Disappearing Act

Identity

2012-02-13T19:22:00.022+13:00

Grey toned hair. I loved this colour ♥. circa 2010. (come 2012, it is now twice as long!)

As of late I have been looking through old pictures of myself, and I find it difficult to believe I am observing the same person in each photo. There is another new, different-coloured shell from frame to frame; a new, different expression, and a new, different context. Everything from that year comes back to me in floods, including an ever-present creative flair bursting from the seams, evident in my chameleon hair, make-up and various wacky styles I adopted. (cringe...) It may be foolish to judge my entire being on an image, but I truly believe, as I file through my past in pictures, that it is a fair representation. I see in colour, I see in black and white, I see in all the pretty and ugly shades in between. I see in text typed across the page of my mind, I see frowns and smiles inked into the fabric of my consciousness. (can you guess from these clues what my favourite creative outlets are?)

I see in art, and I see in image. A picture speaks a thousand words.

Insomnia,

2012-01-18T10:21:00.006+13:00

stop torturing me.

Brought nearly to tears, wishing I was not awake. Awake til 5am, eyes will not close: the only solution being sleeping pills to numb my defiant brain into submission. It will never obey me otherwise. I try to function without the pills, but the more I stay away the more I need to come back.

The dreams are real. More real than this world. If only I could be in them more.

Novel-writing

2012-01-11T07:07:00.005+13:00

129 pages of unfinished material I had previously lost during the breakdown of my personal laptop is now in the process of being printed, so I and my family may hold it in solid form and read over it for the first time in a couple of years. The file has sat unnoticed for too long - now I am about to uncover what I had forgotten, but so absorbed myself in long ago, so much so that I would forget about the physial word for hours on end.
It is a life-long relationship, writing a novel (or three); it replaces friendships and activities that another would otherwise be doing. It is an ocean of a project to undertake, but one I find myself diving back into after a long hiatus. Now that I am older and more experienced, I can start anew with a fresh take on things I would have completely overlooked before. The world I would spend an entire day at a time creating and developing is but a distant memory now; but the effort I put into it should not be disregarded: here lies a goldmine of ideas to be encorperated into something greater.
In the past, fame has almost happened, but for reasons unsaid, it didn't. There is no giving up, however. My will is too strong, my inspiration too concentrated for such a thing.

I have deleted all my previous posts, the observer surely has noticed. Go ahead, un-follow me.

Milkyway Dream

2011-10-09T13:50:00.027+13:00

The more that comes back, the more I feel. The more I remember I am in love. Still. Still besotted with the cold, blood-drenched husk of love. In love with that short past period of time of perfection, of utter nerves and shivering, sweaty hands and awkward smiles and bliss. In pure adoration I recall how he surged into my view that sunlit morning, how the magnet in me forced my soul to his being, his mezmerizing auroa of gold. I recall how he drew himself to me, too. A pencil lead on cartridge, scratching a path.

We barely touched throughout the couple of years of companionship, but I was euphoric - and remain so every time I go to sleep. In the act of purposefully focusing on specifics before I drift into the realm of dreams, all I desire manifests - all I remember and cherish as much as my own life, my own blood; relived, over and over. Wishing I could go back, wishing that somehow it will replay itself in the present or the future; then maybe I could prevent our parting, strengthen our bond that I readily feel so deeply, as concrete as my bones.

The dream lasted a lifetime. And I awoke, still encircled in it, warm and snug as a fur duvet. Whispers of that crystalline past, that bright life which has drained from my veins ever since the end. I still bask in it, despite knowing it brings no good, no real happiness; despite the world moving on around me . . . Despite, despite, I dream on.

Five years have passed since we first met.

How is it that we human beings feel such crippling misery?

Beauty

2011-09-25T20:26:00.001+13:00

The beauty that we forget is within ourselves is reflected all around us by nature. Take this white peacock (snapped by myself at Dad's friend's farm), for example. Outcast by our general idea of how the peacock should be, this striking living wonder defies just that. And this does not diminish its beauty at all, no; it makes it all the more special. A rare sight for us city-dwellers, the peacock is beautiful whether it realises it or not; just as we are.

A Wish . . .

2011-09-12T09:43:00.001+12:00

Send me to sleep, send me to peace.
Send me to sleep with the angels.

My deviantART.