Twixn
11-02-2011, 06:57 AM
Eros Walls.
you can walk into someones room and see the ink splattered over their walls. not the bat-**** ravings of a crazy blind man, scribbling away with black chalk, rooting through memories in hopes to breathe a sigh of relief for his last breath, no not that. You can see the patterns, mixed in with fertility masks brought back from Africa, looming over the bed like a grinning icon. All I see painted there on those walls are words, reading a story with every picture I pass, or boyfriends trinkets laid about like lambs, slaughterhouse ready. People would watch this passing transaction and think nothing of it; just Another person passing through sort of half- interested in what they see, sort of, you have to wear the mask. But those clothes hanging from countries visited are more of a looming story than Forest Gump about to unload at a bus stop. I begin reading at a frantic pace ; I'm hooked. The message firing rounds at me from behind closed doors into that room. When I finally round that corner and leave I want at least one of the bullets to really sink in, feel it.
Sort of the opposite effect of a death rattle, or should I say a parallel effect; when your life passes before you as someone holds a gun to your skull. Only now you are watching someones past life unfold as they stand there smiling at you across the room no harm close to them in any direction, as if to say : This is me. I've peaked my way through the items that build a soul, none of them those trinkets laid about in disarray, but rather complicated words we seem to blurt out in scraped tongue fashion, Sometimes choking on the tears of regret, sometimes just feeling like it wasn't fair. I've watched as everything is packed away, small boxes with labels made for burning. The root cellars, I left my neatly packed belongings in, dimly lit, I could tear open those locks and show you something beautiful tarnished, that however would mean getting to know you on a personal level. Stepping over some landmines we both set in place, tip toeing and slipping between sheets. It's a dangerous game, people get broken and misplaced. Right now I'm just looking over this wall dumbfounded, a little less of the doubt I had in the back of my mind breaking off into splinters; the pain stops when you learn to take them out, place them in that box with labels made for burning. I'm sure I've already misread half the tapestry's before me, but right now I'm Patrick Lane ; building a garden
As if creating an art display, she places the individuality carefully, each icon hoping to pull the interested counterpart in closer. She bends the truth just as carefully, welds it into place, as you move quietly through the room, an explanation reinterpreting you're initial reaction and imagination. Sparks or not, there is no denying it as an experience, sometimes i join in the game, let the music of the room move me, yet keep my face a mask of un-intrest, let her use her imagination too. weigh the scales of what i might think as I pass, there's not judgment, just the feigning of disinterest as a battle plan, you can't show too much in this dance of new-found relations. Though I can't deny the feeling you get, as if you are learning so much about a person without even having to discuss it, don't get me wrong there are conversations sparked but more of it is in whats unsaid, the picture books for another time are the ones that really really open the soul wide. There are secrets in almost any-ones life that can bring tears fluttering to eyes, those usually are the true parts that showing someone can mean only "I love you". Pacing this room now I'm not even close to words, they float in the air we breathe between us, but even they don't understand why yet, there's tests to pass and more walls to read, on the surface of her smiling face, as well as the room I have entered.
If after this process you can ultimately relax, feel at ease and get to know the surroundings, if they make you smile and bloom, you know you have come to the right place. However, never forget that wallpapers can wither, words can etch and bend, boyfriends ex trinkets can be set aside and hidden, tokens of past lives buried and burned. Lost causes manipulate and move, there's an ebb and flow to wisdom and knowledge, the same goes for relationships, we really put ourselves into those walls we build around us. Being kept frigid and alone under lock and key is no way to live, we build these barriers around us to share, for the unique few individuals we let stroll these corridors.
you can walk into someones room and see the ink splattered over their walls. not the bat-**** ravings of a crazy blind man, scribbling away with black chalk, rooting through memories in hopes to breathe a sigh of relief for his last breath, no not that. You can see the patterns, mixed in with fertility masks brought back from Africa, looming over the bed like a grinning icon. All I see painted there on those walls are words, reading a story with every picture I pass, or boyfriends trinkets laid about like lambs, slaughterhouse ready. People would watch this passing transaction and think nothing of it; just Another person passing through sort of half- interested in what they see, sort of, you have to wear the mask. But those clothes hanging from countries visited are more of a looming story than Forest Gump about to unload at a bus stop. I begin reading at a frantic pace ; I'm hooked. The message firing rounds at me from behind closed doors into that room. When I finally round that corner and leave I want at least one of the bullets to really sink in, feel it.
Sort of the opposite effect of a death rattle, or should I say a parallel effect; when your life passes before you as someone holds a gun to your skull. Only now you are watching someones past life unfold as they stand there smiling at you across the room no harm close to them in any direction, as if to say : This is me. I've peaked my way through the items that build a soul, none of them those trinkets laid about in disarray, but rather complicated words we seem to blurt out in scraped tongue fashion, Sometimes choking on the tears of regret, sometimes just feeling like it wasn't fair. I've watched as everything is packed away, small boxes with labels made for burning. The root cellars, I left my neatly packed belongings in, dimly lit, I could tear open those locks and show you something beautiful tarnished, that however would mean getting to know you on a personal level. Stepping over some landmines we both set in place, tip toeing and slipping between sheets. It's a dangerous game, people get broken and misplaced. Right now I'm just looking over this wall dumbfounded, a little less of the doubt I had in the back of my mind breaking off into splinters; the pain stops when you learn to take them out, place them in that box with labels made for burning. I'm sure I've already misread half the tapestry's before me, but right now I'm Patrick Lane ; building a garden
As if creating an art display, she places the individuality carefully, each icon hoping to pull the interested counterpart in closer. She bends the truth just as carefully, welds it into place, as you move quietly through the room, an explanation reinterpreting you're initial reaction and imagination. Sparks or not, there is no denying it as an experience, sometimes i join in the game, let the music of the room move me, yet keep my face a mask of un-intrest, let her use her imagination too. weigh the scales of what i might think as I pass, there's not judgment, just the feigning of disinterest as a battle plan, you can't show too much in this dance of new-found relations. Though I can't deny the feeling you get, as if you are learning so much about a person without even having to discuss it, don't get me wrong there are conversations sparked but more of it is in whats unsaid, the picture books for another time are the ones that really really open the soul wide. There are secrets in almost any-ones life that can bring tears fluttering to eyes, those usually are the true parts that showing someone can mean only "I love you". Pacing this room now I'm not even close to words, they float in the air we breathe between us, but even they don't understand why yet, there's tests to pass and more walls to read, on the surface of her smiling face, as well as the room I have entered.
If after this process you can ultimately relax, feel at ease and get to know the surroundings, if they make you smile and bloom, you know you have come to the right place. However, never forget that wallpapers can wither, words can etch and bend, boyfriends ex trinkets can be set aside and hidden, tokens of past lives buried and burned. Lost causes manipulate and move, there's an ebb and flow to wisdom and knowledge, the same goes for relationships, we really put ourselves into those walls we build around us. Being kept frigid and alone under lock and key is no way to live, we build these barriers around us to share, for the unique few individuals we let stroll these corridors.