Presidental Visit

The president visited my edge of the world today and all I can say about his visit is that he blocked traffic during rush hour and slowed down the buses. And as a result me. It's Friday afternoon and all I want is to get home with minimal delay and not only do I get Friday traffic, but rush hour traffic, and president traffic too. A girl just wants to go home sometimes, all oval office business aside.

Internal Dialogue

I don't know about you, but I have an internal dialogue running in my head all day. Whatever thoughts I have that I don't speak out loud are loud and clear within my cranium.

Whatever you hear come from my mouth may be something completely different from what I am thinking or it could be a compilation of what I am think, the result of my current train of thought, or my exact thoughts at the time.

Sometimes when I am blogging I let my mind run through "free association" and whatever I think of is what comes. If I let myself get to critical or analytical or editorial, I tend to slow down and the words stop and the writing stops. Just keep writing. Just keep thinking. Just keep breathing.

Do you have a running dialogue in your head?

Happy Valentine's Day

smile at me softly

and take my hand

before we turn to go,

trust earth below and sky

above, their testament will show

what we have will ever grow.

Writing Prompt: Note Behind the Picture

A picture on your mantle unexpectedly falls and crashes to the floor. As you go to pick it up, you notice a note hidden behind the picture. The message is from the future—and written by you. It instructs you to do something important. What does it say?

 Crash!

I spin around to see my tortie point cat leap off the mantle, my favorite picture of James and me, falling to the floor.

"Catoozie! What are you doing?!"

I rush over to the picture, to find the glass has shattered and fallen out, and the back cover is loose. When I turn the hinge to adjust the back, a small square of folded printer paper falls out. When I open up the letter I find the words:

I duck and feel fur flying over my head. Catoozie had leaped from behind me to jump back up on the mantle and now she had a small black withering, thing in her paws.Yeowling like a banshee, she jumped away with the little creature in her mouth.

Writing Prompt: You become the universe for me...

You become the universe for me
I think about you when I hear this song
sometimes you stop being that
but every time you become
my universe again

take down your pictures from the wall
hide your trinkets and presents
hide them all

forget I met you, forget I knew
I think about you when I hear our song
and you become my world, then
and I don't want forget or hide
let's expand and                                               bam!

you become the universe again

Mirror to the Past, My Life 5 Years Ago

Happy Go Lucky Days

This was one of those days, you know the ones, which are happy go lucky, when nothing goes wrong, when the sun shines and the birds chip just for you. This was one of those days. I woke up to the sound of birds outside my window at 3am, what a lovely way to start the day. The birds welcomed the morning and helped me to welcome the morning as well. I was not so grumpy then at being woken up. I got up and performed my daily mad dash to get out the door in ten minutes. How sad it is that I never make it. However once I'm out my door, down the flight of stairs and through the outer door to the cold rush of air that characterizes the early morning, I'm struck by the brightness of the sun and freshness of the day. It is simply beginning.

I walk down the street at my customarily quick pace. I just don't like feeling like a slug when I walk. Walking is the slowest form of transportation, and although it is the one I chose, I still lament that it is so SLOW. It takes me exactly 25 minutes to get to work, so if I don't leave on time I try to rush, to try to make up for that lost time, since somehow I haven't gotten it into my thick head that no matter how fast I go, if I do not run, it will take me 25 minutes to get to work. The neighborhood is fairly quiet until I reach the downtown area. The streets are filled with people on their way to work if I am on time. If I am late, as I was this morning, the streets seem eerily empty as the people who are on time (not me!) have already reached their destinations. I hurry along, now painfully aware that I am going to be late to work again.

When I reach my office I glance quickly at the clock. Of course I'm ten minutes late, because I left ten minutes late, and I didn't run. Who wants to be sweaty at work because the sun is out on an early spring morning? I put my bag away and sit down at my desk.

Work ensues.

Finally it is time for me to leave. I'm glad the task of work is completed, but this is only the beginning of my day. Now I must rush off back home and off to class. My return walk is not as "fresh" as the one in the morning. Now the sun is fully out and the day is warm in the sunlight. The uphill climb is not as easy and the downward rush early in the day. By the time I reach my apartment I am worn and hot. I relax for the ten minutes I am allotted before rushing off to class. Today the class will discuss plays. I write a dialect filled sketch of two football players who curse the sky deaf. Class is a amusing because of the charismatic actor who sits next to me and makes faces at me every time the teacher tells the class to partner up with the person seated next to them. I'm always smiling in return. It makes me happy to smile back at his easy happiness.

