thoughts put to computer
I can feel her, on the other side of America. She's there, in the East Coast some where...it's not raining, but it's threatening rain. She's there, walking...doing something...maybe drinking with friends. I just know she's there, in a cloudly city, waiting for rain, happy, not knowing I'm here. She's the one I'm going to fall in love with, and be loved back. I know this. I can almost see her, but I can't. It's dark where she is, cuz the clouds cover the sun. It's been raining a lot there, for her, but always a light drizzle that doesn't last long. My love is there, and I wait the moment when I can finally meet her and know love. But, at the same time, I wonder if I'm just making this all up...
I read The Giver again. I love that book so much. I was came to the part where Jonas talks about colors, and I looked around, wondering what the world would be like without color, without art, a world like Jonas's. Without feelings or love or hate, or anything. It would be good, yet overwhelmingly bad. Just look around, at all teh different colors you see in a day. Marvel at their beauty, their awareness, there ability just to be for us. Our ability to see them, to pick out what we want to wear in the morning, what style, what color, what article. It's...it's mind boggling to thin of how free, how blessed, and just how...alive we all are. I want to chase my chronic depression away with color, with choice, with food, with drink, with friends, with laughter, with keyboards, stories, books, poems, art. With everything that is given to us every day without us even having to ask. I have the right to run down the streets and scream anything I want! That is beautiful! I have the right to go out and buy a gun, and do whatever I want with it. I have the right to buy porn and look at the beauty of a woman's body, the slender curves, the delicate dips and twists. Her beautiful features that are like a painting, with soft, perfect brush strokes. I want to stare at a woman, stare at her body, drink her beauty and her color, the different hues, the different shades and curves. I want to capture it in my hands, drink it up with my eyes, marvel at my choice to look, my choice to touch. My choice to have. Women are goddesses, they are to be worshiped. Their colors, their features just everything. They are all perfect, delicate in their own fashion to be loved and handled with such care as one would give to a blooming rose. I want to care for a woman, hold her in my arms, nuture her and watch her bloom in my hands. Watch her beauty grow, run my hand through her hair, taste her full lips and wonder to myself, what god in heaven has decided to bless me with a woman? But, as every rose has its thorns, as do women. It only adds. Without pain, there is no pleasure, without hate, there is no love. A hard, but true, lesson. And now...I write.
I read The Giver again. I love that book so much. I was came to the part where Jonas talks about colors, and I looked around, wondering what the world would be like without color, without art, a world like Jonas's. Without feelings or love or hate, or anything. It would be good, yet overwhelmingly bad. Just look around, at all teh different colors you see in a day. Marvel at their beauty, their awareness, there ability just to be for us. Our ability to see them, to pick out what we want to wear in the morning, what style, what color, what article. It's...it's mind boggling to thin of how free, how blessed, and just how...alive we all are. I want to chase my chronic depression away with color, with choice, with food, with drink, with friends, with laughter, with keyboards, stories, books, poems, art. With everything that is given to us every day without us even having to ask. I have the right to run down the streets and scream anything I want! That is beautiful! I have the right to go out and buy a gun, and do whatever I want with it. I have the right to buy porn and look at the beauty of a woman's body, the slender curves, the delicate dips and twists. Her beautiful features that are like a painting, with soft, perfect brush strokes. I want to stare at a woman, stare at her body, drink her beauty and her color, the different hues, the different shades and curves. I want to capture it in my hands, drink it up with my eyes, marvel at my choice to look, my choice to touch. My choice to have. Women are goddesses, they are to be worshiped. Their colors, their features just everything. They are all perfect, delicate in their own fashion to be loved and handled with such care as one would give to a blooming rose. I want to care for a woman, hold her in my arms, nuture her and watch her bloom in my hands. Watch her beauty grow, run my hand through her hair, taste her full lips and wonder to myself, what god in heaven has decided to bless me with a woman? But, as every rose has its thorns, as do women. It only adds. Without pain, there is no pleasure, without hate, there is no love. A hard, but true, lesson. And now...I write.