I mostly feel like getting in bed, curling up with my blankets around me and sleeping my life away. That’s how I feel.

I also feel that there are too many things in my head vying for attention I would  rather not give them. See above for what I’d rather do.

And to think, it’s only January. And there is (if I’m lucky(?)) a lot more life to go. Sigh.

Dearest -

I can call you that, right? I can evince the softest shade of emotion for you? You don’t mind? No? Okay then.

Dearest,

My heart is a pomegranate. Red. Ripe. Ready to burst. On your tongue. In your hands. I

( let’s pretend I exist in the singular, worn body and tired eyes aside)

am cohesively yours. In parts and together. A fingernail from my left hand, my right ear, my belly and my ankle. All yours. A patched up woman. And even though you are not mine

(and never will be but this is a dream so I shall forgive you that)

I will pretend you are. Your smile, your skin rough against my cheeks, your hands on my body as though you are shaping me to your desires - your very own sculptor

(maybe I am half stone, I suspect I am)

to display or veil.

(You look at me as if the interlude is over. It is over? Oh.)

The curtains flutter in the afternoon breeze and you are giving me your public smile. The one that says there is distance between us and measures it as a mile too far from your heart to mine.

(Why do you never say goodbye when you leave?)

And then they all fell down.

I wonder if anyone will notice if I quietly go crazy. I really do. It feels like I might.

She dreams of fame through mists of blood. She seeks eternity in sex and lust, in the planes of his stomach, the plumpness of his lips. She shatters like a clockwork, every day at three in the morning under the neon lights of the latest club.

She has a dozen secrets hidden in the twist of her lips. Her eyes are older than her face, older than the body she gives away more freely than she should. She loses herself in the cracks in the pavement and finds herself hours later under another faceless man.

She craves and she craves and she craves and her fingernails leave welts on the back of another unsuspecting victim. She’s the love it and leave it kind, the love it and break it kind, the one who will take you in and toss you out and the one you should not remember but can’t forget. Perhaps, if we were the civilized type, we would sit down opposite each other and talk, perhaps we would eat a meal together and find out that we do not fit together in the way people are supposed to.

But time is too fleeting and so she grasps and gasps and breathes and when the pieces don’t fit and the heart remains untouched, she wipes her hands on yet another discarded shirt and moves on.

Dear Tumblr,

There is no one else around for me to talk to so I guess you are it. Congratulations. So my dad is in the hospital, at Emergency actually while they do the usual tests on him to find out what’s wrong with him and why is he in so much pain. And I’m at home, in front of the computer, drowning in my blanket trying, desperately, not to think of all the ways in which things could go wrong. I would stop to think, to engage in a hopefully calm discussion with my conscience but there’s only indiscernible screaming happening there and I, even though it might not seem like it, value what little sanity I have left. So I have decided not to poke at it.

I don’t know what I will do if anything goes wrong. Honestly.

Okay, fine, actually I do know. But it’s not pretty and I’d rather not think about it so you’ll have to excuse me.

Oh. Wait a minute. The Peony is done with her exam so she can listen to my woes now.

Thanks for being a warm substitute.

These days I prefer to live every single moment and experience all of it wholly, completely. It has been an interesting experience but does not give itself too much to introspection and reflection which are necessary (to me) when writing. So bear with me for a bit longer and hopefully my muse makes a full recovery and I can, once again, write my thoughts onto the silence and make it ponderous.