After class I wander back home to do some chores and finish up homework for the next day. After having finished most of work, leaving the reading for just before bed, I commence slacking off, which includes the internet and this blog. Now I think I'll say goodnight to you and return to slacking off.

Originally written  April 2, 2007

Thoughts: Projects

Yay! For projects! I have a few in the works... although... right now I must say I am still in the thinking phase... cause, yeah... I don't have time to write... unless I want to sacrifice sleep... and well, me sacrificing sleep is never ever a good thing. I am only at my peak if I get about 9 hours of sleep. Any less and I am still functional, but prone to be irritated more... and the less sleep, the faster the irritation ensues...

Anyway, back to projects. I am working on a major collaboration: a comic book with my friend. Yay! I am excited about this. So I don't have a lot of time to write right now. However, in about a week, I am taking some time off and I plan to do a whole bunch of writing at that time.

Inspiration: Palenque, Mexico:

Poem: Una Memoria è Dimenticato

Questo è il mio poem. Ci sono circa un uomo e la sua memoria circa la morte del suo fratello. In primo luogo lui parla al suo fratello, allora lui parla alla Memoria.

Una Memoria è Dimenticato

Desidero dimenticare.

ha detto che non andresti mai

ha detto vita non concluderebbe

non ti credo

la bici rossa nella strada

il piega metallo

il corpo del mio fratello volo

ed allora ci sono voi

dio grande della terra

avete detto

potreste aiutarmi

se li desiderassi

avete detto che potreste

 aiutarmi a dimenticare il mio fratello

ma non posso dimenticare il colore rosso

bici.

è bruciata nella mia testa

la memoria non può essere dimenticata

ora io sono

un uomo con gli occhi scuriti

il cielo ed il mare gridano con me

grigio e blu lavano la mia faccia

tuono sopra me, pioggia sotto me

che cosa era ancora esso

che non potrei dimenticare

qualche cosa di rosso nella strada

Caught in the Web of Literature, Or How I Came to Read (Part 2)

When I was young my dad frequently went on many business trips. As daddy’s girl, I allowed him to go on these trips if he promised to bring back something interesting. Returning from one of those business trips, when I was about eight years old, my dad brought me back a book. At first glance I thought the book looked unappealing. The girl was obviously not a princess, and the only intriguing thing about her was her purple eyes. I asked my father why he thought I should read the book, trying not to convey any of my misgivings. He said he read the back cover and thought I might like it. Only with his confidence buoying me up, did I read the back cover, and then the first couple of pages. Alanna was supposed to be sent off to a convent to learn magic and her twin brother to the castle to become a knight, but the two switch places and Alanna goes off to be the knight, while her brother studies magic. I was hooked. This book fuelled the expansion of my imagination though reading. It was called Alanna: The First Adventure and was the first in a quartet of novels for young adults.

After that book I quickly and greedily devoured every book written by that author and continued to purchase every book of hers published. My interests were stuck fast to fantasy writing. I loved reading about knights, princesses, castles, magic, kings, and monsters. I especially liked reading about quirky princesses; anyone who was out the ordinary fairy tale was interesting to me. One story I enjoyed was called Ella Enchanted. It was loosely based on Cinderella, but truly its own story. It was far more imaginative than the original story and not as grotesque. Told in first person, by a brave, strong-willed girl named Ella, and full of wit, it was enjoyable and funny. It was also right up my alley. I loved stories about princesses, and unlike Alanna who was a very strong female protagonist but wanted to be a knight, Ella was strong, feminine and funny. Who knew, that with these tales of bravery and strength, I would be caught in the luring web of reading forever.

For many years of my childhood, I read mostly fantasy stories. When I was in high school and college my reading turned more towards classic literature per the “required reading lists”. My readings were more of Hamlet, The Great Gatsby, and The Fountainhead, as in high school, than the fun fantasy I enjoyed most. And in college I read works such as Dante’s Divine Comedy, Crime and Punishment, and Emma. I learned to analyze these literary works and evaluate them through from different critical perspectives and get multiple meanings as well as to enjoy them as literary works. I learned to imitate these readings and create my own literary pieces.

