Leave My Loneliness Unbroken

I have no idea why this part of E.A. Poe's The Raven was copied into a draft, but the passage still sounds good, so why not?

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"`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'"

And yet, the broken heart cries freely,
to save my frozen soul, grown steely,
and my strength it staggers weakly through the
once safeguarded door

Enough, I cried! To break this measured poetic screening
of these feelings burning deeply
I pray to heaven, please release me
from these demons at my door

I just...

Yet another work I seem to have forgotten in the Cave of Drafts.

Want to be in love. Not alone, not unrequited, not temporal. To love and be loved.
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In his eyes, Elsa could not have been more invisible than if she were to walk in an ever-present shadow. She would never push him to do otherwise. Instead, she buried her heart as deeply as she could, quieting its beating so that none but she might hear it crying for love. She had tried before. Out of some compulsion to care for those in need, to be for someone what no one would be for either of them. When she heard the weeping of a fellow heart, she could not do nothing but let hers cry out in response. But there never was one that sought to reciprocate the care she put into the relationship.

And as she found no heart that beat in time with her own, she silenced the pounding until it bled, wept, breathed, hoped and rotted in silent neglect. She had long since grown sick and starved with the lack of interest, of even decency in her relationships. And so, she gave it up.

In one glorious evening, she had disconnected from her past. How she loved the glow of the fire, the warmth created by the slow destruction of love letters, tear-stained pages, dreams pasted on paper hearts and all of the foolishness through which she had trudged with no satisfaction.

Now, she sought to lose herself in pleasure, the morphine of emotion. Yet again, she eyed the young man. He smiled and spoke innocently with those around him. His gentle chuckle seemed to struggle through the noise of the crowded bar. It called to the predator in her, and nearly begged for her to begin the chase, but it was too soon. She ordered another drink and studied him.

His long-sleeved shirt was casual, but stylish. His hair was a careful mess of scarlet to which his grey eyes provided a singular contrast. Even his jeans were distressed in a vaguely meticulous way. Probably homemade as she had never seen that pattern before. Overall he appeared relaxed, and yet she knew everything about his appearance was intentional. By the way his eyes flicked to the ground whenever a woman approached indicated that he hoped that a clean presentation would speak for him, as he did little more than respond politely to the conversation that buzzed around him. When the woman twittering in his ear stepped away to dance with a friend and his eyes followed her before scanning the crowd, Elsa decided to move in.

As she strode boldly towards him, the boot of her heel clicked to the time of the music. She shrugged and let her shirt slip off her shoulder, as it was meant to be worn, just before she sank gently into the seat beside him. He noticed her immediately, but she waited until he'd had ample time to casually survey her leather skirt and the way her shirt hung off her body just so he could noticed the plump swells on her chest and the golden sheen that warmed the cinnamon shade of her skin. He blushed at his behavior and dropped his gaze to fingers that busied themselves with turning his cup.

She chuckled, using the rich, deep tone she knew those of his kind could not resist. She turned violet eyes, the contacts making her seem more exotic, and looked at the man through the slanted bangs of her bobbed hair.

"So, do you like what you see?"

Surprised by her sudden attentions, he nearly spilled his drink in his efforts to explain himself. Again she laughed, placing her hand gently upon his arm as she did.

"It's fine. I've been looking at you for a while anyway," she said.

An instant of uncertainty temporarily darkened his eyes to slate gray.

"Not like that. I was sitting further down the bar and I couldn't help but notice you."

Soft pink lips quirked up to a sardonic smirk. He said, "The red hair, right?"

"It was your laugh, actually. It has a way of drawing people in, you know?"

A soft red began its slow creep over his pale cheeks. A gentle shake allowed his hair to slip down on his forehead, providing some amount of protection.

"I...I didn't know that. People usually notice the hair first.," he said, clearing his throat.

His posture shifted, as though in that moment he had given himself an internal pep talk. He raised his head and smile, it was innocent and showed a sense of genuineness that made her question what she was about to do.

"My name is Liam. And who might you be?"

One eyebrow arched as she observed the change in demeanor before she let her glossed lips part reciprocating grin.

"You can call me Elsa. If you're lucky, I just might let you call me El," she responded.

There was no shy blush this time, only a warm response.

"And what brings you to a bar on a night like this, Elsa?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Liam."

Without missing a beat, he replied "you could, but I am honor bound, as a gentleman, to let the lady go first."

A sense of humor and a cute smile? She liked that. She hid a frown behind her smile. She wasn't supposed to be charmed. Compose yourself, Elsa, she thought. He's cute now, but you know well enough what they become.

"I was bored and alone. I decided to skip the popcorn and movie marathon and get out of my house, and my head. At least here I can occupy myself with people watching."

If she'd read him right, he would be able to identify with that. He seemed like a thinker.

