Come rain or come shine

I don’t want the pain to end, for its end means the end of me, the end of life itself, the end of living. I’m writing, but everything has a double meaning. Language cannot describe feelings, no matter which way an author organizes a sentence, or picks a specific word. We are limited, left to feel isolated within our singular locked, bolted, feeling cages.
The rain fell down in the way of ceaseless war. Bullet after bullet pelted the unarmored. And as it ricocheted down from the gray, shielded tides suspended above our heads, we felt nothing. We let the tears, unspoken words, forgotten battle cries splash against our skin, and run like rivers to our parched souls.  Under the canopy of storms, we felt nothing. Numb beneath the blanket of bullets and rain, we raised our final battle cry and took off with the wind that shattered our bones and breathed life into our parched, soaked soul. The rain fell down in the way of shattered souls. And bullet after bullet pelted the unarmored, numb and cold.
Alive. Alive. Alive.

Jungle Film

I'll find you in the morning sun, and when the night is new

As white as the moonlight, sitting on a bed of flowers, a girl waits.

She does not twist or stretch, nor itch or budge. 

She is in a paralysis, sitting, waiting, with her legs crossed in a pretzel

and her hands perched expectantly.

A froth of ghostly white silk clings to her limbs like ligaments connecting muscle to muscle.  These cob webs-so strong in structure, yet so fragile to human touch-steadies her, holds her in a place of dullness and stupor.

A layer of dust sprinkles upon her rose petal skin.  She begins to fade, to tarnish, and that once porcelain doll begins to chip away, piece by piece. 

Her once cherry red lips arched into a smile full of tenderness, falters. 

Her once luminous halcyon eyes dim, and is replaced by a hazy glaze. 

As the sun and moon rises and falls, shadows of both light and dark wash over her tangled locks, faltering face and frozen limbs.  With each day, it works to wash away the gathering dust and break through the closing blinds.

They whisper to her in french, softly singing the chuchotements de la lune. 

In the corner of her right eye a crystallized tear waits for the moment of release; it waits for the rush of pain, and the race to wet each line of exhaustion.

For she waits for a helping hand, a hand to come and take her away, a hand that does not come, and so her heart, the beat of a grandfather clock, ticks for the moment of recognition and release.

It does not come, nor will it ever, but she continues to wait with a pierced heart and a suspended life as the world spins madly on.

Suddenly something within her fading awareness drops the veil of illusion, sending a twinge through her limbs, and attacking each with a thousand needles. 

Her eyes move from side to side, the crystallized tear trickles down her face, and each limb slowly brakes away from the restraints of gossamer mesh. 

The sunlight washes away all dust and bathes her in a golden hue; she blinks, takes a deep breath, and rests her hand atop of her breast in one swift movement.

Within that millisecond of pain, her heart matured and expanded to nourish a love greater and more powerful than the racing blood and normality of mundane life. 

Her heart was no longer a machine beating for each breath of existence or for the regular plea of acceptance and reciprocating love.

The stains of tears, and heart that chimed as ancient and deep as a grandfather clock, encompassed a love so ethereal as the love for, self.

It's not somebody who's seen the light

Time won't you slow down?

I find myself on the edge of seventeen.

I find myself on the edge of my teens.

I watch perfumed smoke unravel in dance, clinging to my skin, my eyes, my lips. 

Candles line my soul with light, incense rinses, pours over my head like a waterfall.

I'm soaked; my hair sticks heavy to the nape of my neck, ink black mascara runs down my face like the watered roots of a tree. 

I close my eyes in release, my lips sigh in a watered kiss. 

Hallelujah. 

18 young, yet tired now, I feel my childhood chasing me.

It's onto me, closing in on me.

So I stop. 

My legs burn with ache, they tingle in a cry to break.

And I cry, I resign, I jump, I dive into a sea of hot wax.

"Time can't find me here," I whisper to myself; I'm safe, safe away, molded as solid as the candle beneath my cast. 

I laugh in delight to have tricked time itself, frozen in its respite.

But it's not so easily deceived; my childhood doesn't give up so freely, it does not catch fire in a sea of syrup wax.

I watch, as if through a mirror, myself swim towards my hardened reflection. 

Molded in a cast as I am, I cannot move, I cannot wriggle free in repulsion.

The girl with golden hair and deep blue sea eyes that reflects the time of day, the sky above, watches me with a growing sadness. Her forehead crinkles in sorrow, a lone beauty mark marks her left cheek as if x-marks-the-spot.

Oh, time won't you slow down?

Her fingers graze my cheek in motherly comfort. 

I close my eyes in release, my lips ache to remember those long ago days. 

She shrinks before me, 15 now, and a couple inches shorter. 

The night is black and heavy, stars nowhere to be seen.

I watch my body curve tensely over my book, tears splashing relentlessly onto pages of notes that I continue to furiously scribble upon. 

I look over my shoulder to see my grandpa lying as lifeless as a puppet on a hospital bed. Age lines his face with 76 years of stories of war and love. 

A sob rips through my chest and a useless hand rests on my back. 

13 and friendless, I run anxiously through paved streets lined with evergreens and children with their melting ice cream cones. 

The sun beats its heavy rays upon me, burning my skin as I grip tightly to my first record.  Safe in my room, I rock back and forth, sway to and fro, eyes closed, to the Motown notes of  'Stop in the name of love.'

10, blue skies and animal clouds of gone pets race past my eyes as I lay weightless on my back in blue water.

9, 8, 7, 6, my golden hair fades to a white-yellow halo, touching the top of my waist. 

At 5, I'm entranced by the pink, purple and bruised sky.

The Arizona desert sticks to my skin, breathes life into my soul.

Cacti, divorce, mountains, responsibility, a distant memory, and a rose to my mother. 

Red light, yellow light, green light, go. 

I'm in my mothers arms again, spinning in waters of green, a baby light and free--a baby heavy in burdens, sands of time. 

On the edge of seventeen, heart is torn and broken. Strong and sturdy. Thick and shielded, I watch love go. 

I stretch in pain. I rinse in stress.

But in the depths of the sea of wax, sea blue eyes, I see a composition reveling in those war-like tears, Motown notes, racing clouds and emerald cacti beneath the bruised Arizona sky. 

Smoke spirals around me, filling my heart with smoke. 

And the days go by, like a strand in the wind, like a white-winged dove in flight, and me on the edge of seventeen.

My mirror takes my hand, squeezing in a child's innocent comfort.

"Time won't you slow down?" she asks.

18 and old.

"Time where are you now?" I cry.

Time where are you now?

Instax or Polaroid?

I took most of these picture over the summer.
As a lover of all things vintage, taking Polaroid pictures as a kid at my Grandma's was a serious highlight; Nothing can replace that feeling of freezing a moment in time and watching it unfold in your hands a mere couple of seconds later. Unfortunately, Polaroid stopped making film so the prices have skyrocketed, leaving me with Instax. Yay.

Typewriter Prose