Initially I found value in literature’s ability to provide me with material to create imaginary worlds with. Later when I was able to analyze literature for its social, psychological, and cultural information, my imagination was not daunted; rather my abilities to interact with literature were expanded. I could turn to literature to act as an escape or for material to create with, or I could turn to literature to learn from it about cultures and peoples around the world. Through literature I could see another time and another place, in the world of imagination, whether fictional or real.

Caught in the Web of Literature, Or How I Came to Read (Part 1)

My first encounter with literature occurred when my parents read me bedtime stories at night before I went to sleep. One of my earliest memories is of the sound of my mother’s voice as she read the books aloud to me placing emphasis on dialog and inflection on important words. I truly enjoyed listening to my parents read to me, mostly because I liked imagining the stories before I fell asleep. The next day I would continue the stories I had imagined the night before in my daily games of imagination. I was often a princess, though I enjoyed being the type that was in disguise, hiding from the evil monster, endeavoring to save the kingdom. I usually did.

 However, there came the day when my parents decided that I should learn how to read before I entered first grade. I asked them, whatever for? I could easily understand the road signs of stop, yield, and merge, what need had I for reading? But my parents persisted. My dad created a book of words for me to study. The horrid thing was blue with pages and pages of typed words. It was the most boring book in the whole entire world. The rule was that if I agreed to read one page of the words I would be allowed to listen to a bedtime story. Now the great delight of my evening was blocked by a menace so obnoxious to my young self that I went so far as a to throw temper tantrums to stave off the impending torture. I realize now that my parents did this in love, but at the time, I swear I was tortured. And I wasn’t allowed to guess at the words. I had to read all of them, or learn them that night before I was freed to the joys of stories.

Eventually I mastered the skill of reading well enough that the blue books were left behind. I could read, and bluff my way through troublesome words so well, that future reading, such as before bedtime was left up to me. Sometimes my parents would present me with books I enjoyed reading such as Little House on the Prairie, which my dad read with me because he said it was “a little above my reading level.”  He would tuck me under the covers of my pink quilted blanket and sit on the edge of the bed. Often, my grandparents contributed books to my burgeoning library. Spoiling a little intellectual girl meant books such as The Twelve Dancing Princesses, requite with beautiful, colored pictures of dress and slippers.

Reading books as a child, I often read the book once, and moved on to another book—adventure, story, place to escape to—as quickly as I possibly could. I never wanted to read things twice and read as fast as I could. My parents often scolded me for skipping over words and names I didn’t know, refusing to stop and sound them out. But I didn’t mind, my purpose was to gather all of the stories in my head so I could use them to create my own stories in their worlds.

Poem: Fighter

Run, run, run faster!

Turn, parry, jump, dodge, stumble, fall.

Get up!

Nightmare rages behind—growling, stamping, snorting, roaring...

Monstrous

Adrenaline swoosh—rushing, swimming, floating, flying, gliding, free...

Escape!

Gravity. Pulled down, down falling, plummeting...

Wake in cold sweat.

 

Whew, Safe.

Writing Prompt: The room was…

This is my cat, Shadow and my carved pumpkin from last year.

The room was dark except for the orange glowing string of LED lights that hung from one end of the window to the other. The orange lights cast the furniture (a couch, a coffee table, two arm chairs and an end table) into shadow. Small ghost figurines on the coffee table threw orange shadows on the table because of the glowing orange string of lights. Normally they would be white. The smell of candy corn drifted from the end table and a witch’s hat lay skewed at one end of the couch. Sticky caramel goop lay in a puddle on the floor and the smell of sour apple schnapps wafted from the next room. There was a glowing pumping on the mantle placed as a center piece. Next to the pumpkin on the mantel piece sat a yellows plastic cup with an inch of flat sprite left. Next to the cup was a cheap red lighter. The orange hanging lights began to flicker giving the pumpkin a sister grin it’s carved face flashing in and out of sight. The mouse that snuck out of its hidey hole to nibble at the stocky caramel glob caught its paw n a pile of white spider web.

Writing Prompt: sad in a happy situation

Dear Diary,

Lucy got married today. I suppose I’m supposed to be happy for her. And I am. Really I am. It’s just, I never imagined her to get married so young. Not that we’re young, but I guess so soon. I didn’t expect her to get married so soon. I know we’re 22 and adults. All grown up and graduated from college and all that, but I thought I’d have a few more years with her.

