...because boys like this don't exist in California.

Oh, french muses.

I find it annoying when people, more specifically les garçons, text back instantaneously.

Contain yourself, make me wait for a minute or two. It'll make me want your words.

I want to want your words. So, help me out here, s'il vous plaît.

 O u i .

 "I want a mind blowing romantic love affair, like the old days ---

So good that it makes me feel like I'm on drugs ."

"e d i e"

I'm a mess. I know it.
Should I call you?
And cry to you, and tell you my fears?
Do you care to understand my heart?
My thoughts blur, become foggy
And I don't know what to believe, anymore.
Should I chase my dreams?
Artificial fruitful dreams...
and risk it all?
What exactly is it that I'm risking, again?

It's 2:48 AM, and sleep is immune
But this is nothing new, I wish it were, I truly do.

And if I break, will I feel better?
Will I ever feel fucking better?

"Just be yourself." he said.
And with a smile I asked "which one?"

Which one will suit you best?
Perhaps my face?-- a sweet taste for when you swallow me whole.
If not, my legs?-- to help you stand as I take the fall.

Oh, love, I am but
A clip from one of your films
A muse
A rage
A trend
A waste

As your daughter
As your sister
As your lover
As your friend

I'm just a card
Upon your table of aluminum and ashes

And if I had a choice
If my say had any count--
I'd still choose to die young
For this much like passion of art I know,

"You live alone, creating your life as you go."


>> Note: 
I just finished watching the documentary film Factory Girl, and already Edie Sedgwick has inspired a few pages of writing. She was just phenomenal. There's no question as to why she was such a muse of Andy Warhol's, and an inspiration to Bob Dylan. It's a shame how sadly her life ended, but the legacy she left behind is evermore. This pack and glass are for you, dearest Edie.

"You care enough, that you want your life to be fulfilled in a living way, 

not in a painting way, not in a writing way…

you really do want it to be involving in living, 

corresponding with other living objects, 

moving, changing, that kind of thing."

- Edie Sedgwick.

http://injil.org/TWOR/05.html  

Bare bones
Out in the open
Guns out
Thoughts shut off
Past and future like dust
Every word ever said like raindrops in a drought
Washed out

I'll never know the state that you're in
I cannot climb into your skin

So bare your bones
Out in the open
Guns out
Thoughts shut off
Past and future like dust
With every word ever said like raindrops in a drought
Washed out---

I'll eat away your sadness
And every common mistake made by man
I'll fight relentless battles without a stone in hand

I'll block away the images, scare away the ghost
Every night you may sleep in peace
Within you shall remain a hope

I'll grow my hair long enough
You'll never feel cold again
And when you tire
In my labor find a resting place

When no ones home
When both moon and sun refuse display
And vacant signs array
Even then, you'll never be alone---

Without name
Without identity
Without renown or any fame

I'll bare my bones
Out in the open
Rise and fall a hundred times

'Cause I want to know you
I want to show you
Console you til you understand...

There's nothing wrong with being boring,

as long as you have someone who will be boring with you.

