Rasa

I can't write.

The feelings are all locked up inside me, and like a volcano, I'm terrified of what will happen when they reach the boiling point.

A Strange Sorta Fairytale

It would be strange to think of myself as some sort of Jezebel, a temptress with scores of men at the crook of her finger. It would be bizarre picturing me as an angel-faced beauty, ludicrous to think men flirting for pleasure, or asking for my name or number, or even drawing me as their goddess.

It would be harder, still, to imagine myself in some sort of romance story, a protacted courtship over modern post--the eccentric yet "charming" girl, and the confident, intelligent gent toiling continents away, who haven't seen each other in four years.

It sounds like a recipe for a a fairy tale, which is alarming.

How much love can there be if the girl-woman is certain her otherwise Romeo is a Don Juan of international stripes, and she is no longer interested besides? There's not much chance if the poet doesn't even recognize his maybe-muse in their last face-to-face appearance.

No happily ever after here.

Earth Angel

Someone once told me I had an angel's face, a living, breathing china doll of innocence.
     I ingloriously snorted.

A friend, upon looking at my school identification cards through elementary, high school, and college, said it's as though I haven't changed a bit.
    Still she of the smooth chubby skin and naive eyes.

Strange, though, how different I feel now. If I am an angel, I am fallen..or an angel teetering close to the cloud's edge, waiting for someone to drag me down.
    I'm sick of being caught between innocence and desire.

    I wonder if one day, I'll see him in singing,
    and it will make me cast off my restraints and my looms,
    and climb down from the tower,
    and lay down on a boat
    and meet him in death.

Easel

My parents surprised me with an easel the other day. It was gorgeous, carved narra, taller than my rickety bookstore one.
    So I painted.
    It's a lot easier to paint, to just let colors mix and stroke the canvass with hues, because then I don't have to think about anything.

Like how I'm still at odds with my closest group of friends, over my superficial changes.
And how I won't celebrate my birthday, for the first time, with my grandfather, and how no one will probably remember that it was OUR birthday, and not just mine.

Three more days. I hope the painting gets finished before then.

Inamorato

I see him not, and yet I see him still.

He's out there, and though he's no longer wearing armour he's still a knight-a-shining. I have to believe he's out there somehow, the compliment to my dark mirror.

And I am mixing allegories with the best of them.

This will be my personal journal, for those thoughts too private to be shared by friends, yet less prosaic than written in my spiral-bound notebook.

I'm a bit worried I'm compartmentalizing myself, but there must be SOME outlet where I can vent my darker half. Or at least my more pathetic one.

Keep spinning, wheel.