I mean, come on, we’re twins! We’re supposed to be together forever. Sisters for life! But then she had to go and start dating Ryan, and then fall in love. What about our plans? And not only does she date Ryan, but she gets engaged to him. And does she listen when I tell that he’s not right for her. He’s not the one.  Oh no, she doesn’t listen at all. In fact, she goes off and decides to marry the guy. And this brings us back to today.

She asked me to be her maid of honor. And I tried. I really did. I got fitted for a dress. I bought shoes. I had my hair done. I doted on her. This morning I bought her our favorite Starbuck’s caramel macchiato, forgetting her new favorite with health conscious Ryan is those nasty skinny vanilla lattes. She smiled, said thanks, and took a sip, but I know that $4.15 of delicious caramel went down the drain the second I wasn’t looking.

Dad said during the ceremony that I looked like the dentist wanted to do a root canal. He said he hoped people would thing I was emotionally ecstatically happy for my sister. He said he hoped it was true. The happy part I mean, not the root canal part. Sure dad, sure, whatever you want.

It’s not like he has to lose his other half. Lucy and I used to be close. We were each other’s halves. When we were little girls we would dress alike just because we wanted to. We finished each other’s sentences. We did everything together; we braided each other’s hair, we were in all the same classes at school and we were on the same gymnastic steam. We even went to the same college and were both in the Liberal Arts school, though Lucy was English and I was Drama. We always knew what the other one was thinking.

Then Ryan came along. And he changed everything. I think it’s all his fault. Why did he have to come between us? What’s he to Lucy? Why did he have to take her away from me? She’s my sister. And not just that, she’s my twin. She’s my mirror. I need her.

I feel so alone now. That’s why I’m here hiding in the coat closet. I think Lucy and Ryan are opening presents now. Soon it will be time for them to leave. I hope that dad doesn’t make we wave goodbye to them. I think that would definitely be more that I can handle right now.

Lucy always told me I was too emotional anyway. She probably thinks I’m a crybaby, a basket case. Hah, but what does she know. She has Ryan now. And who do I have? Who does Lucy think I’m going to tell my Shakespearean tales of woe to—the dog? Mr. Chipper Puppy Pants is not good at midnight gossip conversation. He just chews on his rawhide bone and rolls on his back for a tummy scratch.

Opps, I hear someone at the closet door. I wonder if it’s time for them to go. I wonder who it is. Lucy?

Writing Prompt: Describe an ordinary house hold item from the perspective of an alien. They don’t know what it is.

The creature holds up a long black string that runs from a small bag with a hard mouth on it. It is heavy. The mouth is hard like armor and the bag is soft and deflated, but feels filled with something.  (Maybe this is alive?) The creature thinks as he drops it. (But it appears dead. Or maybe it is edible…) The creature tries to eat it, but its sharp teeth find no purchase and slide off of the thing’s hard mouth and the creature spits it out. (Yuck! More likely it is a weapon.) The creature swings the bag by the string and hits the wall. The bag breaks off of the hard mouth and its contents spills everywhere. (Blegh, what is this stuff?) The creature pokes at the contents spread about. (Looks like half eaten discarded debris. Maybe it really was alive at some point… this is boring) Another creature approaches the first. (I know what to do with that!) The second creature takes the long black string and attaches it to the wall. All of a sudden, the mouth comes alive and jumps around on the floor. (Gah! It’s still alive even though it is missing its body!) The two creature move cautiously back from the jumping head. (That was not a good idea.) The first creature says to the second. (Eh.) The second creature yanks on the things tail and it dies again. (Perhaps it is best as a crude weapon, but otherwise it is simply not useful. Let’s look to see if there is something else more useful.)

Writing Prompt: Build from this quote "Another one o' them new worlds..."

“Another one o' them new worlds. No beer, no women, no pool parlors, nothing. Nothing to do but throw rocks at tin cans. And we gotta bring our own tin cans.”

Cyril Hume

Cyril Hume, and Fred McLeod Wilcox. Cook (Earl Holliman), Forbidden Planet, commenting on their arrival on Altair 4 (1956).