Perhaps, my strangeness is my charm.
I'm awkward, even with the people I feel most comfortable with.
I walk clumsily. My stare is often blank, I daydream more than I should.
I humm a lot. I like touching stuff--leaves on trees, the spines of books, 
clothes on racks. I'm intrigued by anonymity. 
I often purposely leave hidden notes in books at the library, 
sometimes I write on their pages. I leave in them secrets, thoughts, quotes...
never my name. Even in my personal journal entry's, I purposely leave out the dates in which they were written, and leave only the time in which I wrote; 
2:11 AM, 4:15 AM, 11:18 PM. I like the sense of mystery. 
I don't mind when people spell my name wrong. 
Out of all my visits to Starbucks (which is a great amount) 
there have been about three or so to ever get it right. 
Gladis, Gladice, Gladece...Gladys.
I prefer sweet'n low over any other kind of sugar. 
I tend to find meaning in just about everything.
I'm very introspective. Melancholic, even. 
I'm quite compassionate, and well-mannered.
My humor is more on the sarcastic side. I could be witty when I choose to be.
"I'm so lonesome I could cry." I could listen to that song over, and over...
Johnny Cash's voice is fascinating to me. I have a record of his pinned to my wall.
My room resembles that of a museum, or an art gallery. 
Or a decor hoarder in the making.
There's this quote I read in an interview of Devandra Banhart once. He said,
"The space you live in reflects the inside of your mind." I believe that to be so. 
My room is a mere reflection of my brain. I'm a romantic. Hopeless? 
I'm still deciding on that. I want, I don't want, but I think I do. 
I should, shouldn't I? Yes, I can be quite confusing,
especially in terms of relationships. 
There are times I cannot make sense of it. Myself, of my own self. 
but with much humility in regard, I know I'd be worth it. 
I'm worth it. Just like you.



Shyness is nice,
and shyness can stop you
 from doing all the things in life you’d like to.

Another amazing film watched: Les Amours Imaginaires, or "Heartbeats." 

You are bound to fall in love with one, if not all the actors in this film. 

Guaranteed. Trust me, I would know. 

I'd be a groupie of Xavier Dolan if he didn't live countries away.

 The only truth is love beyond reason.

am·ne·sia/amˈnēZHə/ --- A partial or total loss of memory.

I've been quite obsessed with the Sun-dance channel these past few weeks.

Last night I finally got the chance to see the film 

Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus.

I've never been much of a Nicole Kidman fan, but she is just brilliant in this.

And Robert Downey Jr., well he is just a fox. Even with a hairy ass.

There's this guy.
I don't know his name.
Who he is.
Where he's from.
We go to the same college.
We've walked the same hallways.
As we sat across from each-other in the computer-lab,
I could tell. I could tell he wanted to say hello, too.
He sneezed, I said bless you.
He said "thank-you."
We proceeded with what we were doing,
My last-minute essay typing of the Great Gatsby,
His what is curiously yet unknown to me.
We both looked up, quite a few times
With the same intrigue, wonder, hesitation,
Trying to avoid the lock of eyes
A sort of introduction in disguise.

He left
Found an excuse to come back
Hesitated some more, then sheeped out.

This made me smile
And I can just tell
He'll be looking forward to it, too.
The chance of another encounter.
The mystery
The sense of chemistry
The unravel
The endless possibilities
The unfold that can be sought
with a simple "hello".

  

Let's build a time machine,

You and I.

The words trapped inside your head
from yesterday and the night before--
Take a deep breath, instead
I don't want to know how you feel.


Cos' I'm a fool either way
Rich with love, constrained by hate
I'll never get it right--
Close your eyes, count your sheep instead.


Mislead, in all ingenuity
Suppress my intentions with subtle charm
If I weep
If I hide
If I moan
clash,
collide,
Don't be alarmed.


Sweet disposition
wavering like the sea
returning as the tide--
it will tear us apart.


You and I,
as two, as one,
As half.


Dodge the bullet
And flee.


Take the money
And Run.


Passion
suits
only
those
who
choose
to
die
young.


Stay.


Grab your coat
Grasp your kite,
If you decide to stay.


This
windy
blizzard
of
a
heart
is
not
the
safest
place.


---


Your hands slip under my dress
Head rested upon my breasts
Lips parted
The taste of flower buds
burst into bloom 
on the tip of your tongue. 


It will never make sense,
It will never make sense,
It will never make sense.


These words trapped inside my head
from yesterday and the night before--
Abide oblivion, instead


You don't want to know how I feel.

"Together, let's die alone."

sometimes, melancholia is essential. 

I want to meet him.
Have conversations over tea with him.
Sit down in a still silent room and listen to records with him.
In the simplest of forms, as two vinyl-loving friends.
I'd be the happiest girl, I truly would.

I love hearing my mum sing, 

especially when she does so while cooking or cleaning.

