Thirty Sausis of Twenty Eleven

It's too hard to blog about what happened.

Here's some English stuff:
1.28.11
"As she walks forward, cold falls in her trail,
like shards of ice her footprints break the snow.
If I a man who is blind and with brail,
then she is a fire, lighting pages slow.
Ripping into delicate fabric hearts,
her words are mountain beast claws in my soul.
Her smile is made of bitter pastry tarts;
Yet, everyday she takes her low toll.
Her eyes are made of a blazing fire
too intoxicating to escape from.
And most burning ashes tend to tire,
perpetually forward moving some.
How she must see the misfortune she brings
With her devilish horns and angel wings."

6.11.09
"In my woeful life you are the sunshine.
You're the radiant in more ways than one.
You are warm, kind, hopeful, and very fine.
You light up my day when we're having fun.
Our goodbyes and good mornings are so sweet;
Your love will light up my dark, hollow sky.
When you rise, the birds start to sing and tweet,
and day is dark 'til we say our first, "hi."
At night, when you're behind the moon so pale,
I know that you expose your love to her.
Although, at loving me you seem to fail.
When I confront you, your response is "sure."
You're the light in my life and hers as well,
Your love story with her you don't retell."

But what gets me most is not that he is gone. It's that he faded. Even though I was too young to remember him without his disease, I can remember the crippling story of Alzheimer's. [Is it odd that our lives are connected by memories that don't fit?] I remember last summer, he was in the nursing home. And, his memory was literally gone-too much to even remember his wife of sixty years (but it had been months since he remembered her). But, he was almost child-like. Him, a man so strong, to have seen so much, but he smiled that sweet, innocent smile. Like, 'Hey, there are people here to see me. Cool.' And it's that. Like he never got a chance. No one deserves to leave without remembering anything.

Isn't the last moments of life when you think something about your entire life. And this disease destroys any concept of reflecting.

Stone against diamond,
soul against life.
Scratched and beaten with tears-breaking down,
there is no way to hold firm,
hot tears of broken wings and a fallen solider.
There's no heartbreak to describe
the descend of an elderly child.'

Twenty-One Sausis of Twenty Eleven

My blog may be the only place where I can truly be me. Where I can be so cryptic that it pains my readers, but opine in such a way that my point can be understand. That I am hurt, that life is complicated, but that I still (and possibly always will) have quixotic dreams and hopes for this world. Is it so wrong? Is no a peccadillo, but a federal crime to believe in those silly fantasies? Does it make me puerile? No. Because, secretly, everyone has hope. Everyone sees that "light at the end of the tunnel" and they strive towards it. We walk to the light, to the hope, to our dreams, to the end of the tunnel. And no matter how many times we fall, convince ourselves that it's stupid, we keep going forward-driven by only blind faith. But, it's always been better than being pallid.

I'm sorry if my prattle hasn't been to your liking, but that's not really the point of mindless chatter. I can't be perfect; I can't please everyone. I stand as one-one person. With dreams, goals, beliefs that contradict others, but that's who I am. I was never made to be a paragon. I'm not a plastic person who falls to others. The only regrets I have are those of my mistakes, but I don't heave and grieve over them until I die. No. I accept them, for denying can lead to worse outcomes than lies. If life has taught me anything, it's that. Acceptance is my redress.

There you stand, my beautiful raconteur. And here you come, towards me, with your smile and your probity. Who could have had the prescient to see us? "'Not I' said the cat." No one would have thought that you, my sumptuous-ness, would be there to hold me hand. To care about me. To, dare I say, love me. And there I was, like a cliff with water rushing towards it. Here you came, like the ocean with waves that crashed against me by fate and Luna herself. (I told you to address her by her name in her presence.) Now, it is ever-ostensible what will happen to us. What will be lost. What we must now live with. What thing we brought upon ourselves in such a precipitate manner.

The perspicacious minded are never the pedant. They are the brilliant, the bold, the polyglots, the talented, but never the braggers. And she, who holds herself so high, who believes she is so phlegmatic, falls with the know-it-alls. How is it that she, someone who once believed so much, falls with everyone she hated? The saddest part is that she doesn't know she's there. She believes that she has the propriety of the rest of the world. How tragically wrong.

Achievements are, I find, very pathogenic. Especially since pride is the worst of the seven sins (Wrath, Sloth, Lust, Greed, Pride, Gluttony, Envy). It takes over as just subtle pride, knowing that this one thing is good. But soon, it progresses to a "Look at me; look at me." Slowly, as achievements grow, they slip away. The audience watches as the person isn't even thinking about pugilism with their sin. Because no one realizes when they get to high up, or they wouldn't be there.

You're having a parley now.

'I stand in the plebeian world,
and we stare at the shadows.
Like clouds,
our guesses our pithy.
The pain to ossify
matches the sadness of a tragic hero.
Penury and the politic man,
made LBJ.'

