fall asleep with a memory and wake up with a dream, and hope they weren't the same. desire the assurance that it was just your creative imagination that formed these repulsive figures in your head. be struck with a severe deja vu. and go to bed wishing for ignorance all over again...

if it works for you, it could work for me. i hate knowing that what ever happens next year depends on a two digit number on a piece of paper. gah. sixteen days 'til i know what it is.

my blogger is 3 years and a month old! thats almost scary. I feel kinda bad for forgetting, so happy birthday Regenerated Imagination! At least I remembered before my birthday. Three days, then i'm into eighteenhood. feeling a bit of the peter pan syndrome, but that should pass soon enough. have a good week!

Regen. b. October 11th 2003

"I don't know anymore Jane, I... just don't know what to do" Meg whispered, running her hand through her hair, wrapping her fingers around knots and pulling, hard. Jane put an arm around her and took hold of Meg's hand, lowering it.
"It'll be okay, just step through it. You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Jane comforted her friend, squeezing her hand gently. Meg squeezed back, but said nothing. They sat like that for a while, without a word, wondering what the other was thinking.
"I think..." Meg started. Jane looked up at her, inviting her to continue, showing her full attention. "... it's gone, don't worry".
"Meg, if you don't want to share it with me that's fine" Jane said soothingly, withdrawing her arm from Meg's shoulder, "Just understand that I'm here if you need me to be."
Jane smiled compassionately. Meg looked up at her and returned the smile. Then, quite suddenly yet smoothly, she lent in and kissed Jane, on the lips. Jane shook her head slightly.
"Meg... do you know what you're doing?"
"I... I..." Meg stuttered, "don't... arg, I'm so stupid. Sorry, I shouldn't have done that."
They sat awkwardly in silence for well over five minutes.
"You know..." Jane whispered "I do love you, but... it's..."
"But not like that," Meg cut her off with a internal sigh.
"You didn't let me finish... I meant that..." Jane paused, staring at the concrete footpath. She looked up and Meg was there, inviting her to continue with kind eyes. So Jane kissed her back, hard.


[this was kind of an experiment, working out different styles, different characters. maybe there'll be a greater story for these two. it's a bit of a touchy subject with some people and i wouldn't have any personal experiences to draw from, so i don't know. another day]

whatever makes you feel real.

"you don't always come first"
that was written on a give-way sign i pass on my way home from school. all lower case, just in the bottom corner of the triangle. i don't really think motorists would be able to read it from their cars, but i thought it really reflected on our society. most of the graffiti in the suburbs is just, "I love blah blah", and "blah blah wants it up the ass" and don't really get meaningful or political until you get further toward the city. i like most graffiti (i'm not one to do so myself mainly because i'm a bit gutless and i wouldn't know what to write), some of it's just crass, but there are these pieces in the city that are real artwork. and on the train there are just walls of it. i don't like it so much when it's on people's fences facing roads, i think that's too much of a personal attack even if its not done so intentionally. Maybe this post makes Melbourne sound over run by graffiti, it's not, it's probally a lot less than other places. not that i know from experience, but i'm sure there's graffiti everywhere in the world.

In an urge to dive deeper, I discover that I'm standing in a puddle, with the water lapping at my ankles and my opinions bobbing on the surface as paper boats. Is this where I've been all along? Under the illusion that I meant something, that what I thought meant something? Or have I moved without noticing the different scenery, climate and amount of water at my feet? Towering buildings, so tall that they appear to touch at their very summits, cast a shadow like a dark cloak over the cityscape. This is not my home.
Picking up my boats, I take off along the foreign roads, past the unfamilar world, just hoping for a street sign, any sign, to tell me where I am.
"You are here!" a man shouts at me as I run by.
but where is here?
"Here is here!" yells another. My strides start to shorten with the suffocating clench of my lacking stamina.
useless words, yelled at a stranger, are they really as senseless as they seem?
"words are only useless to those who won't use them," whispers an old lady as i pass her.
"excuse me?" i ask, stunned, "are you inside my head or something?"
"well so are you, silly girl" she replies with a strange expression, as if i should have known better, "so much for your insight."
now an old lady is questioning my depth, isn't this grand. i start to walk away, hopefully to find some useful information.
"information is only useful to those who want to use it," she smiles at her own wit. "You wanted a deeper understanding, but that isn't knowledge, that's acceptance."
i turn around, eyeing the old lady. What does she want with me?
"i think it's more what you want with yourself"
"Eh?"
"i am you, just with a little more experience" she chuckles
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead and my mouth opens at an incredible angle.
"huh?"
"Well obviously you haven't a clue what you want from your perspective yet, so you should wake up." the old lady mutters, rifling through her bag.
"But i am awake"
She chuckles again, pulling out a watering can from her bag that couldn't have possibly fitted inside it.
"i never knew when to listen to my elders, until a was one," she lets out an usual sound, what could almost be a melancholic laugh and then starts pour out the contents of the can.
The water sploshes at my feet, then persists to rise exponetially. The world around me fades and the old lady disappears with her watering can, but i can feel the water rising, entering my lungs. A splutter, a cough and only now, engulfed by the great mass of water do i realise that i am me, i am here and that a deep perspective is not always the best one to have, though one can still drown in a puddle. The last thoughts dim, the air is pushed out of my lungs, water gushes into my mouth and vision is leeched from my eyes...
Quite suddenly, completely unexpectedly, i feel air across my skin. Intense pain spreads across my chest as my ribcage is compressed again and again. Then something warm and soft touches my lips and a breath of comforting air is forced into my lungs. My eyes flicker and all the swallowed water accompanied with my stomach contents errupt from my throat and out into the open air, narrowly missing my saviour.
"Lovely" he smiles gently.
"sorry" I gurgle, vomit oozing from the corner of my mouth, the acidic taste torturing my tastebuds. I feel something wet inside my unwilingly clentched fist. Opening it I see one of my boats, torn and more drowned than i nearly was.
"Good to see you still have an opinion." the man whispers
I look at him in complete surprise and he just smiles, gets up and leaves without another word.
Watching him leave i wonder what I'm meant to do with this boat. Should I dry it off or just give up on it and fold another, better one? whatever i do, atleast i know i'm me and i'm here. where ever here is...

now time - like an ocean, knows tide - like a notion. to toss about the house, and lose inside the couch, and piles of our thoughts, run miles in the dark, just trying to get home...

I don't know where to begin because I fear where I may end. Point A and point B aren't meant to be two points on a circle in which B is passed numerous times before the motion stops, before the derivative equals zero. But you listen to speeches and read analysis, newspapers and essays and one of the key aspects to writing a "good piece" is to restate point B again and again. Maybe this suits ten minutes speeches and 500 word essays, but for conversation, for a short note, for someone to believe that you don't think they're an idiot, point B is the end unless there is any debate to be heard. I think I have just made my fear a reality. Without the substance to support point B and how it relates to point B directly, agruments and essays are boring. Thats what I really think, not all that dribble about challenging what makes speeches and written pieces good or not.
Gah... I want to go back to school, but classes are finished...

"it's times like these where i really appreciate your sarcasm" she scoffed sarcasticlly, turning her back on the only man she ever loved.

now i'm wide as the ocean, now i bleed roses and you are just a mark on the map of my past. but i am a road, i wind along alone, all day until the coast... (Season Poem - Gregory and the Hawk, I don't know where you stand with music piracy, but i really think you should download this song, it's lovely)