- velvet black.
The dawn.
Some would say it signifies rebirth. The sun would peek its startling face from under the heavy blanket of blackness and all is bright. The pivotal moment where the slate is wiped clean. Some would say the day is a savior—where all are renewed from the night.
I don't.
There's a blanket of white, all around me. Fog, circling through the air. It prickles my legs. Invisible fingers. I am cold, colder still in this descending haze.
I shouldn't lie here, with the grass prodding my back. Was I running, with the asphalt slapping my feet, freedom brushing my face, leaving a frantic taste in my mouth? I don't re
- satisfaction.
It was like gin and tonic. Lemon pepper. Acid and sweetness.
Like complete bliss and plunging horror at the same time.
Like falling and waking up.
It was like the summer rain on your heated shoulders, like watching smoke rise from the glistening black velvet of asphalt, that always seemed to remind you of the night sky.
It was like drowning in the bluest depths of a true blue ocean - sensing the impossibility and reality of the moment. After all, everyone knew the ocean would always be a perfect mixture of sapphire and forest green.
It was like dying of hunger and sinking your teeth into al-dente pasta, sighing with sati
- the room.
She took three week relationships and cold coffee.
It was how she was—closed eyed and a mouthful that made you crave more, but she was already gone. And it was already sour.
She saw things with bright-eyed wonder sometimes—though she was inherently practical, even when she tried not to be. Mysterious, but inherently normal.
She liked her eggs scrambled.
And her showers scalding hot.
I like being here, amongst her things. A tucked away picture here, a scrap of cloth there. It makes things more homely. Pleasant. Pleasurable.
I won't be here much longer.
Tomorrow marks 21 days.
There are tulips sitting next to me, fir
- lover's urge.
He saw her.
She was walking in his direction, on the opposite footpath of the busy street. A bag slung on one shoulder, keys in hand; she had the direction, confidence and the style.
He parked his car on the nature strip, in front of a telephone pole and turned his hazard lights on. Sat with the engine running and watched her through the rearview mirror.
A soft smile played on her face, her hand moved to rake her dark hair from her eyes. It was short now. He remembered it when it had been long, slipping through his fingers like silk.
She had gathered it away from him, her fingers deftly weaving through her hair, producing
You sat before me, in subdued colors and an uncomfortably easy stature. You; in your casual t-shirt that adorned the Internet, ablaze with an neat, easy-going, style. You, with your 101 answers. Me with all the curiosity in the world.
Out in the sun, in my green sleeveless top that the Americans would call a wife-beater and the skirt that caught your attention; you are self-conscious and languid, discreetly touching the wound beneath your lip that took you half and hour to staunch.
I appreciate the gesture with hidden eyes; both of us hunched over wobbly coffee tables that you render to try and fix. I appreciate that gesture too - seeing yo
- city boy, urban girl
Footsteps. The grey pavement clacked under her black boots as she maneuvered her way through the urban scrawl, passing derelict Victorian buildings in between clean cut blue glass. Tucking her hands into her semi-long coat, she hunched her shoulders against the frigid cold, hiding behind panels of blue-black hair and dark glasses. Her eyes watched the asphalt as it alternated from sparkled quartz to cracked dull grey. Her mind was elsewhere.
It was in the thoughts of soft blue eyes, that under the right light looked the color of pen ink and yet had the flexibility to change with attire. It was in the thoughts of small
- butterfly.
I first met Sada when I was visiting the Hamada House.
They called me red-haired barbarian here. I am somewhat of a novelty to them—they titter and hide their smiles behind their sweeping wings from the alcoves that line the cobbled labyrinths. The women are small and dainty here, shying away and hiding in their fans, sleeves and painted faces.
It had taken me a good hour before I found the sandy teahouse imprisoned in large wooden gates. A maid appears, her head bowed as she gestured to remove my shoes. She is the picture of subservience. The world here is so different to home, women were subservient, where back home, th
- 24 rows of boxes.
Red.
She shifts her load to the other hip, cocked out to one side as she inspects a box. She sighs, pushes a pale hand through her hair, a soft, wet curl sticking to her forehead. As she walks down the aisle, her hip sways.
The air is sticky, and somewhere behind her, a door is open. She sighs again, the basket still clutched between her hip and arm, balanced on a precarious edge.
Clang.
She places the basket down on an array of white boxes, rubbing her forehead in the stink of pungent freshness. A piece of silver glints in her fingers. She presses it into the slot, like a lover pressing a sliver of chocolate between
oceanic inspirations: a winter's kiss.
Blue was a sensory color.
It was tangible, beneath her feet and all around her. It was there, in front of her, framed in an imperfect circle - dusky locks of brown, flipping in the wind.
It was ice, it was a feeling, it was the sound of a lone saxaphone on the pier.
She sat on the shoreline, the ocean layered with sapphire blue and forest green; encased in a warm blanket of limbs.
If she walked, she could see the ripples of sand that echoed the patterns of the waves, occasionally obliterated by a careless foot. The grains of fragments pricking her bare feet - the empty homes of abandoned shells.
oceanic inspirations: autumn leaves.
It was cold.
The south wind blew across the waves as they fought for dominance to crash first on the shore. Angry white fists, thumping and colliding against the pier, jostled and made the jagged rocks below sleek.
It wasn't suppose to be like this.
She closed her eyed, huddled deeper into her knee length jacket. Pushed her hands into her pockets, hunched her shoulders against the frigidity of the atmosphere.
Her slippers slapped against the wooden planks, his pants whispered as he walked beside her. She looked at her feet, toes curled against the wind, with old chipped red nail-polish—leftovers from
- velvet black.
The dawn.
Some would say it signifies rebirth. The sun would peek its startling face from under the heavy blanket of blackness and all is bright. The pivotal moment where the slate is wiped clean. Some would say the day is a savior—where all are renewed from the night.
