bio
Enter one girl. Who easily, with eyes closed, could find the reason for loving any You in the hint of your smell on cold lonely nights in places, in places where you have never been. In places you never can be. Who knew without knowing, that certain things are always right, no matter how wrong living proves them to be. Who has no purpose but that which she makes - a gift and a curse all at once. For she is many opposites altogether. This who that is she. Who was never tied down with infinity, though often she wished that she was. Who cannot help but accept. Who never could deny wholly any Truth set before her. Though she might try. Who is young and old all at once. Whose parentage is more than Knowledge knows and more than Passion feels.
A name? A name for this girl? Such a thing is so often denied. The name she was born with is not the who that she is. The names she has chosen are the not the things which are her. The name her soul speaks is silent and still and scratched out and dead. It is gone. As things which should not be, often do end. There was a name given, but asked before giving, a speaker’s name, a lover’s name, a name you whisper, a name you shout, a name held out to be accepted, and she allowed. And was so named. Thusly do things become real upon listening. What once was un-named found herself marked in large scrawling letters, that only two could see, and was happy in it. Though this is not the end, knowing now proves, the speakers' tongues hang dead in their mouths. That name is gone. Though I wish that it weren’t....
[backdated, i placed this entry here because i no longer wish it to be in my user profile. 08/17/2010]
A name? A name for this girl? Such a thing is so often denied. The name she was born with is not the who that she is. The names she has chosen are the not the things which are her. The name her soul speaks is silent and still and scratched out and dead. It is gone. As things which should not be, often do end. There was a name given, but asked before giving, a speaker’s name, a lover’s name, a name you whisper, a name you shout, a name held out to be accepted, and she allowed. And was so named. Thusly do things become real upon listening. What once was un-named found herself marked in large scrawling letters, that only two could see, and was happy in it. Though this is not the end, knowing now proves, the speakers' tongues hang dead in their mouths. That name is gone. Though I wish that it weren’t....
[backdated, i placed this entry here because i no longer wish it to be in my user profile. 08/17/2010]