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ah [miss.ms.mrs.] westwood, always so fierce.

xo

a little fictitious something,-

-kind of like the truth on adderall.

note: fiction, guys. fiction. the person talking is not "me" and this did not happen.

"He fought for connections, roped them in and hog tied them, the other end of the rope secured round his torso. I saw him try to swim, and knew incessantly what he wanted. He wanted a synchronized group complete with flirty choreography and pearly smiles. i wanted to fly south for winter, our bodies forming a v in the sky. Though, not the two of us. Such recognition in another person as I found in him are dangerous. He too knows the fierceness and integrity of what barricaded our boxes aside from one another. The reflection of a reflection of the glare in his eyes told me so.

He faulted though and spoke aloud. Never speak aloud.

"This is not the way to go about things, this is desperate; and desperation is ugly."

My eyes cut because I do not know you yet. Do not speak to me, you've only begun to disrupt the conversation other plains of ourselves had been having. And the importance of having such are immense, more so than say, speaking.

Elevation saved via actions of normally negative connotations. Luckily though sincerity of motive is key in this realm.

Morality mortality, (you must take the genuine as it shows itself to you) and you know that, so we continued.

Our thoughts spoke and relayed the fears and insecurities one in the same. we don't know each other(them). our minds our hearts ourselves are not at all in synch. as you are not in synch with he and he and him and she and them and the rope is knotting and everything is now as it inevitably had to be, a cluster, it's surface covered down to the most microscopic bit of negative space.

We look deeply and see though, the center is hollow and so are the things that compose it.

He misses the stability he didn't know he had. And i, the stability i knew i had but refused to admire in knowing I was made to lose it. for the first time in our lives neither of us had a home besides the one we were building in the understanding of one another. the idea which is only now cemented and secreting through the pores of every surface living and not, in the truths that finally, no one can dissemble. Our eyes scanned as our minds did, in recognition of a foreign counterpart. But even the home we were building in one another was built on longing. We are not stable, and a pile of instability does not make it anything more than such. I almost opened my mouth to introduce myself formally but i'd decided on recoiling all my ropes that morning and thus I sure as hell couldn't throw out another. He nodded a slow paced nod moving as though he were barely managing to do so without his understanding slipping out. I smiled, veering away."

is consciously hating fairweather relationships as wrong as initiating and controlling such?

i enjoy thinking no, but only because I am fully aware of the line I walk. participation is a commitment in itself, baby.

usually I push things too far but i guess that's how I like it.

i figure there's always the chance someone will get something out of this, this being anything.

i mean, thats the greatness in creation right?:

it didn't exist but by your hand now does, and as much as it may not matter, you've now also created the chance that it could.

xo

i do say, i may be back.

leave me to a room with open windows and endless supplies (granted not in this hellish miami heat but somewhere pleasant) and let me be.

the initial thought was relatively less magical than

that sentence turned out to be. I meant art supplies,

but, well, an endless supply of simplethingsineed would be nice too.

I don't however want that all in one room, I have my archaic way

of organization to upkeep!

anywho, if this were possible right now i'd make some amazing shit. can you ever just feel that in your bones? a creative shiver. an erratic and restless buzzing of ideas spilling out of pores as though the dam that had been trapping them till then was hammered down to bits smaller than the smallest bits. microscopically small. even atomically small. so far from visible, the dams initial existence is questionable. more than questionable, debated against. like tourists in north korea.

but my pens are out of ink.

the edges of my papers are frayed.

my funds bruised indefinately (or as indefinate as what matters which includes only today and i am broke.)

and i'm scribbling endlessly. on recipts. in books. journals. body parts.

I'm even replying to social networking que's.

why, i must be frantic.

but no.

I've reawoken yet again!

let's all hug and kiss and rejoice in celebration (preferably one with wine and class).

blog. back. on.

and a pretty thing to share with you pretty people!