When will the tears stop weathering creases into my face? When will I be able to see through the thick layer of pain? When will he be able to say he’s not that fine and not have my stomach drop? I miss the feeling that comes with a smile. I miss knowing that I was special. I hate that I can never fully escape. Sleep, but you will wake. Cry, but no one will hear, and in the end, you just sit in a pool of your own tears as no one notices. Dream, but soon you will realize that dreams are for those afraid of reality. Then you realize that you are afraid of reality. Everyone tires of what the mirror shows. Everyone tires of having to look in the mirror. Perhaps a blacked out mirror would be of more service. You would never have to deal with the harsh flavors of reality, but instead create the sugar of imagination. You can taste the sweet flavors that come with the visions that you allow. The sweet flavors that come with what you want to see. Yes, a blacked out mirror is worth so much more. You are never reminded of what is really there, but left to sit in the river of chocolate. Of course, there will come a time when you will tire of even the blacked out mirror and you will wander and find the reality. The sours, the salty. You will find it. There is no permanent escape. I want my permanent escape.

I´m off to the woods again. I need to recollect my thoughts and feelings, and I need nature. I´ll be there with  God, if He still wants to participate in my conversations. He may be bothered with so many questions I ask. And there, among nature, I may feel closer to Him. Emerson and Freud were also invited to spend some time with me as well. I´ll be around Xanga. Commenting and reading.

Take care, you all!

Thanks to Sid, I ahve been working more than ever at my computer. There is this e-learning company that has been sending  me texts for translations and some editing. I like to have my yahoo messenger on as I work, in case either a friend comes by or I get a new email.

Things had been calm, till I decided to add my picture to my yahoo profile. Everyday, there is a new `contact`from different places abroad, and as a promiscuous about people that I am, I like it! .  I have met some nice persons sofar. All male though. I now wonder whether the web girls are… There were those who have made me some weird( serious, really weird) proposals! Some were rude… Some of them, I really wish I were able to meet some day.

What I have learned till now, is that some peopel really have some fixed ideas about Brazilian people- specially Brazilian women. I guess it is al due to the images of Carnival show on tv.  I don’t mind much, I myself have some misconceptions on people and places. As I’m still not able to travel and find things out by myself, the use of the net is of huge importance now.

Have a nice weekend, you all!!

Confession time: I watched Chasing Amy.

There is an inescapable conclusion that I have arrived at in watching this movie. I am promiscuous in dealing with people.

I fall in love with people. Their mannerisms, their minds, the promises that they bring. I probably love you, gentle reader. I merely lay content with jests and discourses as vehicles of expressions. For me, a well-turned thought transcends the bindings of sexuality, it is a rose presented in the quiet pavilions of the mind and heart.

Gender does not matter.
Status does not matter.
Physicality no longer matters.

Remembering is the sweet and terrible mystery. Forgetting is not an option for me, and why should it be? Are my feelings quantifiable, something that can accumulate, can devalue, can be stolen? The emphasis on exclusivity frightens me. It frightens me because I have always accepted it unquestioningly, used the standard of “one and only one” that was offered up to me. I have always shunned my reluctance to choose, citing it as all-too-human selfishness. Yet the Little Flower chose all, did she not?

Perhaps I should choose all, and delight in the beauty of every person instead of attempting to lose myself in the deepest and most draining of embraces with one. Revel in the purity of loving indiscriminately, content to be a butterfly with her flowers… and in the end, return to the internal landscape of winter, the wind’s plainsong flowing through the branches of my veins.

“Perhaps what you need to learn is that you can be fine with one person, all people, or no one at all. But whatever you learn, don’t let it be dictated by someone who’s afraid of what you could be.”

Sid, wherever you are… It’s me, Shy. It’s me, it’s me, it’s me in so many guises and so many faces and so many jests.

I’m all out of faith
This is how I feel
I’m cold and I’m ashamed
Bound and broken on the floor
You’re a little late
I’m already torn
Torn..
- Natalie Imbruglia, “Torn”

Love, Trust, and Surrender
Today is a day when my soul struggles to be freed of its domicile.

I think that I love best when in pain, and in searching.

Pain helps to weaken the tenacious hold that my own self has over me. If I successfully obliterate myself, it leaves me nowhere to turn from fully adoring the another.

Searching helps to focus that intensity. Let me wander from place to place, searching for a glimmer that resembles a faded version of the love I hold in my inmost part. Let me have the clarity of mind to banish comforting love, the expressions of my longing.

Let me struggle with my complacency, let me escape the trap that is our modern lives.

Listening to dream theater …feeling deeply interested in life….

My heart is a winter forest. It sings for any wind that rustles through, and in the end, is owned by dead things.

We sat over ice cream, and I listened to him. There must have been a silver string between us, that the words I spoke must have sparked through like telephone wires… and out of his mouth. How very strange it is to find synchronicity, and in despair, to wish it away. I have never felt pistachio ice cream sit stolidly against my tongue, my life and my will draining the heat from my body. Perhaps the heat went into his, as his face is flushed from the sun.

Synchronicity is dangerous. Matched clocks must be separated, sent to different universes. Moments of synchronicity are dangerous, addictive, tantalizing you with a fragment of joy. Unreplaceable, unforseen, maddening as finding a matching snowflake.

What burns is thoughts combusting together, that gaze held too long, that touch by timed accident.

My heart and hands are so cold, I risk looking for snowflakes. And if I do find it, it will burn me into cinders.

Listening to this song performed by Sarah Brightman… Thinking…

Toads and logisticians. The highest function of love is that it makes the loved one a unique and irreplaceable being. The difference between love and logic is that in the eyes of a lover, a toad can be a prince, whereas in the analysis of a logistician, the lover would have to prove that the toad was a prince, an enterprise destined to dull the shine of many a passion. –T.R.

