Did you ever wonder if God is gay, and all of creation is his (or her) way of having babies, of making a family?
Every day of every year there was a web in the pear tree branches, and as Seraphim grew she imagined they were made by "Charlotte's" children. How she loved that idea.
Autumn had finally decided to come around. The leaves had changed colors, lining the trees with speckles of orange, red and yellow. When the wind blew they came down, breaking delicately off of tree branches and fluttering down to earth like a colorful rain.
Both heroes and villains are aggressive; the difference is that the heroes have well developed self control, empathy and the ability to think with logic.
Someone once told me I am strong. Sometimes, I really do think that I am. But on days like today, when my feelings overwhelm me, the word "strong" becomes insignificant, to the varying waves of emotion that engulf me. Today, I got lost in the tide and I caved, swept away by my own fears.
I am only human.
Fortunately, I am not defined by my moments of weakness and fear, but by the days when I muster the strength to rise above the tide. Then and only then, I consider myself to be... strong
One major problem of having a psychologically immature adult population, is that stress bubbles down to the most vulnerable rather than being taken on by mature elders.
With you I feel a core-ting, as if we somehow our souls are sparking and reaching toward one another. So, if you want to, how about we try going steady? Courting you would be so much fun.
Being strong, being in a position to give to others, is one of the greatest blessings heaven can bestow.
I could feel my heart beat… every single pound in my chest. Not through my ears, that was occupied by the steady drum, pipe, and dark voice of the Celtic music; drowning it out in the ears. But I couldn't lay there. I had to but I couldn't. This great pounding, this great pressure; every beat. I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it. It remains now, even as I write, it remained through what little of the Great Gatsby I could shove down my throat. It remained when I stood and stumbled into the other room trying to relieve myself of the small dogs who wouldn't stop nagging. That dark beating remained, alone in this house with me. Every beat a turbulent push from within pushing as a giant placed within the chest; as a great wave against a minuscule dike. This pressure urges the words, this horrible pressure. I tried sleeping through it, drums beating along with the muscle; but the music lost, ran out of time. I don't know for what reason I have to be placing these words here. I started in an attempt at relief, from the beating; some trickle of words to relieve the flood. I can feel it still, beating, pulsing, thumping. It didn't work; why won't it stop.
Not quite the hot dark of embers, but a soft, hopeful dark. The dark that comes just before the sunrise, a kind of dark that helps the orange and gold blossom across the sky, like a small flower trembling open in spring. The dark that encourages you to fall asleep as you close your eyes, tossing and turning in a futile attempt to slip away into the depths of unconsciousness, blissfully unaware. The type of dark that occurs in a complete solar eclipse, blocking out the light, the noise, the feeling of being, leaving you in the silence of serenity, if only for a few seconds.
The boy's eyes were green but not the kind of shade that's easy to describe. It was almost like they were both green and yellow at the same time, with blue creeping in around the edges as if it were trying to take over. He blinked and the beauty was momentarily covered by the shield of his eyelashes; naturally long and soft looking - feminine compared to the rest of his well structured features. By the time the boy's eyes opened again, I had still not recovered from his intense stare. It was a stare that communicated the boy's former pain, and his wish for me to let go and to move on. But I could not move on, just as I could not forget those glaring eyes whose light never faded even in death.
