of roofs, roses, and rain.

he picked me a rose at midnight. it sits here still, withered and dry; curled petals as i click away at the keys. the dewy buds, now preserved, nod in my direction, held within glass and water. dark crimson remnants floating idly on the surface next to the magnified stem. it wasn't given up easily - a war was waged with thorns and leaves while i stood cloaked under the umbrella in the teasing rain. you captured the rose, and in a gallant motion you bestowed it unto me.

i met him on the roof. did i ever know him before? he didn't know me. we are all versions of old selves, but when perceptions and dreams change, so do we. dense sky, few stars, wisps of clouds - we considered the view from the corrugated iron, just behind the chimney. blow smoke in my ear. blow smoke in my eyes. blow smoke on my lips... your lips, like vanilla and lemonade, missed me.

speak of dreams. speak of perceptions. change. he loves me again, but i never stopped loving him. i didn't want to be with him until that moment. tell me you long for me, tell me you think of me - no, tell me nothing at all. it's only now, it's only new. my breath caught in my chest as we ambled across the pavement, wrapped in arms and walking in step. frosty air escapes from our mouths in excited shivers. a jetty, a black river, a solitary swan. an embrace in the night.

time never happened. we discovered each other; it was different. worlds away from what was, where what could be would reign. i crept into the corners of your mind and found a place to be kept, a place to keep you. love re-made is as precious as it comes - rare and sparkling, a diamond cut with precision and care. fated souls, destined pairs? i only know roofs, roses, and rain. knots deep within and starry gazes. tangible feeling and streaming thoughts. and in these things, i know. nothing will ever be as perfect.

writer's block.

block.
blocked.
close.
closed.
unblock me.
open me.
thought. thought?
what of this?
jittery legs.
dry hands.
mind wanders...
journey.
journeyed.
far away land.
but only just.

tangle me, love.

i am so in love.
that is all i can really say right now.
everything i am seeing, thinking and most of all *feeling* is getting caught up somewhere inside, so that i cannot manipulate anything into words.
time, time.



^^

connect...ions

there are some people who look wonderful and perfect on paper, but you just don't feel "that" with.
and you think you're crazy for feeling wrong with someone who should be right.
then there are the people who are clearly flawed that you connect with, and things "fit".
and they'll show you the time of your life, or they may just break you.
why?

feeding the thought.

lately, i've been looking to literature to stimulate my inquisitive mind.
i love being swept away into another time and place, and i do believe that this transportation is going to help me become a better writer in turn.
in the past few weeks, i have immersed myself in the pages of the catcher in the rye by j. d. salinger and breakfast at tiffany's by truman capote.
next to capture me will be the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde, which i'll begin on the bus ride home.
furthermore, i have recently aquired the outsider by albert camus, and animal farm by george orwell - both of which will soon follow wilde. i also plan to re-visit the little prince by antoine de saint exupery, and hopefully i'll feel all the magic i felt when i first read it once more. in addition, today i bought the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald again, which i had stupidly sold after i was finished with it in english lit, and then sorely missed as a consequence.

i've adopted someone i know's habit of feeling an extreme need to buy every book i read, but i enjoy watching my collection grow.
i am getting a little excited about the prospect of all these new ideas streaming into my thoughts as i scan through chapter and verse.

^^ eep.

where time falls apart.

paper planes carry messages of love in their folded wings while journeying across hidden spaces.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

blackbirds perch on power lines, remarking over the plain pidgeons, whose feathers will never shine like midnight.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

sand slips through the hour glass, as it is spun around again and again, marking moments as fickle as feeling.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

silly people muse over art and literature to feel 'cultured', oblivious to back happenings of the dark places that lie behind. they don't even understand what they speak of.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

a pond riddled with secrets has it's silence broken by a wooden sailing boat un-seaming the dark waters.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

men with false smiles glide their partners around to liquid jazz emanating from an antique gramaphone, a relic of the past with a dose of paradox.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

romeo and juliet get lost, distracted, lead away; they never knew the other existed. the stars uncrossed themselves and fate forgot, it seemed.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

the camouflaged faceless jump into burning deserts of war-torn lands, to silence screams and dash dreams.
and i'm still here. and you're still there.

time passes and i wonder where it went.
the sun always remembers its' que, and winter can't be stopped.
i'm all thats changed.

and i'm still here. and you're still there. i'm here, you're there. i'm there, all the way over there. where are you?

she feels and he feels. both feeling in distances that can't be measured. far, far away, they feel.
here.there.almost.together.

soap operas and comas.

somewhat of a snippet from a few recent conversations:

them: how are you?
me: good.

them: how are you?
me: ok.

them: how are you?
me: i don't know

its so often i'm asked that question, and i never what to say. usually i reply with something that means nothing, something ambiguous and blase. i mean really, how can i condense everything i feel, think, and do in a day into a few choice words? it doesn't work.

so how the fuck am i? interesting has been my response as of late. because that's honestly the best way to describe a life that could easily be a soap opera.

and if you'd asked me right before this very moment, i'd say dreaming.
i've spent the last few days in a trance-like state. just skimming the edges of conciousness enough to communicate and play my part, but besides that, i've been lost in air and space, experiencing a sort of glazed existence. it feels like life has been wrapped up in cling film. ideas, concepts, and extremes have been given free reign through my floating thought process, where grey matter has mixed with white.
wake up jessie.

