Seeing You.

Seeing you reminds me of

Lips

Pressing against my skin.
I feel your smile.
They drag, left to right,
Soft; firm.
A pink blush left in their wake.
I bite my own. You chuckle and reciprocate.

I blink. You're staring ahead.
Your gaze does not waver.
Do you know, I wonder?
That seeing you now
Wrenches at memories of

Kisses. Along my neck, down my collarbone.
Gently taking the skin of my earlobe
Between your teeth.

My eyes do not leave yours
Burning into mine. Seeing you
Makes me feel like a pathetic little girl with
A high school crush;

small and powerless.

You take a step towards me
But my feet have fixed themselves
To the rocky ground beneath them.

Another.

Inside I cry
For my limbs to obey.

They do not.

And now, you're only
A hand's length away.

Suddenly I can't bear to look at you.

Another step.
Closer, now.

So close
That your breath caresses
My cheeks. Close enough to smell wisps
Of the aftershave you're wearing.

I lean towards you instinctively

No.

I feel your hand reach out
And my mind screams at
My body to move.

I must go now.
I have to go now.

I walk away.

I hate tragedies.

Nobody feels any pain
Tonight as I stand inside the rain
Ev'rybody knows
That Baby's got new clothes
But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
Have fallen from her curls.
Oh she takes just like a woman
Oh and she makes love just like a woman
Oh and she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.


- Jeff Buckley, Just Like A Woman.

I absolutely loathe the cruelty of life sometimes.

I recently stumbled across Jeff Buckley, through several YouTube videos (as many of us do), and under the video, saw RIP JEFF. After a Wikipedia search, I found that he died in his early thirties when going for a recreational dive in a river - something he'd done before - only a tug boat came by this time. He wasn't on recreational drugs. He didn't feel suicidal or depressed.

He was simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

It makes my chest ache when people die, even more so when you think of how unique and talented they were, or could've been. To think of how their path has come to an end. I guess the fragility of life is something that I will probably learn to grasp over the next few years studying Medicine at university. But hearing about how doctors eventually learn to accept death, feeling nothing...I'm not sure how I feel about that. I suppose time will tell.

It's saddening to think that some people get up one day, leaving their homes, not knowing what will happen. Not knowing that what you said to a someone that morning would be your last conversation. I am angered at myself and at others, when we see the news on TV, when hundreds die in another part of the world, or someone goes missing, and we just accept it, before changing the channel over the watch a film. How we've become desensitised to what we see. Why, I wonder? A self defense mechanism? Or perhaps people have stopped caring.


I hope it is not the latter.


To anyone reading this, I ask you to spend a moment to think of those who are lost from the world every day and to be thankful for what you have - for the people in your lives. Or if you're sitting there, thinking of how you have nobody, I ask you to break from the monotony of life's routine. Live, to never regret.

After all, you have no excuse. Where are your shackles?

Additional note: here's the link to Jeff Buckley's - Just Like A Woman http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=isYhMK3tP0c. You won't be wasting your time.

Sugarcoated.

Dust them in white,
tap your sieve again
and agian and again.

Until they're hidden. Masked.
What once was flour now seemingly sweet.

And you smile slightly.
And you speak softly, maintaining eye contact.

And you put your hand on my shoulder, being a friend.
And you tell me what has to be; you tell me you're sorry.

Walking away; you're as fooled as you think I am. Saying what you needed, without what you had to.

But you didn't realise one thing - your words tasted bittersweet.

Words

Sometimes I can't help these words that rush into my mind, into the tips of my fingers and onto the keyboard that they patter on. And sometimes, oh. Sometimes I grow tired.

Hands

Hands;
Longing to love.

To hold.

Lips touch.

The rough, grind
please oh;

life.

Hurdles

I made it. Alive. I've actually gotten over a hurdle.

Holy mother of god. Things are about to get very real, very quickly.

Yet I can't quite quell my fear.

I can't fail now. Not now.

Unconventional.

Surrounded by walls of black. She shivers, he whispers. His words tease her tantalisingly.

