the almost delusional crushing weight of a boulder,
My heaping grief breaks through my walls, they tumble down, and I feebly cry on your shoulder.
“You are weak, but in Me you are strong.”
The truth in Your words lights the dying fire thrashing inside of me, they suddenly halt the streams leaking from the corners of my eyes; words that bring comfort; words that I’ve known for so long.
In what was my every day struggles, in what is my day to day temptations, Your light is what shines reason above the choices I would and still do undoubtedly make.
I was in a race that was terribly too quick, darting in front of me in a whirlwind of confusion, and trying to catch up, trying to get what was left to take.
You placed a veil that would drop in front of my eyes, shielding me from the perversion of this world, cradling me in Your reassuring arms.
Then, like a mother bird would do to it’s young, it was my time to fly, to cascade into misery, but You were sure that no one would do me harm.
So I was molded into who I am today, looking into the Heavens, grinning at the sunlight that warms my throbbing heart.
Father in Heaven, friend I so dearly hold, I will carry out my part.
But to who will I ask to save me, to real me out of the death that can become the abyss of my reality, comfort me when I‘m blindly living?
Lord, it can only be You, with Your mercy, which you will never stop giving.
My heaping grief breaks through my walls, they tumble down, and I feebly cry on your shoulder.
“You are weak, but in Me you are strong.”
The truth in Your words lights the dying fire thrashing inside of me, they suddenly halt the streams leaking from the corners of my eyes; words that bring comfort; words that I’ve known for so long.
In what was my every day struggles, in what is my day to day temptations, Your light is what shines reason above the choices I would and still do undoubtedly make.
I was in a race that was terribly too quick, darting in front of me in a whirlwind of confusion, and trying to catch up, trying to get what was left to take.
You placed a veil that would drop in front of my eyes, shielding me from the perversion of this world, cradling me in Your reassuring arms.
Then, like a mother bird would do to it’s young, it was my time to fly, to cascade into misery, but You were sure that no one would do me harm.
So I was molded into who I am today, looking into the Heavens, grinning at the sunlight that warms my throbbing heart.
Father in Heaven, friend I so dearly hold, I will carry out my part.
But to who will I ask to save me, to real me out of the death that can become the abyss of my reality, comfort me when I‘m blindly living?
Lord, it can only be You, with Your mercy, which you will never stop giving.
Smothered In Want
The warmth was dense and protruding, burning like wildfire in the coldest of streams. As his breath began to catch, as his hands slithered and pleasured, the confrontation of want captivated her. The snake swept around and in, sinking it’s fangs between her, injecting her and poisoning her. The venom surged, bringing her chest to heave, bringing her fingers to play around with the matted hair soaking in testosterone. A sadistic grin curls in the dim moonlight, showcasing the mischievous set of teeth caged inside soft, full lips. “Trust me” He whispered.
The haze of lust brought her to nod, to real this man in her, to play her game for the night. His hands, positioned on her waist and squeezing in her build, crept up her back, gaining courage and want. Her anticipation was boiling, bubbling in her veins and seething for what would come in only seconds. Her head hung back, crushed in the weight of need, and her lips parted ever so slightly, releasing a breath of want. His hands were working, stealing her apparel and launching them across the room. Now it was his, to keep and to own.
Give her a kiss, his mind snapped. Had he not been wanting her so badly, he would have ignored this voice. But in a need clinging to him, latching around him with weights of brick, he lowered his head, leveled it with those seductive, full lips, and leaned.
She was caught up in her world of dreams, dug deeply into the fantasies. The structured man leaning towards her was making her wet, making her gasp at the beauty. Her lips parted, her breath quick, she let him kiss her; their lips barely touching at first, and then building want and need as they moved together in synchronization. And then smoothly, he tilted her back, laid her gently on the bed, and the night was tucked away in the memories of both.
The haze of lust brought her to nod, to real this man in her, to play her game for the night. His hands, positioned on her waist and squeezing in her build, crept up her back, gaining courage and want. Her anticipation was boiling, bubbling in her veins and seething for what would come in only seconds. Her head hung back, crushed in the weight of need, and her lips parted ever so slightly, releasing a breath of want. His hands were working, stealing her apparel and launching them across the room. Now it was his, to keep and to own.
Give her a kiss, his mind snapped. Had he not been wanting her so badly, he would have ignored this voice. But in a need clinging to him, latching around him with weights of brick, he lowered his head, leveled it with those seductive, full lips, and leaned.
She was caught up in her world of dreams, dug deeply into the fantasies. The structured man leaning towards her was making her wet, making her gasp at the beauty. Her lips parted, her breath quick, she let him kiss her; their lips barely touching at first, and then building want and need as they moved together in synchronization. And then smoothly, he tilted her back, laid her gently on the bed, and the night was tucked away in the memories of both.
To Say Goodbye.
Where have the months, the weeks, the days, the unforgettable seconds that we shared gone by? Did they wisp away as the night we first met seized our meaning of what a child would call love? I probably never will gain that understanding of our short time together, but in the near future, I hope you'll realize that throughout those moments, one thing never changed. Dear, that was, is, and always will be, my love for you. I don't think you understand something, my dearest. I've been slowly opening my eyes to your beauty, to your lovely essence that makes me inevitably cascade into the abyss that is helplessly loving you. And once I fell, no matter my efforts to grunt my way out, I was intertwined with you forever.
A blind man, you may call me, for not seeing the light that you drastically shed upon me and have been casting since the dawn that you unbelievably started loving me. But as you slept so soundly beside me that night, your lovely hair sprawling messily yet perfectly across the pillow, you might say I had the greatest epiphany a man can ever have. With our star seeping in through the near window, gleaming on you, in serene state of dreams, I felt that I would never get myself detached from you. I realized that you were the happiness that punctured my emptiness, that completed the lonely man I had been dragging a along beside me in vain. Study, study, study. All my mind was ever capable of conjuring was things like get to school, get home, do homework. And then, when you kissed me softly that first time, my mind oppressed, did not think about any of those things, just the magic of what a woman can do to a man, and has failed to return to this day.
And though it burdens me to observe you as you walk, so gracefully and without a care in the world, I can't help but marvel at the woman I once held in my arms, once kissed with a passion that made me drunk with haze and love. You are taken by another, simply because you are stunning, captivating, and have a personality that lures people into wanting more of you. I guess I'm one of those people.
Now, I promised you that I'd wait for you. I will keep my word. All you have to do is let me know, and darling, I'll be in the shadows, diligently picking up any pieces that may have been shattered, placing that loose strand of hair back behind your ear, just like we used too. But until then, I will wait in the wings, watching over you and making sure that you walk on your path without an obstacle to great, without a tear to much. I love you, and have this remind you of all that we have shared, and maybe just in my thoughts, will share again.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)