ohmotherofpearl

I watched her sleep for 2 days that seemed like weeks.

She slept so much her dreams bled out.

She dreamed quiet dreams, not stories...
of cold mornings and empty spaces, walking alone through the places she wishes she could be.
Dark libraries and baroque buildings, and there was no one else around
(except maybe for me, trying to steal her body)...

She'll willingly breathe me in like smoke,
step behind the curtains and go back to dreaming (awake or asleep).

I'm sure it's her physiology that makes her that way, but I know she finds some kind of release in the delirium and euphoria brought on by high fevers.
The feeling is similar to that of the moments before slipping into actual sleep, hanging by a fragile thread of waking consciousness...

We break apart at those moments.

We take turns, sitting back and letting the other speak, never in conflict... just a natural rhythm, without a pattern, yet most opportunely orchestrated.

This is not real fragmentation, we're one and the same,
yet I can't deny, insane an illusion as this may be,
that there is a difference.
That I have a presence.
And that I'm the better one, and have always been.
The Super-Ego, if you will.


Or perhaps it's just my(our) resistance against growing up that keeps me from disintegrating, and, oppositely, growing into something stronger.

I don't know how many of you had this experience,
(or even have the experience of remembering perceptions just as you did as very young children)
that of having not only "imaginary friends," but imaginary  "alter selves" who were slightly different than what you thought was "you."
Better... or worse, I suppose.

In my case, I was always the perfect one... an opposite of a sign without an antonym.
An opposite of what?
Juxtaposed... a repetition, perhaps even a synonym, a related term, on the other side of the charts, the same, yet not. Yet the same. Though the opposite.

I'm not sure where the impulse of writing this down comes from, probably for future reference.
Writing a web, weaving a text in the dark.

Sometimes I don't know whether to believe myself...

If what I tell myself is has any relation to the reality of things (if there is only one).



I have problems.

They've always been there.
From the womb.
Most people don't remember that far into time, but I do.

Everything I've done revolves around a center... outside that center is something else in orbit, that I pretend is my real reason for... anything.
But that's a lie.



Sometimes I just manage to forget those problems, put them away in the back of a drawer and fill it up with messy, pretty things to distract me, but they're there...
sometimes they roll to the front of the drawer and I remember.


I don't deserve this, I know.

Please don't misundertstand.
I don't mean that I deserve better.

But that's just the way things are.
A spark becomes a fire and the earth becomes a wasteland.







I did want to dissapear, so bad...
and sometimes I still do, though I know it's not worth it... there is something... someone who means more to me, but I'm just no good at trying to be better.


Sometimes I like me.

When I see myself through her eyes, I don't.

I wonder why I really live and what really I live for.

I fear that, when stripped of any assumption, the answer just floats up to the surface like in a magic 8 ball...
and it's always the same
and it always makes me feel worthless.

Tonight is a beautiful night in my head.

There are some things I don't deserve.

{feb 23 2006}

Only seconds ago I had the sudden impulse, a strong, piercing desire for something absent,
for the emotional intensity I once knew... something I thought would one day be fullfilled.
This was a feeling I've always remembered fondly but had not actually felt since my early teens.

Sunset trees and what they look like from inside this miserable bus... beautiful.
I dream so often I can fly, I think my subconcious is conviced and very sure that I can.

I think I stopped writing to start living, but I felt so much more real when I wrote instead of lived... I lived through ink and paper and watching the world through the eyes of naive girl thinking herself wiser than to take part in it.
Fleneur become a dandy, that is me.

Inevitable circumstances, those in which we're made to wait. I'mm annoyed, yet relieved by them.
The courses of our lives interrupted by this obligation...
Hopes are gone as well as the allure of my innocence... people's actions, I never forget.
I look into the past with more experienced eyes and am frightened for myself back then, yet proud I did things no other way.

I am still as fond of solitude as I ever was... something so impossible for people to understand.
Not difficult, absolutely impossible.
I often long for solitude, but perhaps it is good company that helped me stop writing to start living.

Time and the universe work spirally.
It will close on itself, and I'll be back where I started someday.

There is a big weight floating somewhere in the space above her.
It's been collecting for some time now...
It is a sack. The contents within need to be scrutinized and sorted,
some to be discarded,
but she's afraid or burning up or melting down.






Not yet.






