What about violets?

I remember the dress you were wearing. I remember how incredible you looked. I remember pacing back and forth, waiting for you to arrive. I remember being jealous that I had to share you with the rest of the room. I remember the flowers. You told me your favorite flower and I brought them. I remember ignoring everyone around us, I had eyes only for you. I remember the way you laughed, and how when you spoke, everyone stopped to listen. I remember feeling so insignificant next to you. All I remember is you, I don't remember what I was wearing, what music was playing, who we were with, but I remember the shade of your lipstick. I remember the way you moved, how you danced and how you walked. I remember blushing when you caught me staring. I remember being close to you, and being driven away by a mass of bodies, all struggling to be near you. I remember how the whole room seemed to focus on wherever you were. Oddly enough, I remember death threats offered against you. I remember frantically searching for you, and how relieved I was to find you. I remember how in love with you I was, we all were. I remember wanting you to feel the same way, so much it made me want to cry and tear at my hair. And now, I remember these things and I realize that nothing has changed. I love you, more than I will ever be able to tell you, and I hope that someday you'll find somebody that you will always remember.

Please don't do that.

There is no worse feeling in the world than watching someone you love suffer and being entirely unable to help. I want to run, screaming, through traffic, light myself on fire, tear out all my hair, something, anything but none of that would be useful. I don't know what to do, I have to help, ignoring you isn't an option, but you won't tell me what's wrong. I don't know what else to do, I can only hope that you deem me fit to know what it is that's making you hurt. I want to take all of your worries and troubles, ball them up and take them with me to the grave.

Lux Aeterna my ass.

Being back in that place is just as uncomfortable and depressing as I'd imagined. Most of the people I respect have left and I'm left wading through the human muck that has swept in to take their place, it's depressing as hell really. It's a shame that this is the year I've finally decided to grow up, to take control of my life, this one isn't worth the effort. But I'll soldier on, me and the last remnants of my friends. It's amazing how few of them are left. I feel the need to huddle them closer, hold on to them so that thy can't slip away too. Anyway, on an entirely unrelated and slightly schizophrenic note, I'm joining a lo-fi fuzzrock band. Awesome.

Iron John

I'm glad in a way that things turned out the way they did. I've spent so long looking for some form of external validation, usually in the form of a person, that I had almost forgotten how to live for myself. I must confess some disappointment but in the end, the doing is what's important. It's truly crucial to do something with your life, everyday, to just do. It took a rambling midnight conversation with some of the most brilliant people I know to remind me of that, but now that I've got it in my head, I intend to live by it. There's no need for brooding, waiting, stuttering and stopping, action is what matters. I want to live a life in which things happen, exciting things, fun things, scary things, and the only way that will happen is by doing, going out and doing things. So yes, I am disappointed, but I'm happy as well, things could have turned out much worse, and even if they had, I made my move, took my losses and kept going, and that is, to me, an unprecedented symptom of well-being.

I'd paint a painting with joy as my brush; love as my canvas

I wish that I could put peace and harmony into words or capture love and joy with a brushstroke. I would paint a picture of beauty using the memory of this night and compose a poem out of the music of laughter. I would fill the world with art and sing out the colors of contentment. I'd take all of the energy that we made and fashion a pallet with all the colors unknown to man with which I'd sculpt an epic out of words and hum these memories. If I could do all of these things I'd share my joy with the world and give my love to you all, but I am just a writer so I hope that this will suffice: Thank you for the memories, the love and the joy, my life has been touched by you all in a myriad of ways, I wish you peace and health as well as success and joy, please take with you the knowledge that you are loved, wherever your journeys may take you.