Another one o' them new worlds. No beer, no women, no pool parlors, nothing. Nothing to do but throw rocks at tin cans. And we gotta bring our own tin cans. This planet is no more than dust and rumble.—another failure, another disappointment. Who knew that our delegation would be on this “world searching” mission for 10 years? My girl, you probably didn’t wait for me. No, be honest, you didn’t wait for me. No broad in her right mind would wait around for years for a man she’s not sure she’d ever see again. The mission was only supposed to last for two years tops. The bigwigs paying us implied we’d be sent out for as long as it took to find civilization but that it wouldn’t be too strenuous or take too long and that it would pay big when we did find it. But when we reached the first planet on the list and found nothing, and on the second planet, nothing again and on the third planet nothing again, it quickly became apparent that our list would continue to grow for each empty planet. For each time we sent back a report of nothing, the bigwigs added five more locations to check out.

                When you’ve been traveling the spaceways for 10 years, the time and the surroundings all seems to blend together. The bland standard issue mush, the scratchy grey and tan wool stripped blankets, the grey jumpsuits too long in the leg and too short in the arms. It became near impossible to remember what colors looked like, what cotton felt like.

                Our crew of 5 consisted of the captain, the pilot, the muscle, the mechanic and me, the navigator. The captain was a burly man, in his 40’s and on his last mission for the BW’s. His pride was in his handlebar moustache that he oiled ritually every morning. The pilot was a young man, but his experience of ships rivaled any you could find. The muscle mostly kept to himself and only came out of his rooms to eat or bash some heads if there was call for it. The mechanic was resourceful which was the only reason the captain kept him aboard and ignored his constant inebriation. The mechanic had a habit of badgering me about my girl every time he got too deep in his cups, which ended causing some brawl. I’m not proud of them, but Jemmy, what would you have me do?

Writing Prompt: Why would a fashion model refuse to have pictures in her house?

Julia is a fashion model. She thinks pink is the hottest color ever and never ever wears white after Labor Day. She thinks Versace is the only brand to buy and has never heard of Target. Julia has been in fashion since she was discovered by an agent while eating a birthday lunch with her aunt on Rodeo Drive.

At her agent’s suggestion, Julia purchased her own apartment. She bought it right after her first big paycheck, but has never invited any of her family to visit. No one knows that her living room is empty. No one knows that her refrigerator only has day old tofu and some wilted celery. Her closet is the only room filled with her life, and that is clothes, shoes, and more accessories than there are surfers on the beach. Modeling is Julia’s life.

With a modeling contract keeping her pretty busy and an agent who’s always got ideas, Julia has found herself steadily booked. When she does have down time, it’s often spent at her Pilates class or shopping for the next great accessory.

Julia’s accessories are cared for more than any other one thing in her apartment. Much of the lack of décor and furniture is due to little time or necessity, however, there is one feature of Julia’s apartment that is by design. The walls are bare. No paint, no art, no mirrors, no pictures, not one thing graces the walls of Julia’s apartment. The walls are simply bare and white as they were when she moved in.

These blank walls were why Julia refused any house guests. They were why no one entered her apartment save herself. Julia knew that with a fashion career as bright and vibrant as her own, no one would understand why she didn’t have a single piece of inspiration on her walls. No art to raise her spirits, no pictures of her family cheering her on, no snapshots of supportive boyfriends.

An apartment empty of photographs didn’t remind Julia every day of her reason for becoming a model in her first place. The agent had convinced her; of course that she just had to model, but the cincher was that she’d be able to get her own place. She could have a home without reminders—a place without pictures, or photos, or snapshots, or memories, where she could get away from her family and their dramatics.

Put simply, it was a lucky break in some ways, a lifesaver in others. Julia wasn’t sure how much longer she could take of her family, so she jumped ship as soon as she was able. She surrounded herself with modeling and all its trappings.

She woke every morning at 8am and exercised at the gym by running twelve laps around the indoor track. At 9am, she ate a breakfast of two pieces of whole wheat toast, a glass of milk and half grape fruit although some days it was four slices of cantaloupe or an orange. By 10am she was dressed and on her way to the studio to touch up her portfolio or meeting with her agent to review her upcoming photo-shoots. She finished her day around 6pm and drove through the rush hour traffic to arrive home around 7pm.

These were the things she could control. These were the things she could affect. And she did her utmost to control what she could as there was so much she could not.

What Does a Phobia Feel Like?

“Have you ever been in an elevator? It’s like riding in a coffin down a mine shaft.” 

TV Show: Samantha Who? ABC

How do you describe to someone else what your fears feel like to you so that they know exactly how you feel when you faced with your fears?

