Echo

I want to believe in "yes," and "no," and "happily ever after," but I am confronted only by a series of broken possibilities. That's the real kicker - that I want to believe.

Life gets ugly and people are little more than dolls sporting cracked record-players, doing the same old song and dance and forgetting midway through, but I want to believe. I want to believe that those jerky, awkward steps are beautiful and that those jangled, scratched-up chords will resolve into a melody.

Now I'm half in tears, considering what's empty and what holds promise, what's sketch and what's legit, discovering that the scales have a decided lean in one direction. People are dolls (and I include myself in this), capable of so much more motion than they even know, but oh-so-hollow.

I'm a young cynic, but I want to believe in a world of endless possibilities, even though all I've seen so far has been scratched, cracked, and broken. "Yes," and "no," and "happily ever after," are the chords in a melody I've never really heard - I just want so badly to believe it exists.

(It goes something like this:____________________________________________)

When It All Goes Under

When it all goes under, there's not much to tell. After all, there's not a soul alive who's ever seen hell. There's just flame and flare, and then it's as though it was never here.

I watch a rose petal burn, encased in wax. I watch the candle gutter out, and though I light match after match, I can't get the fire back. Yeah, when it all goes under, there's not much to tell.

I used to think that I might melt, if only someone applied enough pressure and heat. But my triple-point seems to be unusually high, and I'm sick of telling myself that particular lie. It may be hot enough once it's all gone under, but there's not a soul alive who's ever seen hell.

I roll my eyes and watch the flames dance, aware as I do that I may be losing my chance. They curl and flare around a rose petal in wax, promising that the morning shall find only ash. The fire is hot, but not hot enough, and it'll gutter out and go under too soon - snuffed. Yeah, I could go on, but there's not much to tell. (Besides, I don't believe in hell.)

About Tragedy

I'm flying in my mind, dancing to this week's theme song. I pirouette, leap, throw my head back, and slide into a split. I am dancing by myself, something both apt and ironic.

"Boycott love - detox just to retox."

I am strong and exultant, hitting hard with the bass and spinning with the guitar. I am celebrating and I am mourning. (It will be okay if it fizzles and it will be okay if it catches fire.)

I relive his arms around me, warm and strong, but then I chassé away. ("What a match: I'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet.") He is the present reason for my dance, but he cannot dance with me. He is just one of many who have been unable to keep up.

*Boom Boom Boom-ba-boom-boom*

*Boom Boom Boom-ba-boom-boom*

*Boom Boom Boom-ba-boom-boom*

"Detox just to retox."

"Detox just to retox."

"Detox just to retox."

"Boycott love."

"Boycott love."

I leap.

(Do I land?)

Looks Like Lemons

So, it looks like it's not going to work out: he's half-doomed and I'm semi-sweet.

How exhilarating.

Life hands us our lessons, and sometimes they're lemons that we throw back in its face, and sometimes we learn to like the taste. And you and I? Honey bunch, we're lemonade.

The guitars crash in unison with the bass, leading into harmonic ecstasy (which takes a bit of discord). No, I wouldn't promise anything for another shot - take one will do just fine.

So, it's not going to work out: that just means that we won't be wasting our time.

Parting

He kisses like it's a means to an end, a mere formality that must be observed. He inhales kisses, gulps them down as willow bark and acrid powder, dry-swallowing. The results approve the cure.

"That sucked," I declare, pulling him back for more, trying to take him with me to savor the taste.

But he has had far too many bitter sips from unwashed cups, and doesn't know that kisses can be delectable. He has yet to be taught how to give more than mere lust with his lips.

Where I find layers and levels of connection, satisfying in and of itself, he finds only obligation.

We part.

Three Hearts

Blood plinks off the music stand as three hearts, still beating are deposited on its lip. Three hearts, three people, and countless audience members. The melody crashes to a crescendo, the bass roaring a sub-aural thrum that echoes in the deepest parts of the human subconscious. People cry for no discernible reason, not seeing the red splashed across the stage, no telling whose blood is whose when it's only the pulse that matters. Everyone can feel it, like fire shooting through their veins, burning, demanding, feeding an ancient hunger. Three hearts, three bloods, countless audience members - music.

Then silence.

Applause.

A Challenge (Elec's Excerpt #4, draft 3)

I'd like to fight with you to a finish, fall in time and climb back to a pause. I want to feel music curl in our mutual pulse, turning simplicity into intricacy, turning moments into eternities. There are parallels and ironies in our every little exchange, delicious and tantalizing, satisfying but never quite enough. Fighting is loving and the battle sets us as both opponents and allies. Banish the white flag to a distant melody that hardly matters anymore - there can be no surrender beyond mutual accord.

To Let it Be

I don't know what to call this and I don't really care enough to give it a name. Not at this point. For now, I am content to just let it be.

Whatever in the Infinite Realms that means. (Ah, Existentialism, my old half-dreamed friend.)

You're beautiful and you make me feel beautiful, like you see me as I wish I really was. And because you see it, it makes me think that maybe that's the way I really am. I hope I do the same for you, because those are the people one wants to hold on to: those who see not just what we seem to be, but what we are.

What can we do but grow from that? Grow tall and strong and beautiful, dark side and all (I do believe that's commonly referred to as "humanity," BTW).

Maybe that's what this is, though that doesn't explain why. (I still don't care.)

Closet Romantic

"Yep, same ol' SD. Still a closet romantic."

Maybe I am. After all, Romantics secretly covet the formula for love and Rationalists privately yearn to be swept off their feet.

Have I been swept?

My smile suggests that I have been, as do the hummed tune and the incorrigible good mood. It is difficult (and undesirable) to resist such cheerful passion. It is beautiful to witness and absolutely magickal to experience.

Tamora suggests that I am never more irrational than when I am happy. My good spirits can scare her. (Bah, peppermint patties.) Perhaps she is correct, but I can't really bring myself to care.

("Still a closet romantic.")

Motion

I've spent so much time smiling over the past few days. My abs ache, my shoulders burn, and my hamstrings protest with every step, but I'll happily do it all over again and then some.

There's a magickal quality to motion - but then again, change is built into my name (that pesky laguz). Whipping around the rink, hand in hand, weaving in and out of each other, breathless with the spontaneous choreography with the ice within and without, the blades cut through to what matters. To trust, to laugh, to smile, to come gliding to a halt and to knowingly pass up the next logical moment because there is no way it can compare with the moment just past: high magick.

I can't wait to do it again.