"I can certainly understand that. Though, I admit, I'm only here because my buddies wanted a wingman," he said.

She watched the shadow of a grimace make a momentary appearance before he recovered himself.

"I'd have thought you'd be the center of attention with the way you look." She feigned a blush. "I'm sorry. I-I shouldn't have been so forward." She let her eyes drop to her lap for a moment.

"Hey, I don't mind in the least.What's not to love about an open compliment? It's good for my self-confidence," he said.

She looked up through her lashes, allowing him to admire the care she had taken in applying her eye shadow.

"Then let me do you one better," she said.

Leaning forward so her lips just brushed against his ear and a hand gently gripped his leg.

"I don't want to be brazen, but I think I like you, and I'd like to get to know you better. But, not here. What do you think about that?," she whispered.

She quite enjoyed the small shudder that preceded that rising of a blush on his cheeks once again.

I Can't Seem to Stop

I've been here before,
I've said this before,
I've hurt people before

And for some reason,
I can't seem to stop

I have breached the heavy walls that seperate self from others
Let a spark of light disrupt the steady darkness of my self-imposed night
I have dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, I don't have to be alone

And for some reason, I can't seem to stop

I have relished the flavor of new connection, a yet undiscovered soul
I have pulled back the curtain, to give the fortunate few a glimpse of the woman behind
I have sat as eager listener, learner, observer, explorer
I have reveled in the joy of finding the familiar, the resonant, the right in another

And for some reason,
I can't seem to stop

I have given way to fantasies, sweet and sultry alike
I have turned my thoughts into tendrils, sent out to tease and tempt
I have danced in heat and sex, in comfort and calm, in passion and ferocity
I have allowed the seed of hope to grow beyond my self-made cages

And for some reason,
I can't seem to stop

I have spewed such poison, as could kill all the world's dreams
I have used tender hearts as foot rests and convenient crutches because I have always been broken
I have played sympathy against my apathy, and left the care of another crumpled, used and discarded like waste
I have done my worst to see if possibly, I could destroy the possibility of a lifelong friend, partner, lover, connection

And for some reason,
I can't seem to stop

I have walked the long mile, scuffing my hardened feet instead of the shoes of another
I have let my laughter leave my lips, turning them to bear a heavier burden
I have let friendship fade, pushed away, and with shaking hands, tried to clean the blood in my wake
I have planted mistakes and let them mature into disasters, knowing what comes after, and praying for the destruction anyway

And for some reason,
I can't seem to stop

I have painted blue skies black, uselessly swiping at the planets that pull the pain back
I have closed doors once open, building walls of brick when naive hope gets stuck in the door.
I have offered my ____ as sacrifice, praying for the necessary devices to return the disturbed earth to what it once was
I have walked away from open arms, cut ties made into lifelines, burned bridges before they were built, and returned to cursed isolation before spreading desolation

And for some reason,
I can't seem to stop

She Wanted Lust

She had to admit it. It was lust. Full on, dirty minded, impure lust. And she couldn't seem to help it. She wanted to remain objective and logical in all things, but her mind always seemed to wander when it came to one subject. Him.

Her friends had mixed opinions about his level of attractiveness, but to her, he was the image the ancient Greeks and Romans sought in their attempts to carve a divine figure. He was Adonis himself. The cool porcelain tint to his body only brought his image closer to the visages carved in marble. Neither fierce definition nor flabby excess marred the vision of masculine beauty he presented.

The talent in her that was tempered for words, for an instant, longed for mastery of the line. The curve. The alternatingly soft and strong representations of reality that made him so attractive to her eye. Never would her aching fingertips trace the heaven-made lines of his body, and so she settled for the somewhat vague impressions buried deep within her mind.

But what tantalized her fantasies, and coaxed her imagination into a flurry of creativity was the thought of that which was beyond possible. A true mixing of beauty and the beast. The artful elegance he brought to the picture could only be insulted to the lumpy and garbled image she presented, even at her best. His god-like curves stood in stark contrast to her grotesque lumps and assorted deformations.

And yet, she dreamed. Dreamed of whispered passions and lustful sighs. She hoped for dreams come true and a truth stranger than fiction. She longed for the fairy tale in the fable and the love story costumed as a frog. Sweet kisses. Feverish sighs. Arousing friction. Tempting touches. Soft voices. Flaming passions. She wanted it all.

And yet, knowing both herself and the world, she knew she would live forever with none.

The Art of the Nonvo

What's a nonvo, you ask? It's an instance in which two individuals exchange words without really communicating anything. Each party has a message, but the other seems to have no opening to receive it. A nonvo is not always two sided.