today, however, the coma broke.

send in the clowns.

when i was a little girl i had a music box. kept on my highest shelf in it's wrapping of card and plastic, tucked between red crates and crepe hats. when i pleaded with my mother long enough, she would bring it down for me to admire.
i would wind the key in its wooden back, and then, when i opened the little trinket draw, it would spring to life. a clown with a painted smile pinned to a circus background would dance in staggerred motion while a haunting melody played in soft resonance. encased by a gilded frame, the clown's movements would eventually lag, as the music faded and the cog slowed. the carnival remained unchanged.
when he was at rest, i would pack away my harlequin friend once more, not to be seen again for years.

it was just the other day that i was listening to some folk music by judy collins when i stumbled upon a song which sounded exactly like that which echoed from my music box those years ago. the same delicate chilling tones, yet this time set against evocative lyrics.

"just when I’d start
opening doors,
finally knowing
the one that i wanted was yours.
making my entrance again
with my usual flair.
sure of my lines,
no one is there"

as soon as the melody began to play, i choked up, and my eyes brimmed with tears.
it made me think back to being so innocent and knowing nothing of the world. when my life was filled with fancies, and i'd be a princess if only i put my tiara on, or maybe a fairy with spangled wings.

it reminded me of how far i have come over the years. it's all just the whole process of growing up, isn't it?
boyfriends, infatuation, love, questioning identity. trying to decide what to be when you realise "when you grow up" is closer than you'd realised. things falling through again and again, and trying to find a new way of coping each time, praying that you'll see it through. living with an eating disorder. depression. being hooked on sleeping pills. forgetting who you are and reinventing yourself countless times. following dreams and discovering new facets of life.
life is a carnival - the rollercoaster, the spun sugar on sticks, the ghost train, the gimmicks.
and the clowns of course.

"don’t you love farce?
my fault, i fear,
i thought that you’d want what I want.
sorry, my dear.
but where are the clowns?"

do you?

read by blogs?
agree with them?
disagree with them?
feel moved?
identify with what is written?
hate them?
do they make you think?
are they just pleasing on your eyes?
confused?
disagree?
understand?

whatever.
the point is, i am getting an interesting number of views each day. and yet, barely any comments or feedback. so if you think something, anything, when you read over these, let me know by means of comments or messages. i want to know if other people ever see things the way i see them, or even take a different stance. feel free to criticise, revere, question, or just tell your take on the matter.
because the littlest words can have the greatest effects.
thankyou.

little by little.

today, i looked out my window, over the city and the river, and saw the most beautiful shapes in the sky. and it got me thinking.

i really do believe it's the simple things that make life magic.

going to the laundromat on the weekend. laden with $1 coins, i sit on the bench and listen to the whirr and chug of the old machines. i found a forgotten dice in the barrell last week.

visiting the supreme court gardens at lunchtime. sometimes with someone, sometimes not, but always stopping on the greenest grass in the sunniest spot. i watch castles and crocodiles in the clouds.

reading literature on public transport. escaping by means of salinger and capote, the vechile jolts, but i am too consumed to care while caught up in carefully constructed sentences. i find some of myself in every character i encounter.

wearing gloves in cold weather. leather, lace, frills, clasps, vintage, edgy - my growing collection does more than just stop my tiny hands from numbing. i feel like a lady when i wear them, and i am.

playing an old piano. rich melodies of love and longing echo from the time-worn strings, where chords convey all conceivable emotion. i lay my fingers on black and white, and stop thinking.

writing anywhere and everywhere. always with a pen and notebook in the realms of my reach, i'll be inspired with no notice, and have to document my findings in a poetic script. i strive for creation and thought.

observing interesting architecture. turrets & columns, orange doors & sculpted spires, crumbling brick & decaying paint compromise treasures visible if you'd only look up whilst wandering through the city. i'll always wonder what is behind the highest window.

looking at things, and then looking again. a different story is always hiding behind facades and virtue; seek deep enough, stop blinking, and you'll be taught. i see more than i ever knew was possible.

reckless abandonment

through candlelit tones, i can see you silhouetted against stone.
waiting. it's late and my innocence is wavering.
i'll blithely follow you through labyrinthine corridors; weaving a tangled trail, i'm as good as blindfolded.
teenage angst melts away as the present unwinds. it's past the time to be confused.

you stop. you turn. we meet.
an embrace so succinct, our bodies unfurl.
we'll whisper in symbols and write in sighs - hieroglyphics to the blind.
we may be two miraculous machines, but i'm really just your little marionette girl.
you don't notice the dimpled young cheeks streaked by glistening tear-tracks as the wind beckons you once more.
narcissus can't be changed, he was lost long before i was found. sweet puppet, he just draws you in, doesn't he?

i stop. i turn. we divide.
i'll not be reckless anymore. i'll not abandon myself.
youth blossomed into something more while the candlelight faded; a flower so intricate, and yet strangely dangerous.
as petals fall upon moss, the eyes watch, holding secrets that will never escape.
wanton and refractory, he is left stanging amongst ghosts, a shadow of a boy too concerned with his reflection, too cold to tremble.
iron scissors cut my strings while the world spins and minds change. and i'm free.