I don't.
There's a blanket of white, all around me. Fog, circling through the air. It prickles my legs. Invisible fingers. I am cold, colder still in this descending haze.
I shouldn't lie here, with the grass prodding my back. Was I running, with the asphalt slapping my feet, freedom brushing my face, leaving a frantic taste in my mouth? I don't re
- satisfaction.
It was like gin and tonic. Lemon pepper. Acid and sweetness.
Like complete bliss and plunging horror at the same time.
Like falling and waking up.
It was like the summer rain on your heated shoulders, like watching smoke rise from the glistening black velvet of asphalt, that always seemed to remind you of the night sky.
It was like drowning in the bluest depths of a true blue ocean - sensing the impossibility and reality of the moment. After all, everyone knew the ocean would always be a perfect mixture of sapphire and forest green.
It was like dying of hunger and sinking your teeth into al-dente pasta, sighing with sati
- the room.
She took three week relationships and cold coffee.
It was how she was—closed eyed and a mouthful that made you crave more, but she was already gone. And it was already sour.
She saw things with bright-eyed wonder sometimes—though she was inherently practical, even when she tried not to be. Mysterious, but inherently normal.
She liked her eggs scrambled.
And her showers scalding hot.
I like being here, amongst her things. A tucked away picture here, a scrap of cloth there. It makes things more homely. Pleasant. Pleasurable.
I won't be here much longer.
Tomorrow marks 21 days.
There are tulips sitting next to me, fir
- lover's urge.
He saw her.
She was walking in his direction, on the opposite footpath of the busy street. A bag slung on one shoulder, keys in hand; she had the direction, confidence and the style.
He parked his car on the nature strip, in front of a telephone pole and turned his hazard lights on. Sat with the engine running and watched her through the rearview mirror.
A soft smile played on her face, her hand moved to rake her dark hair from her eyes. It was short now. He remembered it when it had been long, slipping through his fingers like silk.
She had gathered it away from him, her fingers deftly weaving through her hair, producing
You sat before me, in subdued colors and an uncomfortably easy stature. You; in your casual t-shirt that adorned the Internet, ablaze with an neat, easy-going, style. You, with your 101 answers. Me with all the curiosity in the world.
Out in the sun, in my green sleeveless top that the Americans would call a wife-beater and the skirt that caught your attention; you are self-conscious and languid, discreetly touching the wound beneath your lip that took you half and hour to staunch.
I appreciate the gesture with hidden eyes; both of us hunched over wobbly coffee tables that you render to try and fix. I appreciate that gesture too - seeing yo
- city boy, urban girl
Footsteps. The grey pavement clacked under her black boots as she maneuvered her way through the urban scrawl, passing derelict Victorian buildings in between clean cut blue glass. Tucking her hands into her semi-long coat, she hunched her shoulders against the frigid cold, hiding behind panels of blue-black hair and dark glasses. Her eyes watched the asphalt as it alternated from sparkled quartz to cracked dull grey. Her mind was elsewhere.
It was in the thoughts of soft blue eyes, that under the right light looked the color of pen ink and yet had the flexibility to change with attire. It was in the thoughts of small
- butterfly.
I first met Sada when I was visiting the Hamada House.
They called me red-haired barbarian here. I am somewhat of a novelty to them—they titter and hide their smiles behind their sweeping wings from the alcoves that line the cobbled labyrinths. The women are small and dainty here, shying away and hiding in their fans, sleeves and painted faces.
It had taken me a good hour before I found the sandy teahouse imprisoned in large wooden gates. A maid appears, her head bowed as she gestured to remove my shoes. She is the picture of subservience. The world here is so different to home, women were subservient, where back home, th
- 24 rows of boxes.
Red.
She shifts her load to the other hip, cocked out to one side as she inspects a box. She sighs, pushes a pale hand through her hair, a soft, wet curl sticking to her forehead. As she walks down the aisle, her hip sways.
The air is sticky, and somewhere behind her, a door is open. She sighs again, the basket still clutched between her hip and arm, balanced on a precarious edge.
Clang.
She places the basket down on an array of white boxes, rubbing her forehead in the stink of pungent freshness. A piece of silver glints in her fingers. She presses it into the slot, like a lover pressing a sliver of chocolate between
oceanic inspirations: a winter's kiss.
Blue was a sensory color.
It was tangible, beneath her feet and all around her. It was there, in front of her, framed in an imperfect circle - dusky locks of brown, flipping in the wind.
It was ice, it was a feeling, it was the sound of a lone saxaphone on the pier.
She sat on the shoreline, the ocean layered with sapphire blue and forest green; encased in a warm blanket of limbs.
If she walked, she could see the ripples of sand that echoed the patterns of the waves, occasionally obliterated by a careless foot. The grains of fragments pricking her bare feet - the empty homes of abandoned shells.
oceanic inspirations: autumn leaves.
It was cold.
The south wind blew across the waves as they fought for dominance to crash first on the shore. Angry white fists, thumping and colliding against the pier, jostled and made the jagged rocks below sleek.
It wasn't suppose to be like this.
She closed her eyed, huddled deeper into her knee length jacket. Pushed her hands into her pockets, hunched her shoulders against the frigidity of the atmosphere.
Her slippers slapped against the wooden planks, his pants whispered as he walked beside her. She looked at her feet, toes curled against the wind, with old chipped red nail-polish—leftovers from
So I suppose, here's some of the writings.
I don't know why they're here, I don't know if anybody will stumble onto them, but they're here.
And I've been lurking on here for so long, I suppose I should contribute to the cause.
:)
...But I'm glad you saw the wisdom of it, because your work is DAMN GOOD and other people deserve to see it... Not to mention you deserve some exposure!