She's been afraid of creating for some time now, it's linked to the above.
She's scared of writing, afraid of what will spill onto the pages.
She must remember that it's all she ever had

... and that it's all she'll ever have
when the time comes to scrutinize and sort the contents (which have been collecting for some time now)
in a sack,
a big weight floating somewhere in the space above our heads.

{Not yet...?}

Yes, now.
Always now.
It's gone tomorrow.

I was born in the imagination of a 4 year old little girl.
She had very light skin, dark hair and intense eyes with long lashes.
She didn't want to recognize her reflection...

I have a great memory for these details, and I remember how this girl thought, even though it was 16 years ago.
Her favorite color was violet. She had a big birthmark on her left knee. She liked dogs and she knew a handful of phrases in japanese.
This was a constellation of facts that, to herself, superficially made up her identity.

This was before she made friends with other children and discovered how mean they could be.

Sometimes she felt anxious and trapped within those facts...
So she changed her reflection. She projected me.
My favorite color is pink. I'm blonde. I'm a bit taller, a bit older, and a lot prettier than she.
Now I only have a journal and myspace, but I lived for some weeks in the girl's body.
Only her mother recalls, because her grandparents are both dead.
She became me... she wouldn't answer to her given name, only to the one she gave me (which sounds terrible now) and she found it easier to express and verbalize real desires... I lived in her body until she was scolded, told to quit the attitude and to stop giving adult strangers that ugly, fake name.
She didn't forget me, but didn't need me.

Sometimes she uses me because she feels anxious and trapped within the expectations of her created identity.
It's refreshing to step out of ones' skin, even if only metaphorically.

Between she and I right now there is a long, silent empty space full of meaning,
like a drafty hallway.

{dec 20 2005}

Is there any sense in answering to questions, doubts and fears of the past?
When the past is answered with our future the present.
Tonight I forget the order of letters as they form these words, and it is hard to be sincere.
I will wait.

{jan 10 2006}

My heart has grown as big as the room tonight,
or perhaps it is the ghost inside of me that has filled it...
It took some time in wilderness, a jungle paved in asphalt and garbage, concrete and ash, beasts bearing fangs and flashing glimpses of their stinking jowls...
That's how it is in the bowels of the city, not pretty, but foul.

There is a place where true happiness is found, and this is where time becomes an endless strip in an endless cycle... an illusion of time passing, time stopped.
I've had countless skies in my past, too many, too precious, all of them. So if I lift my sight from the ground, and I drink down the sky with the mouths of my eyes, I swallow every drop of blue, every brilliant hue.
Aurora borealis soon explodes behind my eyes.

My heart has grown as big as the room tonight.

It is dawn, and something electrifying resounds, an echo in my memory;
and the room shakes, around me and under my feet, because it has a memory of its own.



Once upon I time, I was shaking... broke into doll parts and it took a day to recover.
After that, I've been nothing but a tiny, paper sailboat swishing in a vast, vast black ocean,
with nowhere to go and no home to return to.

I think I woke up a little too late today...

The concept of excess is one that fades into abstraction until its consequences envelop me...

Today I overslept.
14 hours of sleep was the norm when there was less on my mind but more in my head.

The truth is I'm afraid of lethargy lately...
I told myself not to be afraid, because the contents,
although spilled and lost forever,
come from an eternal source that will never be exhausted.

Perhaps I should try to sleep.





There was once a pair of friends, they were like sisters... that's what stood out about them, at least to me, it was beautiful.
I hadn't seen the little one for some time. I asked her sisterfriend about her, she told me she was fine.
There was an old house once on a hill, only the basement survived decades after,
but I heard they threw the wildest parties in it...
I killed a man there. Then I ran over his head with my car.
His father knew, though I denied it, he came looking for me. I didn't know this man.
A bat flew dragging lace upon its wings, and carried it back to that dirty basement.
It turns out the smaller girl had died years ago, that her friend was in denial.

"Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are. That must be it, I thought - to lose your direction is to lose your face. So here he comes to ask his direction from the lost, the invisible. Very well, I've learned to live without direction. Let him ask."

Ralph Ellison, from Invisible Man

Wishes are tucked away, close to the bed, in yellowed pages...
some outlined in brown roses
(blood red roses that now just rotted on the paper and make it look dirty).


Some of us grow up to stop wishing and start taking
stop waiting and listen to old songs over and over and over 'till void of meaning
signified void of signifier
phrases used and overused, fused, diffused,
they become like air, invisible, though there...