So oblivious to everything else, genuinely singing from the inside-out.

I love British accents. I find them quite enthralling.

I love driving, driving to nowhere in particular,

and ending up at some great unexpected place.

I love those little moments...

the ones where you're heading back home from school

or walking from one place to another, when all of a sudden,

you feel this sort of burst within you, your heart gradually swelling up,

and you know it, you just know that you're alive.

That warmth that swarms within you, a static that makes you tremble, 

gives you goosebumps, a temper that let's you know you're capable of love. 

You are love itself wandering about.

(or perhaps that's just me?)

I love quirky lyrics, such as those of Tegan and Sara.

I love sad depressing music, it makes me content.

I love the rush of being young and in-run.

For some odd reason, late night coffee always seems to taste better.

I love coffee. The smell of it, the taste of it. It's addictive-ness. 

Films are most inspiring during the A.M of late nights.

Vivid dreams worth writing down--

a capsule of the brilliance of your unconscious state of mind.

The colored variety of chop-stick covers at Panda Express.

It's these little things...the little details that stand out, 

that stick with me.

“Pick the day. Enjoy it - to the hilt. 
The day as it comes. People as they come... 
The past, I think, has helped me appreciate the present, 
and I don't want to spoil any of it 
by fretting about the future.” 

Oh, I know you understood. 

Yes sir, it shows I was no good--

I hit the sidewalk and this is how it starts

Hide in a raincoat when things are falling apart.

Cause sooner or later this is bound to stop

Come on, let's savor what we're falling over.

It breaks my heart.
The destruct of this world.
Suicides, people killing, people dying.
The pain of others, their unheard cries for help.
Wrong paths, wrong choices, absence of faith.
If only they knew of God, and how much He loves them.
That their pain could be eased.
That their worries and troubles could be swept away.
That it's not too late for them. Their broken hearts could be restored.
Their distraught minds could find peace.
If only they knew what awaits, what could be theirs.
That life on this world is nothing. This world is nothing.
That everything will all truly be okay if only they follow His ways.
It breaks my heart, the divide in humanity.
The lonely arms that need just but a hug.
That boy, that girl, somewhere out there...
knowing that just a word, that a simple word could change their lives.
Their destiny.
It sincerely breaks my heart in a way beyond my own understanding,
but it also raises me in a way beyond it all--to fight.
To fight not only for myself, for all that I do for myself is for Him,
But also for them. For my brothers and sisters.
My love for humanity expands in such a way, a manner beyond and above.
My chest in flames, in firing desire for change. For rescue. For salvation.
I'll give my all, all that I am, all that I have,
and bring forth positive change.
I won't go down those pity paths,
I'll rise above, and I'll bring my people with me.
Together we'll devour grape clusters in the other realm.

"Won't somebody come on in and tug at my seams?

Oh, send your armies in of robbers and thieves

To steal the state I'm in, I don't want it anymore."

"I am not sure that I exist, actually.
I am all the writers that I have read,
all the people that I have met,
 all the woman that I have loved;
all the cities I have visited."
 -- Jorge Luis Borges.

He gave me a heart-shaped box of chocolates,
filled with lifesaver gummy rings and gummy worms.
He's an attentive listener, something I like.

I gave him a rectangle-shaped box of chocolates,
didn't opt for the heart. Hid a note inside instead.

We held hands, shared laughs, hugged,
and kissed.

We kissed until our lips became swollen.
Even after that, we kissed.
We kissed like we meant it,
even if that wasn't the case.

There was no case to be proven, in fact.

My lips feverishly pressed against his
his fingers with precision traced every contour of my back.

A hidden intention, displayed for each eye their own to see.

A cold February night
out in the open
exposed and caught within
the contaminated air
of plastic romance.

Breathing became essential.

Bliss.
Bliss.
Maroon
crimson
ignorant
bliss.

His heart beat against the brick wall
my swerving thoughts by this point muted.

