fraught

There was a frantic tone in her voice that I recognized, the same tone that she used every time she would be gone for days on end, leaving me here with a few dollars and Mr. Bunny, my ragged stuffed animal, as my only provider. She'd return disheveled and reeking of alcohol. Then her voice had a different tension. The one where it was my fault so and so left her. For years I lived like this because I knew no better.

It's okay I thought. This time, before she comes back, I'll burn this hellhole down. And I'll be gone.

Baconian

He was a learned man, a scholar of Shakespeare. Often he would recite several of his favorite soliloquies from Hamlet with unwavering passion. The inflections of his voice proved his thin-line balance with madness. And who could forget in high school where he first heard the infamous lines, "To be, or not to be: that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?" He knew then how to grapple with the irrational reasoning of his own existence. He was doing it now, watching his mind quarrel between a living fool and a sleeping coward. The gentle rocking motions of sleep always called him in, perchance to dream.

allege

The allegations pile on. You've already sold yourself short, she says. Look at yourself now, what have you accomplished. You spend your petty days daydreaming about success and fame. Where have you gone? Nowhere. Are you even happy? She's staring at me with slanted eyes, glaring as if she's seen my future.

The mirror talks back with an unfriendly sneer. I should stop looking.

lavation

I only feel gravity and I wonder why.

My palms are numb from the consistent pounding of water on my hands. I hold them there underneath the showerhead, unmoving and relentlessly firm. My body, statuesque, has not moved for the last ten minutes, eyes closed under the warm pressure. But my mind is in constant motion, reviewing every little decision that you've made. We believe people change for each other, only to discover we only change for ourselves. I can feel your eyes upon my naked skin, but are you really there? I refuse to look because I already know the answer. Your hands touch my eyes, wiping away drops, tears or water you can't tell, but it comforts you to perform the act. The water understands the power of distortion when I open my eyes and find nothing.

A personal fountain to the cleansing of the soul, or so I like to believe. One touch of water on my skin and black becomes white, dirt becomes gold, anger becomes love. If only, as I stand there still unmoving.

encroach

Life is for the living, he thought. The weight of the world was on his shoulders, as it always had been, as it always would be. This was not living, every day a constant struggle to see the next, yet it was always the same. What if he stopped, what would happen? He wondered, toyed with the idea. People would continue living, eating, sleeping, and breathing. The good helping the good and the bad, the bad only watching out for themselves. Government would still exist, so would faith, poverty, love and murder. He looked at his feet, covered in dirt, while his shoulders ached and begged him to rest. What difference does one person make he pondered.

He finally set it down. He placed the heavy weight over the world beneath his feet. And it stayed. Atlas ran before he saw what happened.


"If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater the effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders--what would you tell him to do?"

...

I don't have time for one words anymore :( from the word of the day. Maybe after graduation when school lets out I'll be more on the ball. For now, I will be writing random thoughts from random one words.

doughty

I am not a soldier.
I am a coward. I hide behind your vacant smile.

Before, in that summer, in the car, outside classroom doors, in a coffee shop, at a small restaurant, outside your house, we didn't see what love meant. We just took each drive, seat, sip, bite, moment as we could. I told you secrets then, as I told you last year. You told me your first secret late one night, like tonight, where I cried over a silly paper, which turned out to be very well-written. You knew me better than I knew myself, and you had just started to love me.

But now, everything is empty. You're not there. You're never there. You take each drive, seat, sip, bite, and moment on your own, in your work, or with somebody else. Sometimes I decide to come along just to comfort you. You don't though. Tonight I am writing alone. Pages and pages of incoherent relationships of the business kind, not of people. No one encouraging me to finish, nor anyone to comfort--I wouldn't allow it anyway. I don't write well anymore. Even if you still love me.

If I were a soldier, I would be brave. I would tell you things about myself. I would tell you all my secrets again. Change, we've become. You alone would find me behind my smile.

polyonymous

Angel
Angela
Angelica
Angelina
Angelina Ballerina would be fun

Just me. Just Angie.

beau geste

She waits, patiently as before, for a grand gesture. This time he would burst through the doors with a fragrant bouquet of flowers that were already trimmed, nurtured and arranged into an expensive vase. Or maybe he'd come in with tickets to the opera, front balcony, where if she tipped her head, she'd drink in the entire theatre. Or maybe Tiffany's blue would be her color, when her greedy eyes devour the platinum weight of a diamonds. Three-stone setting and some smaller stones across the band, why not. Or maybe, this time, he'd come in empty-handed. She wouldn't mind, because this time he'd leave his wife. He would rush in and stay with her, forever. But that, she'd wait forever for.

doxology

nothing like Kurt Vonnegut

rodoment

"Well, if you ask me, I think they're hideous. My dad bought me those over there in pink and silver, and they are much nicer," sneered Rachel. "Actually I'm going to wear them tonight, else I'd let you borrow them."

This is how things are Rachel believed. She had to make her authority known, that she was the best. Life was full of designer clothing and sleepovers with girls that wished they could be her. She hated it actually, okay maybe not hated, but it wasn't exactly what she wanted. It was all that she had after all. Maybe one of these times her parents would be there when she came home, open arms and smiling. A real smile. Life's luxuries must be better than a Marc Jacobs bag.