Many a passion of mine has been less than prince-like. Not toads. No, never toads, but certainly some who have made my friends go, “Errr?”

The unconventional has always intrigued me. The large nose. The spiky hair. The soft tummy. The short stature. The crooked teeth. The tall and skinny. The chubby cheeks. Gray, freckles, glasses, scars, wrinkles around the eyes. These “imperfections” are more interesting than a Calvin Klein ad. Beauty is to be found in whatever stress or adventure caused the skin to wrinkle or the hair to go gray. It’s in the blending of bloodlines to create a dark-skinned creature with freckles and green eyes. It’s in what makes the human so strong after being teased as a child for the nose, the tummy, the four eyes, the scrawniness–and living to tell the tale.

Make me laugh, I say. Make me cry. Make me bounce and sway. Tell a story that elicits a sigh or gasp. Move me. Show me you care. I’ll melt.

*Listening to Vanessa Mae, missing Sid…

There’s a certain order with which we do things at night, is there not? The bedtime ablutions. For me, it’s usually put on pajamas, floss, brush teeth, wash face, use the toilette, then get into bed and read, then… after 2 hours, fall asleep. Or sometimes instead of reading right before bed, I write. Lately, it’s been write first, then do all those other things, then read, then go to bed. As of now, I have no idea what’s going to happen, because I’m writing while intoxicated. I’ve already done stuff out of order. I just put on pajamas and flossed, but then I washed face and almost forgot to brush teeth. Now I’m writing (but not really, I guess–sort of stream-of-consciousnessing), and I don’t know if next I’ll try to read or simply flop into bed. How joyous a feeling this is.

Meaning and purpose come from an outside source.

This is perhaps the root of the problem. The reason to live and do must come from within. If your reason for living is to devote all your energies to pleasing others–human or divine–you will soon become disillusioned, for it is inevitable that those others will disappoint you. People and gods turn out not to be the people or gods you thought they were–in fact, you may find that they don’t even exist. If you live in the service of a higher power and that power turns into a figment, what happens? Has your life been a waste? No, not if you can find purpose in the little things, the simple things, that you do every day.

But then there’s the problem of “purpose” again–the concept that gets us yearning and in trouble in the first place. We like to create reasons for being on this planet to justify our existence, but why can’t we just be? Be here to smell the roses and laugh and have a nice cup of tea. It would be nice if life were that simple, would it not? But Western society is set up to make that difficult. To live, you have to be able to pay for it, and to be able to pay for it, you have to strive. If you’re interested in fancy, high-end enjoyment, you usually have to strive harder and longer, which runs counterintuitive to the philosophy of going with the flow. That’s not going with the flow. That’s hopping onto your Jet Ski and skipping along violently across the flow, crushing and scattering the flow beneath you and sending it in ripples scurrying away.

*Listening to Yanni wishing I were somewhere miles away from here…

Psalms 46:4 says, “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God.” Sometimes as we travel down our stream we forget or lose sight that other streams are flowing with us, and they are just as much a part of God’s people as we are. Together we form a river that makes happy the city of God.

The problem today is an old problem. The different streams spend so much time and energy trying to prove why our stram is better. Even those of us in more modern streams or simpler streams we tend to spend a great deal of time and enery trying to prove our belief and our whys. Wouldn’t it be better to accept the other streams and even flow with them for the purpose of building the Kingdom?

Just some late Thursday night thoughts!

Peaster Island
©  Vividline, Inc.
 

     PEACE!

*Listening to Sheila Take a Bow, The Smiths, wondering if Morrissey could have written that song to me…ah, yeah!.. my real name is Sheila..

Some say that these are the happiest years of your life.Some say that I should be ecstatic because of all of the wonderful opportunities I have just sitting in front of me. Some lie. Some look at me and can’t see past my smile. I want to say that I can’t look in the mirror without finding a new something to I want to change. I want to say that I’m not who everyone thinks I am. I’m the “leader.” I’m “the funny one” “the quirky one.” Those who know me well know that I have more going on beneath the surface and yet others live in the blissful ignorance that my constant fake smile fosters. It’s so amazing that I typify this typical teenage angst. I am a textbook on these “troublesome years.” I want to say damn them.  They who look at me as a case, they who never truly look at me.  I’m so tired of not loving myself enough. I’m so tired of waking up with tear streaks that go from my cheek to my pillow. I live within my own hurricane. My tears trap me inside of the raging storm. A steel cage of water encompasing me that I created. Those who build prisons remember to leave before they put up that last wall. I forgot and now as the tears fall more and more, the walls become even more impenetrable. I miss the days of childhood ignorance. The days when I could look at the world as I wished it would be as opposed to how it really was. I miss the days when I could meet a stranger and instead of immediately jumping to their flaws I could think “what nice eyes.” But my childhood mind has gone where my childhood went.
That place, wherever it is, where dreams are stored in boxes with dust covering the tops. That attic of the world where everything goes at some point. I have looked for the hidden door, but it is no where to be found. I suppose that’s when you know it’s over, when you have found the door.

*I wrote this after a moment of some thinking.I did feel like letting all the sense of anger behind by writing about it. Thought of how it would be to put anger on the paper, and here it is. Sincerely, I wish I no longer come up with something like this.

 My birthday dinner party was great, I had my closest friends here-the house was full.. I´ll write more about this later as I get the snaps developed. Till then, I won´t be here blogging much. I´ll be reading and commenting blogs instead. Maybe posting some drawings as well. Hope you all have a great week, and thanks a lot for the best wishes. Also thank you for all the kind e-mails!

Peace