Hot; cold. She gasps. He licks. The wind cuts at her neck. Then she touches, coaxing his tossing and turning and lip biting and oh, the torturous pleasure.

A cry,

a beg.

She sucks at his skin and  delicately caresses him where he's senstive. He inhales sharply; his hand travelling lower...

"Oh God!" a religious sin. Lips part to steal air from air and then collide to kiss furiously. Why is this happening?

The question hangs above the writhing forms like a guillotine, glinting angrily as they possess one another. Consumed in lust, they toss all doubts aside, for this is all about the dark pleasure, the power, about who's stronger and who's weaker.

Lust; a facade or a necessity?

But it is hatred, pure unadultered hatred that is the driving force that pushes one body against another, that forces and wrenches the cries of sex and pleasure and pleading from them.

Pleading; the sinful pleasing. Surrendering; nobody is.

Their eyes burn into each other, their hips burning scaldingly hot as flesh grinds against flesh. They give their bodies and souls in release, holding up their hands in half-serious surrender.

Hot, white flash.

These two people dare to defy society's rules; to defy one another's expectations. They aren't meant to be together. They're poles apart. Why is this happening?

And they so pay for it. Because they spiral in, head first into the abyss.

Then reality hits.

Badly.

oh change, you make me sigh

This was something I'd written back in May, but I think it generally conveys the nature of change, in all of its weird fearsomeness.

---

It's a strange thing - change. I'm sure I've heard that statement a dozen a dime times (mentally at least). Nevertheless - it's a component within life we have to adapt to. Change terrifies me; it makes my heart race with anxiety. Change, and the future, seems to loom overhead like an omnipresent guillotine. And by God, I'm scared. I don't want to commit to a career, to a university, nor to a choice. I want to live in the sunshine of youth (albeit the brightness is indefinitely variable). I guess that makes me a coward.

Time is slipping between my fingers. I wish I could capture the flyaway grains of sand and place them back into the leaking hourglass. Sometimes I ponder over terminal diseases; I briefly entertain the thought that I have one. In the sickest sense, it gives me relief. I won't live up to achieving my fears, my failures. To cut to the truth, I don't want to fail. Damn it, I don't want to come within an inch of failure. Hence, the prospect of death seems frighteningly relieving.

But then I come to my senses.

Putting death into perspective - I couldn't part with life - forever living in the minds of people as someone who quit. The girl who couldn't take it, the girl with the shiny flask. Forever anxious, always quiet. The prospective failure of a meek geek. Forgotten within a week. No. I need to try. I must strive. The question that constantly reaches my mind is; what for? What am I striving towards?

And bingo! There is the problem. What do I want?

...
...
...


What do I want?

Several things come up. Whilst some are trivial, others are more or less impossible. Dauntingly so. I read about an exercise to achieve almost a mental purge - to figure out what you want. So, I'm going to type what comes firstly into my head. One minute. Perhaps two.

What do I, Peta, in all of my pseudonymous truth, want?

I want to be happy. I want a relationship, with someone who loves me, for who I am. With a man that I can be myself with, someone who doesn't care about my imperfections. Someone who is satisfied by my broken mind and my fragmented esteem; someone who disregards vanity and appearances. Someone I wouldn't stutter or stammer at, somebody I can be at ease with.

Oh, sigh.

Sometimes I wonder whether the issue is with me, rather than with the world; with people who are picky.
- - -


MAY

It's strange how you long for something even more when it's being threatened to be wrenched away from you, forever. I never realised how much I truly want to become a doctor. After time, I have come to realise that economics is not my passion. In fact, economics - my former academic flame - has actually become somewhat monotonous, to my surprise. It is biology that has captured my interest, with the various components and biological processes and details and intricacies. It's actually fantastic.


What weirds me out next is the following. How something you adored goes to something you tolerate; how something you tolerated goes to something you adore. It's odd how we change with time.


