love for the rain.

love for them.

merci.

distaste for rejection.

sadness for not being good enough.

at least I know.


I was so close.




It is done.
and now my eyes shall dance in the rain.
as I fall asleep to it.

shouldn't have expected it.
it never happens.
it will be okay.
it will be fine.
the sun will rise.
and I will forget.

"crust my eyes with sleep..."

Hamlet. at the. Guthrie.

fantastic.
Inspiring. Inspiring. Inspiring.
Inspiring. Inspiring

failure in the roots of one's soul.
rotting.
twisting.
ever present.
dictating the future breaths and salty drops of
rain from the window.

"C'est tellement mysterieux, le pays des larmes!"

wet glass result from this charred burn.

the ever present reminder of this glutton.













"On ne sait jamais!"

crawling out of this skin.
this blanket of angst.
angst that really shouldn't be angst.

more like new tennis shoes grinding against a sweaty sidewalk in july.
or august.
more like late august.

the heels scream to be massaged by the smiles of ferilized grass.

or pupils dialiating at the sight of calico colored leaves.

Love...

1. Whenever I post the times are always strangely inaccurate. It doesn't matter because this is just a canvas for my own self-centered, self-absorbed jabber and bad prose, time is irrelevant. I just amuses me when "it is 12:30 AM" when we can still seduce the sun. For future reference, no one reads this anyway, but right now it is 7:32 AM.
   
2. Oh
   
   ***foolish ramblings***
   I want this to work, I want to be included, I want this to happen, I wan't this more than I am willing to admit, do I deserve this? I don't know. Would I use every opportunity given to me because of this? Yes. Do I really want this? Yes. Would I be willing to work hard? Yes. I always have been. That isn't a question of me.
   It's such a longshot. hmm..second time around. okay, they are all longshots. I keep telling myself that, but I doesn't really register with my soul because my soul thinks of potential happiness and dreams and goals and aspirations and, mainly, goals rather than reality. I hate crying and that feeling of failure and feeling sorry for myself when I really shouldn't because the truth is I feel as though I never really deserved it. suffocation. they tell me it's not my fault and some one else makes the decisions but I can't shake the reality of my own shortcomings and failures, maybe I try too hard. This reminds me of middle school and early high school teary eyed disapointment when looking at that list time and time again...Nevermind this still happends. and I KNOW and have accepted that this will be apart of my life and I am okay and ready to accept it. I am ready for this. Thanks Eau Claire....give up?...never...but I can name a few people right away who would probably think so. I only try because I love it, I hate putting out a mediocre product or representing something average or mediocre. But maybe I am. Well, I am but, does anyone want to admit this? of course not. no one aspires to be an average individual. so of course I am not an exception. I aspire to something else. Something I would never write or speak because it festers deep. and it means nothing else to anyone but me. This something else is there and it is what keeps me breathing.
   
   I love this art. That is all that is important to me. protein for my soul.
   
   This is just a sidewalk. This is just an anthill I have to either avoid or scatter with my foot.
   I hope to dance with the ants and use their souls for future reference rather than let their ant hill soak up my tears. This would be under the pity of the moon. But I wouldn't let the sun see me wallow. If the sun is going to embarass me, it's going to sunburn my smile and glow as I walk forward regardless of what happens.
   Thank you.
   Bohemian Soul.
   
   I love this art. oh...
   

He tells me that everything occurs for a reason.

wishes for the knowlege of my devotion and enthusiasm and willingness to fail and how I want this more than I should. or deserve. But I do.

know how I love this, love this, love this, love this, love this, love this, with all my soul, all my soul, all my soul (repetition for stress) (JUST like shakespeare, only not so chic) and how it inspires joy and "everday learn"-esque happiness.

Here is my soul. On a plate. spend some time, let me rot and mold for a few days and I promise that my true colors will be revealed and it will be much more intersting. no knives either. Theater can be bloody, but it's all choreographed. And the blood is really deluded strawberry jam. or some edible hybrid or perhaps chemicals that shouldn't be eaten at all. Or it could be symbolic with rose petals or fabric or foliage, depending on the show.

...math class...if the letters and theta and alpha had some screwed up family life wouldn't that make a good show? Stock characters aside, alpha could be the smarty pants that secretly plans to elope in spain but in the end gets side tracked and goes to Marshfield instead. She is then teased by her hairsylist, or rather "square root (er?)" the wonder of the square root. As a director one could analyze the sadness of wanting to elope in spain but having to stay in be in Marshfield to elope. Is this romantic? Does this subscribe to the typical american wedding fantasy? Is this a jab at our picturesque society? What would FReud say? Oh the therapy sessions and family dinners. Drama, theater, realisim, perhaps surrealism would be intersting. Told from the point of Marshfield.

C'est vrai. I am a dork.