What was just a favorite song becomes like a memorized prayer to an unbeliever.

Some of us grow up to stop wishing and start taking
stop waiting and listen to old songs over and over
but we never stop becoming
we start taking and take for granted
they become like air, invisible, though there
and we poison it because we can,
breathing in oily smoke as long as lungs can hold
because purity, too is void of meaning
signified void of signifier
and sometimes
(sometimes)
we shed our old eyes and learn again to start reading.

In written lines there is nothing to see, nothing to read
some of like to get lost inbetween
how could it be
how could it be

Some of us grow up to stop wishing so we start taking,
aware that life is not like old songs, those songs that we listen to over and over and over
and they are signifieds void of signifier,
songs played and overplayed in helpless dismay of life's delays.

Some of us like to get lost inbetween
and we never stop becoming.
You can open this book at the beginning, the end or the middle
and for itself it is but itself, no deceit, no cruel riddles.

Between lines there are sparkling universes some of us like to get lost in
the lines themselves the only possible utterances
signifieds void of signifier.

Lines are static.
Spaces are infinately shifting, becoming and unbecoming.

What was just a favorite song becomes like a memorized prayer to an unbeliever.
Sometimes we shed our old eyes and learn again to start reading.





as long as you are mine
by tiamat

you move like liquid fire
like crystal methadrine
you make the stars come closer
the most beautiful girl i've seen
you're everything i want
only you can set me free
you're an angel in the snow
you're a shot in the arm for me

you move and whisper softly
you make me safe and sound
you're a tranquilizer
you make the world go round
you are here beside me
you make me feel fine
i'll go through any day
as long as you are mine

i will let your LED's shine, shine
i will let your LED's shine, shine
i will let your LED's shine, shine
as long as you are mine

1. I own a pair of army green Doc Martens (that I've had since high school) with doodles, verses and Cruxshadows lyrics scribbles all over.

2. I like taking really long showers.

3. Every day that I have time, I make a gallon of tea. I drink all of it by myself within the next hour.

4. I own five Austrian crystal tiaras.

5. Pouring myself drinks to ingest while writing final papers is a habit of mine since my first year of college.

I always find a way of doing what I please, giving my obligations a minimum of time, but even so, floating in the back of my head, hanging over like curtains of guilt, they keep my monsters at bay.

I'm fond of them, I know, I've been nurturing them all this time, feeding them what they like the most,
more to read, more to know, so they know new forms and can choose one not already familiar,
as they are shapeless- shapeless because with every passing moment, small as it may be, they are not
what they were just before.


Eternity is the most liberating idea for me... eternity and starlight,
when the world presses in and upon
making the universe smaller and smaller
that one has to remember how to push it away every possible way and regain light.
"I am alive because I will die."

And the promise of death is what gives us all meaning.
If once you are in doubt, just think of how soon you will be dead...
The thought makes me want to burst into a million pieces
run too fast and stumble and skin my knees
or dance 'till something starts to hurt
because I really wish I could shake off my skin like drops of water.


I apologize to my angel for speaking like I'm mad
I don't want to
but I'm afraid they crawl out from the deepest parts or my psyche, right out and into my mouth.
This is not new, but the way it's always been.


Latent cravings that one would only dare to dream of
like ripping off skin and tearing out eyes
and flying.
Metaphors of desire?

"You and your words" he said
and suddenly, I feel trapped...
trapped in language, trapped in wanting something unreal
trapped in discourse
trapped in text...

Emma Bovary syndrome.


I found a certain something that reminded me of a certain something
[online a secret journal that is totally open but wouldn't find unless you knew]
that is not exactly
but something I said
and I don't even know if I believe in
because some realities can be reformed in the blink of an eye,
but we are stubborn to holding on to some of them...




[date omitted and irrelevant, but old enough to not be about now]

What started out as giving in
to one of those impulsive, little, impish little whims
Became what I thought would end right before
it could start to become anything more...

Love is a word pronounced, written and thought too much over and it's late now.
Love is a concept that lacks outline and substance, an impossible high that we can only believe in when intoxicated.

I've been looking for that high since poetry started becoming the thread of my glimmering dreamwebs,
since words started filling in that which called for something as beautiful as heaven's shining ice,
and I made Love up in my head
and I can honestly write again what I once wrote when paper was my one sanctuary...
I was always the silent girl... blah blah blah while my heart bleeds obscenely all over your floors from my wrist,
where I wear it like a charm.
Those who have an eye for it, and not everyone does, as everything else about my manifestation is misleading,
may as well tear it away, wear it like a badge, and return it, beaten and mangled.
As they have.