Poles apart,
Lost for words.

Was it love? no.
But he held me as if it were
and I caressed him as if I knew it.

Words seemed foreign
Body language is all we had left.
It's not as if it were the end,
but it does no harm to pretend.

The drinks from the night before,
series of books read after that,
none of that mattered there and then.

In the midst of intertwine,
throughout the sighs of make-believe,
we were just two golden fools
content with the obsolete of Roman rules.

I'm double, I'm single, I'm black, blue, and grey.

Somebody get me this book, please.

Oh, Peggy Moffitt, I am obsessed.

I feel weak in my words.

and I'd much rather be asleep.

Your talk is cheap.

"Jolene, Jolene" set on repeat.

I found you in a book, once,

years far too long ago.

With squinted eyes I read your squiggly lines--
you've stayed with me ever since.

Let's swim to the moon, uh huh 

Let's climb through the tide 

Penetrate the evenin' that the 

City sleeps to hide 

Let's swim out tonight, love 

It's our turn to try 

Parked beside the ocean 

On our moonlight drive...

I 

don't

think

I'll 

ever 

be 

able

to 

get

over 

this 

man. 

Thom Yorke, I'm in love with you more than you'll ever know (unless I miraculously get to meet you in person someday, of course.) But, it's not that I-want-to-lick-your-face-off kind of love, no. It's far much more than that. Gratitude, at the least. For helping me get by this thing called life during the long-worn days, and hyper-hearted nights of my youth.

FANCY YOUR BLUE MOOD: 

RainyMood.com: Rain makes everything better.

you can't make your heart feel something it wont.

"And it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they’re nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we’d be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing."

- Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

"So she had to satisfy herself with the idea of love — loving the loving of things whose existence she didn’t care at all about. Love itself became the object of her love. She loved herself in love, she loved loving love, as love loves loving, and was able, in that way, to reconcile herself with a world that fell so short of what she would have hoped for. It was not the world that was the great and saving lie, but her willingness to make it beautiful and fair, to live a once-removed life, in a world once-removed from the one in which everyone else seemed to exist."

- Everything is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer

"I began to draw an invisible boundary between myself and other people. No matter who I was dealing with. I maintained a set distance, carefully monitoring the person’s attitude so that they wouldn’t get any closer. I didn’t easily swallow what other people told me. My only passions were books and music."

- Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart  

And everyday, I'll only become stronger, wiser, and triumphant.
Fearless, loving, passionate, and giving.
I'll be all the things I knew I'd be, and do all the things I knew I'd do.
I'll do everything and more, because with Him life itself is infinite.

This song has stuck with me ever since I first heard Holy (Hilary Swank) 
singing along with it on the film "P.S. I Love You." 
It both broke my heart and became my favorite part of the film all at once. 
Every here and then (when I'm home alone) 
I enjoy having my own little reenactments of the scene.
Minus the suspenders (cos' I don't own any...yet, of course.)

I'd been quite intrigued by Andy Warhol since high school, but ever since I studied him in my art history class last semester, I've since then become rather obsessed.  He was so eccentric, and real. Quite an outcast, underdog, misunderstood... yet he made a movement all his own, one that still lives even years after his death.  He was the main reason for my stop at M.O.M.A during my trip to New York City. And standing face to face with his work... well, it was a heavenly experience.
 One that I'll cherish until my limbs turn to stone.

No matter how crappy a Tuesday may be, 

an episode of New Girl always makes it better.

Ryan Kwanten is guest-starring (on tonight's next weeks episode!)

Oh, Nine-o'-clock. Come sooner, pleassee.

And right now...I feel I'm not doing enough for this world.

This world of which I feel minimally apart of at times.

With that said, I'm-ma go donate blood today.

It'll keep me more at ease. Selflessness helps keep me at ease.

And tomorrow awaits the start of my new English class.
Just the thought of it makes me want to:
prance around like a literate-loving ballerina. 

I want something similar to that of Sonny & Cher.