Consanguinity

Seeing your work appreciated by others is one of life's greatest joys. Being able to flip through the book and see, page to page, my contributions, leaves me with a feeling of pride which I cannot adequately explain. I gave so much of myself to learning the trade, trying to produce something worth keeping, the book is to me my last year incarnate. I look at it's beautiful red cover and I see that bright white room, long sweeping halls, a gorgeous auditorium, and so many, many faces, gathered at football games, competitions, recitals. I see them gathered on the greens, loitering in parking lots, working backstage, hunched over desks, gathered around computer screens. I see faces that I may not see in the flesh again, friends and colleagues who have moved out int the world. I hear the laughter, so much clear, beautiful, ringing laughter. I hear the music, songs sung by thousands, big brass bands, guitar gods, and haunting melodies produced by a single human voice. I feel the presence of great minds, gathered in circles, discussing and exploring in ever more excited tones, rushing headlong towards the truth. I feel the weight of a camera in my hands, around my neck, feel it click as I capture these moments. I feel the weight of the world and lighter than air, crushing frustration and elation the likes of which I've never known. I can taste the meals shared with friends, the salty tang of the coastal air. This book contains the best part of me, and I will keep it always as a reminder of the things we made and the things we lost. Thank you, to everyone who made it possible, to everyone above and below me who was there when it all took place. Thank you for letting me play my part. Thank you.

addendum

It just occurred to me that this is the first time I've ever wanted someone to comfort me, 'til now I've always done any reassuring or commiserating that was needed. I don't like this side of the coin.

Thanks.

I want you to make me feel better. You could, if you wanted but you don't. You just say goodnight and you're gone. And I cannot help but wonder why.

That's not fair

Why would you remind me of such things?

For Kyle

There I stood, pizza box in hand, in the belly of the beast; the Department of Public Safety. Kyle to my left, TalkerChick to my right, I steeled myself to deal with the backwater scum who undoubtedly waited further on within this pale brown tomb of bureaucratic misery. Suddenly, HickBoy engages our trifecta in conversation, jarring me out of my reverie. Politics. We talk politics as the line slowly creeps towards the filth-consuming maw of the processing desk. As the conversation heats up I take note of all available exits, as well as the odd appearance of a pair of bowling shoes. A large hulking figure to my left, FootBall, joins the discussion, I recall his previous contributions which had earned his name. A crescendo is reached, the tenor of the forum has reached a new high, something is about to happen- "Could you keep it down? You're being very loud and your voice carries" says PrickFace. Bad vibes now, I am newly aware of the sickening ambiance of my surroundings, it gets very quiet, they're staring now. Kyle is visibly upset, agitated by PrickFace's comment, he and HickBoy discuss the turn of events in mutinous tones. Fearing for my safety I grip the pizza box closer, it is the only thing between me and TalkerChick. Angry stares and violent laughter, I begin to sweat as the atmosphere turns nasty, but suddenly- "You're in the hole now kid!" laughs FootBall as he steps through the gap into the reception area. He's right, we're nearly there! But what does it mean? What happens when we get there? Will they take my pizza? Will I have to sign anything? "Calm down" I say to the pizza box, "No-one can come between us now." But I am unsure. Finally we approach the desk and the octogenarian nightmare lurking behind it takes notice of us. "Papers?" She croaks. "Oh christ, what should we do?" I wonder. Aloud. To an elderly Indian woman. Before I know what is happening, papers have been signed, thumbprints taken, photos shot, samples retrieved, files checked and all manner of things filled out in triplicate. We leave, but not before exchanging dangerous glances at Hickboy and a set of old Hispanic women. Freedom. Safety. 60mph down a strip of tarmac.

Fuck you all with one-million-and-one-porpoise dicks.

What the towering pile of fuck is this shit? What have I done to offend the karmic gods so badly? First my job is on ice due to fucking corporate retardation, then my laptop decides to see exactly how many ways it can fuck up at once, and just now, to top it off I spent 20 minutes putting my fucking blogger password into the prompt before, out of the blue, it finally fucking accepted it. I'm tired and miserable and hot, and dangerously close to doing something disgustingly violent with a ball-peen hammer. I want blood.