May is both a month of beauty and horror, I think for obvious reasons. The proximity of exams is a constant nightmare to my frantic mind. There is not a second that I do not curse myself for being so damn tardy. But on the positive side, God has given me the strength to persevere - I believe that's what counts ultimately. Thus, I thank God, for giving me hope, and I thank God for giving me family. Despite their...exuberance, they're not that bad after all. I just pray that I'll get through the next month without any stupid mistakes, and by working to the max. I don't want to be the one shattering my own dreams. Being a doctor seems so real now. I just have to work for  it.  And I pray, and I promise that I will not give up. I will keep on. There is nothing else I can do. I cannot afford to get B's - I must achieve a minimum of three A's, or else I've failed  by my own standards. Economics, if I work, should fulfill this - as should biology and maths, if I work and get everything done in due course. But chemistry is a constant worry. I guess.

Learn to love right? That's how I rolled at GCSE - learning to love.


d --> a*  hmm. I'd say learning to love wouldn't be so bad after all.


So, how do I feel? I'm not quite sure. Every year I wonder whether I'll exceed my expectations. I always do, but that doesn't negate the subsisting and prevalent fear that clings to my chest. It's a physical feeling this fear - like nausea. Pumping through my veins, circulating through my body.


- - -

MAY

It's hard.

On the surface, things can be easily dealt with. But underneath, it's difficult. Sometimes I feel my anger soar above; indignantly.

- - -

Dreams and Illusions

I remember there being a man - and I felt attracted towards him. His whole stance, his whole posture emanated confidence - not arrogantly so. He was the type of person who wasn't afraid of what he wanted; he could get that with what he had. Around nineteen - the same age as my dream self. Mature. He wore a crisp black suit, the top button on his white shirt undone. Sharp jaw line; light stubble. Dark brown hair; light brown skin.

Black high heels; my long, thin legs extending from them. Black tights; modest black dress. Short sleeves, slightly dipping neckline. Collarbones. Dusty brown eye shadow. Long, dark, wavy hair.

I never saw my face.

I strode slowly and confidently towards him. I remember his eyes; dark. His smile; his lips stretched out slowly.

We were in something reminiscent of a dressing room; dim evening lights emanated from what seemed like mirrors. I; perched on the edge of a dressing table, my legs extending out. And my black high heels. He leaned against something - a wall? his shoulders always leaning towards me as he spoke; laughed. I remember the proximity between us; how the air seemed charged.

It was all about touch. About how the simplest things a guy does can stir your feelings, how the simplest touches can wreak havoc.

My body facing forward from my spot on the table; shoulders directed towards him. He; leaning against the wall beside the dressing table, facing me. Perpendicular almost. We were close. If I extended my hand up from the dressing table, I would be touching his face. No one else was in the room; the door closed. We simply spoke; laughed. Soft eyes. Intimately. Sometimes his hands played with my hair, or drew circles on my skin. My breath hitched lightly.

Our eyes locked. His eyes devilishly playful, he smiled slowly. The small distance between us mocking us. Challenging us. Suddenly we were standing.

I only remember glimpses of the rest.

He stood, towering beside me, facing the side of my body; my eyes swiftly closed. Anticipating. Closer now. I felt his breath on the side of my neck, ghosting up until his lips hovered near my ear. His fingers dragging up against the skin of my arm. His breath was sweet.

He spoke my name in a low rough voice. I looked up silently from beneath my lashes.

Other glimpses of how he leaned towards me as we sat; his lips delicately touching my face, slowly moving upwards.

His body fully pressed against my side, one hand moving up from the nape of my neck and through my hair, another slowly turning my body to face him. He pushed my body against a wall. Our bodies flush with each other, his teeth gently nibbling on my ear. My hands held by one of his above my head.  My lips parted; his making their way down my neck. His hands moving down the sides of my body before roughly grasping my hips. My hands running through his thick, unruly dark brown hair.

In another glimpse I stood, facing the mirrors as he stood behind me, his body pressing against mine. His hands delicately caressing my shoulders; he made eye contact as we locked eyes in the mirror.

His lips diving into the dip of my neck, kissing every inch of my skin, fingers grasping my shoulders.

In another glimpse, his fingers torturously dragged up the side of my body, under his. My head tilted back, my fingers raking up his back. His surprise.

