Belle is one of my favorite heroines of all time. She is smart, well read, doesn’t go with the flow, kind, compassionate and looks beyond the surface. Besides her great personality she also is totally spunky! In the scene where she’s getting attacked by wolves she doesn’t hide behind the horse, instead she gets a stick and is there protecting Phillepe. That’s my kinda girl!
I Will Still Miss You Though
Once I wore you as a second skin.
All at once pliable and strong.
You were my fortified cocoon,
Safety amongst a troubled throng.
I was content in so small a space,
My heart’s beat a shallow drum.
Unpredictably change rose within,
Metamorphasis had come.
I felt a stretch, a yearn to soar
With wings both beautiful and new.
But the only way I could learn to fly
Would be to let go of you.
Loyalty to a fragmented shell
Yet if I cling to a thing so dead
I loose my chance to be reborn.
Convictions grow within my soul
A solution simple and plain.
Letting you fall allows me to fly
And gives you a chance to grow again.
The spheres of our existance
somehow less important.
They were mud to our
You were my cornerstone,
Voids I do not want to fill
Cripple my movement.
When you crumble
I cave in.
When we start out on the journey called life we are blank sheets of translucent paper. Age gives us the strength and permanence of stretched canvas, experience gives us color. Some people attack their canvas fearlessly, lashing out in oils of every hue. Others give much more thought and planning to the final result, keeping that image in mind as the brushes meander across it’s surface. I am unfortunately a paralyzed artist. My hands don’t work, torn between conflicting desires of impulse and planning, delicacy and boldness. I have forsaken paint for pencil. My canvas is a spiders web of tracings that masks even further the intent. Scared of going forward because of what I might leave behind, I’m going nowhere.
I am that pair of ears in the wall
Not one word a-sayin’
Through the noise of gall
From another’s song a-playin’
As they jerk and stall.
I am that pair of eyes in the wall
Not one glance a-given
By the throng enthrall’d
By another’s act a-swayin’
Jumping like a puppet-doll.
I am that stream of tears on the wall
Not one hand a-dryin’
As they stream and fall
Not one a-noticin’
I’m only a wall.
I stopped liking my face a while ago. Not in the “I need some plastic surgery immediately” kind of way, more of the “I can’t control what people see any more” kind of way. It was an unpleasant realization. Worse still was that though signals of distress were pulsing into the open seas of humanity, there was no reciprocating beacon of hope. So I went home to build myself a Mask. I didn’t want people to see I was in trouble anyways.
The Mask was beautiful. It was everything anyone would like to see on a care free girl of 19. Lines smoothed away from the forehead, the mouth slightly up-turned as if I was barely containing a laugh and of course the eyes. Eyes are the hardest things to construct unnaturally. Windows to the soul should be clear and luminescent, paint and plaster just can’t compare. So I made do with what I had and went back out into the open; my secrets safe from everyone.
Slowly the Mask became harder to remove when I got home, so I gave up, I was comfortable. Today I could sense a change, my rebellious face was taking a toll on the integrity of my shield. Beautiful smooth lines began to contort infinitesimally as the shell weakened. The eyes were the first to crack, billows of mist surging through the jagged edges. Lines creeping across the forehead and mouth until the entire framework collapsed and fell to the floor. I stood in the open for the first time in ages and was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Don’t get me wrong, it still hurt, but the hurt was the kind that you get when someone is working out a knot in your shoulder. It makes you squirm but you know soon you will be freer than before.
I saw this in radar today… I refuse to reblog it so I went back to the source and will write about it all on my own. Something about this photo makes it worth the effort- a sense of kinship. Like the artist was taking a picture of my mind, or my day or just how my life is going. I find so many things right in this picture.
Billows of smoke are the immediate focus, followed swiftly by the beautiful tree choking from the man-made blight. Only after a few moments you realize that around the edges is a beautiful day with clean wispy clouds reminiscent of childhood imaginations.
I identify with the smoke. How sad is that? Dark billowing clouds of mess spewing toxins from around me or within me. That’s what I see first and what my eye keeps going to. Growing tree’s are healthier but harder to maintain. Seeing the potential for renewal makes the present more unbearable. Too bad smoking is an addiction.
He’s a sandwich short of a picnic… A few days after the appointment I got a letter, written on a sheet of yellow notebook paper detailing his water-aerobics regimine to get the fat off of Ed.
There is an extreme storm warning blaring all around my head. Gale force winds and potentially lethal projectiles falling from the sky. I’m pulled toward one shelter by well-meaning hands while being wrenched in the opposite direction by others.
It’s my choice.
I walk on. I cannot be drenched, I have an inner spark. I cannot be pummeled, I have a sheild. I cannot be blown away, I’m am anchored. Sometimes my chest is a black whole that swallows everything else. Sometimes I find a lattice of gold holding me together. Whatever the means I will continue.
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