Rachel loved sleepovers though. She loved them because for once she saw, she experienced what a real family was like. She'd use her authority--or if she had to--promise designer bribes to get into her "friends" lives. Just so she could be in that happy place again.

vernal

The oscillations of the stringy jump rope around the children's quick double-dutch feet reminded her of spring and green leaves.

maquette

Everything is perfect in this family. She was beaming as the dad fried the battered shrimp he spent the day cleaning and marinating. The mom was mixing the potato salad together with relish, mayonnaise and chopped tomatoes. She had stewed the potatoes from early this morning before she beat them soft. The daughter, that was herself, washed the dishes and drank her tea. She was a part of this routine, a beautiful symbiosis of family.

But she is growing. She is learning to be on her own. As picturesque as her parents dancing to Frank Sinatra blasting from the kitchen radio as they cooked was, she would go. It was time. But someday she would have her own family and it would be just as perfect.

ad hoc

Note to self:

I'll put together this little ad hoc plan because you need one, but you must know life is for the living.

deference

My grandfather was a good man. He created my mom and she loved him. He was a sergeant fighting for his duty. He made sure that all his children had the best private education available. My mom was picked up every day on an army Jeep from school. She remembers the bumpy ride.

My grandfather smoke and drank too much. So much that I barely remember him alive. He was a vegetable for the rest. My mom cried when her father died. He was buried in a rich plot he had bought for him and my grandmother so they would always be together. She cried as well. We paid our respects, varying degrees of deference, to him with our backs turned as he was lowered. I remember the clean cut grass along the graves.

I rarely drink, except on fine occasions. I have no tolerance and don't plan to gain one. I never smoke because I condemn it. What others do is not my responsibility but I understand. For me, I tell myself I can prevent being bedridden to a nurse, who has to empty my bed pan every time I defecate. I think that this simple action of not participating will keep me alive, really alive so my grandchildren remember me. It may not, but I can't risk taking that chance.

sashay

My heart sashayed across the dance floor. I watched her move with the strange grace of slight drunkenness. The movements were deep and grandiose as her body swayed. It shifted weight to each beat. Left hip, right hip, left hip, right hip. Giddy steps with giddy friends. We would laugh about this tomorrow when no one would remember. I even started laughing now as I tried to move my stiff hips, only to stop when she turned away to face him.

Her shallow relationship of two months equated to a life long romance when he entered the room. My life long romance of her equated to a one-sided painful realization. I attempted to not exist again as I left the dance floor. Grabbing another glass, I toasted her happiness and drank.

numinous

I admit, I think God is slightly sad that I don't seek any kind of spiritual comfort. Must be why nothing seems to be going as planned. I need to believe I can.

I got here on my own accord and there isn't a mysterious being that did this work for me. I must have miscalculated on the way. Crap. I need to work harder.

God is punishing me because I strayed. I must pray more and follow what we've been taught in Church. He will guide me through this. Amen.

I need to believe I can.

cachinnate

sometimes silence is a habit that hurts
el konigsburg

My words fail to reach her, no matter how desperately I want her to hear. I'm so afraid of the cachinnation that I never tell her how I feel.

pungent

I could smell the sweet spices Mama used in the curry chicken. It was her specialty, a dish her own mother taught her. Her brother was visiting. I hadn't seen Uncle since I was three, so I vaguely remembered his thick beard and deep set eyes, like Mama's eyes.

Mama was rolling the pink breasts in the flour and stewing it in the curry. She was humming old love songs as she cooked. I stood next to her by the stove. I didn't realize how the wrinkles behind her eyes creased heavier. Age had also covered her skin on her once-smooth hands. I wondered if Uncle would remember Mama as his younger sister, or would the wrinkles hide her youthful smile.

It was hard to smile now though. When Papa died the house turned still. Uncle was coming to make sure Mama was okay. I didn't understand how he could make things better. I watched the curry slowly rising, reaching the brim. I could let it boil over I thought. Instead I lifted the lid to let the cool air smother the sauce. Sometimes I wish I wouldn't have to do anything, that life would fix itself.

jog trot

Every day feels like a dirty routine as she rounds the corner to chase the nightlife. There's always sweet small talk and a shot of something strong before he--whoever he is tonight--decides they should split. The club plays sexy hip-hip beats that drowns her fake smile, which he never sees because his eyes are focused on her chest. She always follows.

She can't understand why she doesn't feel anything. Each night, as she shares herself, she still doesn't feel anything. Why doesn't she feel a damn thing? This dirty habit she won't quit because she needs love and all she receives is a one-night security.

sinecure

Julia stared out the window of the 42nd-story skyscraper. The view was beautiful of the harbor, but she was bored. Every day it was the same brain-dead excel spreadsheet, save maybe one or two presentations. Business was slow, so her job was slow. Granted it was always slow. She didn't exactly hate her job, in fact sometimes she actually happily excelled at it. Plus it paid well and let her live somewhat comfortably despite the city's pretentious nature. She enjoyed her lifestyle though. She just hated being so damn bored. Every time she found herself staring out the window she wondered how life would be if she were poor.