Sixteen Sausis of Twenty Eleven

"Breathe out, so I can breathe you in." -Foo Fighters; "Everlong"

Amazing. Awesome. Astounding. Awe-inspiring. Attractive. Adorable. Admirable. Ambrosial. Affecting. Bewildering. Breathtaking. Beautiful. Bright. Brilliant. Chic. Classic. Courtly. Cultured. Colorful. Cool. Dumbfounding. Dear. Dainty. Dignified. Mysterious. Sumptuous.

The meticulous style of my life is not satisfied by the mystery.

The loss of you is like an wave of depth that cannot be pleased. Like something literally taken away from my soul that leaves me to only guess when or what. My heart breaks when I know that we are apart, and is full when we are together. What other loss was there with Friday, but a material possession and a true friend.

'Short days and long opinions,
hopeful ideas were lost with time.
But crazy dreams continue on?
Sonnets for challenge,
yet poetry for life.
Never falling in your home.'

Eleven Sausis of Twenty Eleven

Sometimes, I like to sit around and think about my life with you. I find it overwhelmingly sad when it feels like you provide the perfect example for things.

Those fragile three words I hate so much, but in secret, I cling to them as my only hope for this word. I hate them because they're thrown around, and you insist that not you. But I feel like I could believe it before, but no longer.

I can't believe I gave everything to the knowledge that nothing would last and there was no real "forever" to start with. Everything to something that would be given away so quickly for someone else. Everything for that.

Do I really care? I knew all along.

No, to the words.
The tallied words of three.
Pre and Past makes two
and fall+jump makes four.
Word of two is me and you.
But word of three is only
Sorry.'

Seven Sausis of Twenty Eleven

What trickeries arise of simple problems. What acting role I play in my next part. Yet, who wants to be the one who never is themselves, because a role is played only so many times before it loses itself as a role and becomes truth. When the lies become the truth, then what was truth at all?

This is not the road once taken, or a path to chose. This is a choice once-made, twice-made, thrice-made, and can never be changed. For once said, once stubborn, all is gone. What was once a sight on the horizon diminishes into a speck at the end of a dark tunnel, and you don't have your glasses. The instances where excuses could be made are even improbable to the most devious people. And thus, everything (any speck of change) is gone.

When you know it's coming, you make it worse. When you tell a lie, you make it better. When you tell a lie, you stick to it. When you continuously lie off your lie, it isn't some little thing shaken off.
But it never was.
"Melissa is a liar...
So it's okay, right?"

'Arms extended,
fingers outreached,
time changes.
And with sudden gusto,
fingers close tight,
the arm pulls away.
For what kind of person is this
that deserves to see the light of day?'

Six Sausis of Twenty Eleven

The oddest sensation is upon me now. I feel somewhat comparable to the dirt when the wind blows, or leaves across a river's current. However, I do not move. Without even trying to stay, the wind blows past me and everything else moves on. I've caught myself in my own troubles.

I got home and looked around. Who was I twenty-four hours ago? Exactly the same. Or, really, was I? This question aggravates me because you always learn the overwhelming consequences instead of the normal response. Why does society train us for disaster instead of preparing us for the probable? This only leaves us in the constant mindset to panic, which can't be healthy at all.

So, really, what changed? Nothing. But the problem is that I expected something to change. Something major. The way that it plays out in the movies, in the books, in my fantasies. But really, those dreams were lost to a fourteen-year-old; there should be no trace. Yet, how lost were they?

I feel it coming. The emptiness of the wind leaving me behind. The feeling of almost-change, but it won't come. I understand that I'm only feeling this way because I had previously placed myself in the mindset to be prepared. What happens now is my slow acceptance that there is no change at all, only rumored fiction.

I really need to stop gossiping, because rumors will only make everything a lie and everything the truth.

'Timeless waiting
for only the most infinite joy.
A small child cowers behind her inner self
and the adult stands to protect her.
Love, conquers all.
But protection is really what saves us from pain.
Thus, the days of September
pass me like breaths.
Slow water rains to my ears,
and the chills keep me warm.'

Two Sausis of Twenty Eleven

Ah, the reason recovers. Every repressed emotion and feeling of rage explained. Because the stinging pain left from the whip is only minuscule to the long-lasting and scarring pain that the giver dishes to himself. Oh, how sorrow only teaches me what I knew before. Life that looked greener only leaves me sorrowful, alone, and full of remorse.

When I thought I was taking a step towards a bright and helpful future, I looked down and feel back. Will I ever reach that step? That place that requires heartless souls and those who feel no pain. Will I ever get there in heart, not just words? Or, is there a way to get halfway so that pain is lesser to both parties?

I'm sorry.

'Her poetry is sad,
now that her outcome is known.
Every word forms another sad phrase,
revealing the troubles of her life.
She was crazy,
and lucky not to be heartbroken.
The last person who I was,
was someone I still am.'