For example, there are certain people who attract nonvos because they're always in the right/ they were the victim/ you just don't understand, etc. No matter how diplomatic, logical, understanding or empathetic you are, they will never hear your side of the story. The only reason they don't talk over you is that they're gathering ammo to tell you how you're wrong. Oftentimes this results in jabs (some might call them "examples") at personal struggles or a painful event in the recipient's past.

The nonvo magnet only wants a few things:

1. To be right

2. For you to agree with their opinion

3. (Optional) An apology

4. (Last Resort) For you to hurt as much as, or more, than they do.


This often leads to dead ends on relationship highways. Even with those to whom we are closest, little triggers here and there can close the gate they would lead to an improved connection.

It's frustrating. I hate nonvos. If you have enough of them and there's no emotional outlet, you will eventually explode. Sometimes this occurs in the next nonvo, when you finally lose your temper and rages spills out as tears and all your frustration is transformed into a megaphone through which you shout. Other times, the consequences are more private. An internal parasite that eats away at the roots of that relationship, affecting each and every part it touches, devouring the good parts along with the bad.


And just how are you supposed to kill the parasite? Cut the bomb fuse? End the nonvos?

I have no idea. Perhaps we could have a convo about it.

It's Not Even About the Movies

I tend to have more eccentric tastes when it comes to entertainment,along with basically everything else. This individuality, for lack of a more meaningful word, has always been a point of pride for me. I never wanted to be just another one in the crowd.

BUT, THERE ARE CONSEQUENCES

I am alone. My interests are not likely to overlap with those of the people around me. The qualities I seek in friends are often absent, and refusing to compromise on those things makes an absence of people as well. I can't even fit in with my own family. I can't honestly say if I've ever truly felt like I belonged.

I sometimes ask my family to watch something that interests me. Sometimes, they assent. That then counts as paying their dues for the next month or so. Never mind how many times I watch their shows. Shows that cause me ACTUAL anxiety (Aren't disorders grand?).

Most of the time, it's not about this or that show. It's about showing that you care enough to try to watch something I like. To learn about what interests me. Instead, I feel like they have their own vision of who and what and how I am, and it doesn't matter what new things I show them. I'll always be the same. The difficult one. Always doing the opposite. Always being passive aggressive.

You want to talk about passive aggression? Let's talk about how I spent the first half of the day feeling miserable and guilty and ashamed, and at night, after it seemed that the peace had returned, I am reminded of how different I am. How much of  burden it is to figure out what I want. How I'm given every opportunity to share my interests, but I never take it. It's always my fault, my mistake, my baggage.

Maybe it was "the perfect day" for some of us, but it sure as heck wasn't for me.

So...

I never said it would be 30 consecutive days! XP

Anyways, I think today I'll sketch some characters that have been dancing around in my head.

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Shay (gift)  Rapp (dark-haired or raven-like) [working name]

Occupation: Trash collector (Residential Driver)

Age: 27
Height: 5'6"
Complexion: slightly darker than Rashida Jones
Frame: Sturdy, but muscular
Style: 90s comfortable (not always for the best)
Ethnicity(?): Black/Hebrew

Family: Moderate relationship. Sister- - 2 years younger, successful journalist; Brother- 5 years younger, grad school for psychology (closer)


Education: High school diploma, some college (History & Biology)

Basic career path: Graduated from HS -- Attended College out of state -- "Nervous Breakdown" -- Grey area -- Started working for WM @ 22

Interests: Forensic History, writing, Stocks


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Carter Reid

Occupation: Police Detective

Age: 32
Height: 6' 0"
Complexion: Pale. Irish pale. And a ginger too!
Frame: Lithe, lean, dancer-esque?

Family: Twin sister, stay at home mom and web designer. Parents, divorced, but amicable (provided they don't need to interact)

Basic Career Path: Grad. HS -- Entered police academy (19) -- college part time w/ tuition reimbursement -- Bachelor's Degree in criminology(?) -- Made Detective at 30

Interests: Dance, social justice, being a Maker

30 Day Challenge

If you read the title, congratulations, you already know I'm going to attempt a writing challenge. Everyday, for a month, I am going to write SOMETHING on here. It might be short, it might be stupid, it might be deep, it might be fictional.

So, for all the nobody who reads this, let it begin:

2:00 AM Friday, 3/20/2015

I wish I could write, but I'm dried up
like the Nile
River turned to blood
but I'm dying
There's no oxygen
No inspiration
No reason to recreate what I'm feelin' because
there's just
nothing

There's no Rushing this creative process because it's
all blocked up
there's no progress, just pain
nothing to gain, just praying for rain
on these empty fields

this empty feels
too familiar, I'm sick of seeing it
too much repetition of old lines
I'm sick of reading it
So scared of life I've forgotten how NOT to hide
I'm sick of fleeing it
but when I don't, all that fills me is
nothing


Technically that was cheating, because I wrote it a few days ago, but YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! So, I'm using it anyway.