I wrote "I will never love but words" (or something to that effect),
and, at fourteen, I think I felt as pretentious as a little poetess,
as pretentious as I feel now, quoting myself as if I were all the wiser,
well, words have been the snag.
"When will I see you again?"
Do you have a piece of paper?
Here's my number, pretty boy.
And it rained pretty words and I fell face first into the concrete,
Princess Coldheart closing her eyes with all consuming hell inside her ribcage

I have to confess there's something over me
never the same or what I used to be,
and I am ashamed it's always me me me...
sorry...

I'm afraid it's all gone to my head, maybe, because everything does, apparently.

I mustn't say things I intend to change as if though they would always be, because everything that is melts into air...

As of late I find myself verbalizing... not often, but having short, little epiphanies in the middle of my classes, only related to the texts assigned, but having to do with everything at once
since the universe is only what our paths are paved with.


I must get away for a while...

I only wish I was invisible,
I wish that I could hide, even in anothers' skin...

If I give it all to them, there will be nothing left of me for me,
because I often feel I'm shrinking, being pulled a million different ways
because you're special, but so are you,
and you're specialer, but this one's special, too
and what what what
is there left at the end of the day






I'm happy
but I'm sad today
and have been for some months (years?)
because, I tell you that there is only one thing (for now) that I can swear to your subjective reality that will never change in me
and that is that I'll do almost anything to fill up pages
even if you never read them.

Perhaps I'm mad.



This longing is not new.



I want my wings back.



I want my words back.

{august 17 2005}

the answer to every question you should ask lies inbetween
the lines and lives, loops of innk staganant
catfish swimming in the grey tincan cave, captive - the sea just a few feet away.

Linear luna, left of lazy landscapes lowered,
light and mist, and fog that rubs itself like a cat against the windowpane.
He speaks to me through memory, but so does every man that lands paper between paper on a paper printed,
I'm an idiot savant.

Je suis vs je suis, je suis

i'll tell you a little bit about myself:
i'm neverthesame and
sometimes i hate lovesongs.




Thank you, malore_elentari for the magic pages.

I forgot to bring my cell phone along today...
I had forgotten how liberating it is not to carry a phone.

I woke up to a hyperbolic sky...
The ocean today was clear, clear, clear,
had there been fishes, we could have seen them from a mile up, squirming shadows,
a little darker that the shadows in the water, the shadows of clouds...


I burned pages and threw their ashes in the wind, but kept some only because I tend to start doubting...
I swim for miles and think I've been travelling in circles,
or not at all,
but the truth is I've left the shore and have been moving forwards and onward, hardly ever backwards...

This is not what I wanted to write.
I had the words on the tip of my fingers, I was aching to come and type them, but they've gone now.

Summer presses like a warm, viscous, soupy ocean...
I won't be having that much spare time this summer, either.
On July 5th I'll be starting another boring {and tiring} routine...
And I want to go dancing on friday...


I need to take new pictures.

It's only when I lose myself
in someone else
That I find myself
I find myself...


I thought it might be a good idea to get a livejournal...
as the internet is the reality we wish we walked in,
every once in a while (yes, I speak for myself).

I beg of you, my friends, if you know my little secret, to please
respect my severance;
we are, yet are not, quite like siamese...

{oct 23 2004}

Pulling poison from a cancer stick this time at night, listening to sounds that comfort me mostly because of the cityscapes they remind me of, a substitute for a painfully silent longing.

I danced just before picking up these implements from beside my pillow, clumsily, and caught sight of my reflection in my vanity mirror, and,
as it happens in these late hours when perception opens up to usually inaccessible
pathways, I didn't recognize the body in the glass.

The tinted hair, the nose, those eyes that, without eyeshadow look almost slanted, even the name that they call this animated mass, seemed a slightly bit alien.
As I were watching the body from an abstract, shapeless, floating view.

I do not have hands,
I do not have eyes,
I am the light that makes them move.

Yet, these are my only proof of existence.





{oct 26 2004}
{1 am}

"Long has paled the sunny sky;
Echoes fade and memories die.
Autmn frosts have slayn July.

Still, she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes (...)

- Lewis Caroll