The above statement couldn't be a clear example of claustrophobia. Claustrophobia is basically the fear of small enclosed spaces.

How would I describe other fears? Let's look at these five:

• Arachnophobia – fear of spiders.

Spiders are like ice down your back.

• Catoptrophobia - Fear of mirrors.

 Looking into a mirror is like seeing your ghost.

• Xenophobia – fear of strangers, foreigners, or aliens.

 Meeting a stranger is like having the rug pulled out from under you.

• Somniphobia – fear of sleep.

 Falling asleep is like dying every night.

• Necrophobia – fear of death and/or the dead.

 Death is like never seeing the sunlight again.

When Two People Become Love

My previous post on the view of love that "two people become one" made me think about how people fit together, or if they should fit together and how, or why or why not.

I will continue then, and examine beyond people together, types of love that I have heard of. What is love and how is it realized in the world. Is love an action> An emotion? A state of being? Is love a combination of other emotions? Can it be influenced? If unconditional love is the best kind of love, does that negate other types of love?

One definition of love that often comes to mind is that love is the actions you do for another person. When you make dinner for your significant other at the end of a long day. When you give a slug watch to your friend who adores slugs. Or even acts of love that are for others such as a working in a soup kitchen or a homeless shelter.

Three Ancient Greek meanings of love that I know of are agape, eros and philia. Agape generally refers to a "pure," ideal type of love. Eros is passionate love, with sensual desire and longing. Philia is a dispassionate virtuous love, and motivated by practical reasons; one or both of the parties benefit from the relationship. Agape love is ideal, eros love is when you're young and hormones rage, and philia love is once you have a family that you are responsible for.

"In English, love refers to a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes, ranging from pleasure ("I loved that meal") to interpersonal attraction ("I love my partner"). "Love" may refer specifically to the passionate desire and intimacy of romantic love, to the sexual love of eros, to the emotional closeness of familial love, or the platonic love that defines friendship, to the profound oneness or devotion of religious love. This diversity of uses and meanings, combined with the complexity of the feelings involved, makes love unusually difficult to consistently define, even compared to other emotional states." ~Wikipedia

I am also often reminded of  1 Corinthians 13: 4-6 "Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." (I think this one is my personal favorite.)

At the root, love must be selfless. What is the meaning of the word selfless?  Selfless is having little or no concern for oneself and in turn all of your concern is for another. Related to love must be sacrifice. The things we give up for the love of another.

Perhaps I missed a viewpoint on love--what is your take on LOVE?

When Two People Become One

Despite being a procedural and formulaic series, one of my favorite series, Bones, oftentimes makes insightful commentary and observations on the world such as this:

I didn’t lose my appetite because you mentioned horse meat. I lost my appetite because you made me think of all those people parading around, pretending to be something they aren’t just so they could have crappy sex." 

"Here we are, all of us, basically alone. Separate creatures just circling each other, all searching for that slightest hint of a real connection. Some look in the wrong places, some may just give up hope because in their mind they’re thinking, “There’s nobody out there for me,” but all of us, we keep trying over and over again. Why? Because every once in a while…every once in a while… two people meet and there’s that spark. And, yes, Bones, he’s handsome and she’s beautiful and maybe that’s all they see at first, but making love…making love…that’s when two people become one."

TV Show: Bones, Fox Network

Bones is a "darkly amusing procedural with humor, heart and character, inspired by real-life anthropologist and novelist, Kathy Reichs." says Fox Network's website.

I've heard elsewhere that we are all one halves of a whole and we spend our whole live searching for our other halves and we won't feel complete until we are together with our other half.

Both of these idea are romanticized in my opinion. But what is the concept of love, if not romanticized?

Poem of Text, Love

I'm easy    9:42 PM

to please   9:42 PM

if you        9:42 PM

were         9:42 PM

here          9:42 PM

with me     9:42 PM

but            9:42 PM

I am          9:42 PM

good on    9:42 PM

my own     9:42 PM

XD           9:42 PM

or at least getting better    9:42 PM

but tonight is lonely          9:43 PM

since it's Friday                9:43 PM

and early                         9:44 PM

and I am at home             9:45 PM

Is selfish love truly love or is love truly selfless?

somehow, fate is ours

to carve as we will.

So smile at me softly

(your lips curving ever so slightly)

and take my hand

before we turn to go,

trust earth below and sky

above, their testament will show

what we have will ever grow.