Trumpets and Blood Red Ribbons

I love music from the forties for the sole reason that it is heartbreakingly happy. Joyful. Reckless. Their words speak of tragedy, loss, and meaningless death. And parties! Trumpets, drums, high skirts, shaven legs, cigars, crisp white shirts – unstained by war, like it never happened. It never had to happen.

One can easily be fooled if they don’t listen carefully. It’s like a fight behind closed doors;- you can ignore it as long as you turn up the volume of your fizzy television high enough. It’s almost numbing, like the vodka shots they took to raise eyebrows at their enemies, like a bullet straight between the eyes, dazed and smiling. Pretending everything is hanky-dory as some girls with rouged cheeks and devil red lips scream about the injustice of it all.

You’d think it was indifference at first, but it’s really not, not most of the time. Everything is so sinister, that screaming and marching becomes redundant. Choir angels convey the same depression through their sugar sweet voices, after all. Everything is falling apart, they say as they sway through the goddamned day, but then at least, let it all fall with grace. Sing, party, do a jig. Who cares? We’re all gonna die someday, so make it a good one. Go out with one more explosive, whistling bang!

 

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Artemis

She smelled of flowers and sweat and she was beautiful. Her jaw was hard set and locked in determination. Her eyes were wide with wonder, because the moon lived inside of them, and the stars caught fire in her palms. She was quiet but her silence was fierce, crackling like the dying embers under a pitch black sky. Her words churned your soul like the angry sea during a purple storm, threatening to engulf you- nothing but a small vessel- into darkness. Her glare stroke fear into the hearts of grown men and passion in young women. She was a nebula disguised as one of us, and nothing gave her away except one thing-

her thirst to be more.

Sweet Daydreams & Bitter Reality

If I were truly extraordinary, where are the tornadoes taking me somewhere over the rainbow? Where are the alien invasions? Where are the flaming Chimaeras? The time travelling? The magical wands? The supreme lord of evil whom you have to defeat?

Those people on the street, avoiding everyone’s critical eyes, walking in speed-walk. They’re suspicious characters. I eeeever so want to be a suspicious character as well! I want to have a mind-blowing secret, one that changes my life forever, but not a realistic lie, but a weird, odd, eccentric, ludicrous tale that’s truly true! If only this could happen! If only I could be a wizard fresh from Hogwarts, keeping my head down and avoiding any run-ins with death eaters at twilight, roaming the cobbled streets of London, or a half-blood on a quest in California, making small miracles of nature and avoiding fire-breathing sows.

IF ONLY.

The words that rule my life. The rules that swallow me whole. The realistic world mocking my dream that will never come true, even though I ever so want it to happen.

A summer night’s dread, I would call it. Summer night, oozy and drunk with the longing to sleep, collapsing on my bed of soft blankets and fluffy pillows, closing my eyes, and entering my dream world. I slay dragons. I conjure magic. I meet my favourite mythological heroes and made up creatures. I prowl the forest of eyes, fly in the sun-setting sky, and escape evil with nothing more than a few scratches.

Then, alas, I wake, shivering, forgetting, the dream already rapidly oozing from my head and getting lost into the world of nothing and everything. I dread this. I dread also, knowing it can never happen.

BUT I BELIEVE IT DOES. A sentimental pep talk would say in your heart, but it is truly INSIDE MY MIND, layered with millions, if not gazillions of thoughts at the same time…

It’s why I read. I sometimes believe that if I read enough I could be swallowed into the books. Be part of them, literally. This, in my heart, and mind, I know is not going to work, but I do it anyway. I want to believe it to be true.

That’s why I am so weird, odd, eccentric, childish, and cliché. I am a live character looking for the right story.