Snippets and Voices: Of being Open

I want to be Open. I want to warm my hands on a ceramic cup filled with tea and talk about Life and Love. With a friend. With someone who likes vintage, and pretty, and thinks about social constructs. And Art.

I want to Share. I want to share things that are more than snippets. I want to share things that aren't filtered. Things that aren't censored. Things that represent me as I am and not the self I wish to portray (though sometimes they are the same, or at least I think that maybe they can be).

I want to Trust. I want to feel free to talk. With my voice. And my heart.

I want to have a Voice. I want to have a voice that isn't tied to my fingers and black plastic keys.

I want to be Honest. I want to learn to trust again and love a friend again, and maybe on the road to those things is a stop where you learn to be openly honest with yourself. I want to share more completely with whole sentences that don't cut. Off before I get to the point.

I want to be Open. I want to do that here. Because here is where I am right now and I think here seems like an alright place to be.

xoxoxoxo

Every Fog

Low slung cloud lingers

Consumes each crevice until

I am part of it.

xoxoxo

Writing, writing, writing. Haikus for uni.

Nothing speech, Certain paint, Departing light

The smell brought back nothing,

but the swift memory of departing;

words falling short and rattling across the floor - plastic packaging of a futile speech.

We emptied all the cans and made a mural of red and black paint.

Stood back to look at the damage, no longer certain.

Lay under sheets (heavy flat vices now) and stared at the ceiling light.

It is morning. Weak rays. Pale light.

Bodies moving forward, thoughts cast back, present in the nothing.

Keys from the table, "But are you certain?"

"When," not why "is the bus departing?"

"Caution: Wet Paint

on the rails." Off the rails. Convoluted speech.

Fixation. The absurdity of speech.

Red. Green. Orange. It all continues regardless of the light.

Feet covered in paint.

But still there are no footprints. Nothing

left behind. We are constantly departing.

But of arrivals we can never be certain.

"But are you certain?"

Memory rings the bell for four words of speech.

Late. It's already departing.

Urgency of now. Flashing light.

But no noise - just more echoes of the nothing

and that persistent stench of paint.

Acrid. Disgusting. Paint, paint, paint.

Now it seems the only thing of which to be certain.

Nothing else remains. Nothing.

Endless options but I'm floundering. The smell overpowers the speech.

Missed. Yet another light.

Always on the verge of departing.

But errant thoughts of waiting prevent us from finally departing.

Waiting for the smell to go - that memory of paint.

Waiting for an excuse to leave - a steady green light.

Waiting to be certain.

Waiting to unwrap the words of our final speech.

But nothing.

We turn off the light and watch its' glow departing.

Eyes full of nothing - lips of red paint.

At once, not yet certain, it colours our speech.

xoxoxox