JustBecause62

all I ever wanted was someone to hold my hand, dance in the rain read poetry by candlelight rock me to sleep and tell me not all tears are an evil someone to climb mountains with, tell stories to to hold my dreams in the palm of their hand and scatter them over the earth like seeds someone to wake up to with a heart full of laughter someone whose soul reminds me to live all I want is to love and be loved by the wind, fleeting, effervescent (do you mean evanescent? ephemeral? transitory? i think your head is too full of synonyms) all i want is the touch of the sea and the storm the moon in their eyes and the stars under their skin i want the

songs are like whispers (shipwrecks) in my fingertips telling me life is not a duty but a truth. so listen open your ears, eyes, nose, skin, tongue taste the bittersweet-salty beauty of instant gratification and the soles of your feet won’t stop dancing. but really, who who would give me something like this only to say, no your body is not enough your mind will not suffice to make this real. songs are like shouting (outcry) in my knees and I can’t run fast enough.

But listen. I haven’t been waiting for the answers because well, not because I’m afraid exactly. Whatever I am, it’s not a coward. No, I haven’t been waiting because the need for movement springs eternal, like an ache in my sinews and marrows and every damnable neuron in my brain is hammering inside of me urging me on out upwards to infinity, or whatever else is out there. I haven’t been waiting because hell, waiting isn’t in my nature.

her eyes are caught in a spiderweb and she can't feel her feet. Only the stars are constant, tugging at her despite everything - they can't be disappointed in her. Listen to the way they dance like art or tears. until the end of your mind they will dance, and you will stand unable to see the road or feel the earth beneath you but the whisper of nighthawks calls you on and, somehow, you keep going. There is blood on your hands and in your heart. the emptiness won't let you go. Try to be freer than you know how. She reaches out for things she can't see. she know the end of this story but that doesn't have to matter. she'll be the truth no one

"History repeats itself," That's what they always say. So does that mean that Life, the Universe, and Everything is just one great big broken record playing the same line again, over and over? A single line that's just enough to somehow express the simultaneous anguish and (occasionally) bliss that manage to be humanity? Or maybe, on the other hand, the music only tells us the wars and detentes, the injustices and Revolutions. Maybe we, Ourselves, so completely mutable and so eternally human, maybe we take the wars and the weddings and turn them into emotions, Into stories. Because there's something in us that knows (insofar as anything c

To see him, one would think he was alone, but, somehow, he was not. He inhabited a place where no one could ever be alone, because part of everyone was always there — most people just didn’t know it. Most people, in fact, had not the slightest idea that this place existed — because, technically speaking, it didn’t. But before we become too mired in existential paradoxes, let us return to our original subject. He was reasonably tall, and fairly skinny, and his indeterminately brownish hair was short and a bit greasy. His eyes, which were wide open, were hard to discern in the dim light, but on close inspection one migh

Rescinne froze, hands at her sides, still clutching the old knife blade. The stern, helmeted figures pointing sharp sticks at her chest were obviously guards, and she felt a little guilty about her earlier assumption that this gate was poorly guarded. She hoped these people couldn't read minds (she knew such a thing was possible, from her studies of magical science long ago), or they might be . . . provoked. "Drop the knife, kid," demanded one of them, gesturing with his own pointy stick. "I mean - hang on - are you a girl? Is the kid a girl, Bristo?" Bristo peered at Rescinne's face. "Maybe. Kid, are you a girl?" "I -" Rescinne stared. T

and the thunder falls - like a madman's heart, fighting with itself. and who do you think wrote the lightning? or have you forgotten already when the gods sang and cried themselves empty onto the ground? and there's something like a love (or maybe it's just really heartfelt rage) in the rain as it scatters and doesn't have time to make puddles. [I remember rubber boots and yellow raincoats and stomping in brownish pools of after-rain.] but this is the wrong kind of rain, this rain is for singing and exulting, even in the wildness that will break you because it's too strong to simply hold your hand: this is for understanding that science is a