Or when his shirt was hastily unbuttoned, his lips pressing against mine, his torso against mine. My hands roaming against the expanse of his chest, his broad shoulders.



I awoke startled.

The Rant of a Mute

Simply typing, because my head is clogged with thoughts.

I hate those moments in life where your emotions have decided to deactivate themselves, and your life is abruptly overruled by mental clutter. I simply lose my balance; my grip. After all, who works effectively when they simply cannot think? Hence why I’m typing the first words that appear in my mind. No beautiful literature, no poetry. Simply my thoughts. Very infrequently do I get the opportunity to simply spill the contents of my mind, due to my quiet, introverted nature.

It infuriates me sometimes, my inability to be a normal human being. Of course, I understand that no person is perfect – I have common sense. But regardless, it does hurt when you are out of loop. I could blame this on my 4”11 height and geeky appearance, but that would be a lie. It is my personality. An innumerable number of opportunities to converse with others consistently present themselves to me, almost mockingly. Yet, every single time, my mind goes blank and my lips do not speak – as if my words have been stolen from me. And I remain; an observer. Smiling, reacting, watching. Infrequently speaking. It is not emotional or psychological – I don’t exactly have a fear of speaking. I simply don’t know what to say, and how to say it when the opportunities to speak present themselves. Despite having lived sixteen years of life, I do not know how to express myself, my thoughts and most importantly, my words – verbally. Something so basic to the majority of people, I fail to do so.

Today, I arrived at college, my standard time. My best friend was talking to two other girls in our year – both loud, kind, yet sassy people. That’s something I love about black people – that ‘take-no-bullshit I-have-standards’ attitude. I joined them, listening in, not really contributing, but laughing along. People have generally accepted my quiet personality now, so they didn’t react to my presence. But when brief silences between conversations occurred – when slivers of words that I could utter entered my mind, my lips did not open. My mind constantly debating over whether I should comment, whether I should not, whether that irritating strand of hair was about to fall over my face again, whether I was being weird by observing, whether I was smiling and laughing too readily.

Constantly thinking.

I guess that’s my issue – I’m an overthinker.What’s worse it that I presume this trait isn’t exactly dummed down by my gender. You know, with women being typical overthinkers.

I’ve often heard the people debating over how long they could remain silent for. Some claim that they couldn’t not talk to people for even a day – impossible! Some perhaps a little more resilient, claiming they could last a while. But generally, the vast majority of people claim “Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I really don’t understand how some people can.” And sometimes the conversation ends there. Other times, their eyes glance at me, and their thoughts are glaringly obvious. I could. I could stay silent forever. I’m not mute around everyone – in fact, I’m not mute. I do indeed speak, given a task, or class activity. In some classes I’m more verbal, around people that I enjoy talking too. In other classes, surrounded by people with popularity, looks, knowledge, high standards, words fail me. Quite literally. With my best friend, I am actually incredibly extroverted – I constantly tease her about her romantic life, her fear of bugs and love of chemistry. I’m at ease generally. But, introduce another individual – say a jokey loud jovial confident classmate, and I cannot speak. I simply react, laugh, observe. Don’t get me wrong, I do like these people. In fact, I dislike very few people. But I just don’t know what to say. So I simply exist whilst the conversation occurs. I don’t participate. I don’t know how to participate.

I think what really grates on me the most is how I’ve simply disappeared to some. During group conversations, when I am around and someone is speaking, they make eye contact (naturally) with members of the group. However, when I’m not actively participating in the conversation, but reacting in the same way as the other group members, the amount of eye contact made with me is practically non-existent, and I do not know why. Being the over thinker, I do not excessively stare, or act in a judgment inducing way – I simply be normal. Yet, with some, they do not even acknowledge my presence. But ultimately, the scenario that I cannot tolerate, at all is when I do speak, but the person whom I am addressing ignores me, despite my appropriate volume and tone. And what absolutely drives me crazy is when I ask them several times, and they do not respond, abruptly saying something else to my best friend and disregarding what I say. That is something that I absolutely despise. I do deliberate over whether I should respond to this with sass, in an attempt to gain some respect perhaps. I really don’t know.

Things are generally hopeless.