(no subject)

Numb.

The children run around, laughing and playing.
The girls, in their skirts and stockings, chatter like birds
while the boys make a show of wrestling with one another.
None of them act their age - that's just the way kids are.

Numb.

My back hurts. My legs ache.
My eyes want to tear-up, my throat wishes to cry out.
It's not my back, not my legs.
Someone else's eyes, someone else's thrat.
Another's pain.

Numb.

An island in a swirling tempest of activity.
Unmoving, unseeing, unfeeling.
I wish I was numb, that I didn't feel.
That I didn't hurt.

Numb.

Data Structures is Over.

That exam, following suit with the entirety of the course, was an insult to my intelligence.
Update: I got Chinese Food! WHEE!

"Life Is Pain, Highness. Anyone Who Says Different Is Selling Something."

I like to write, and when I write, it's about pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain - even the pain of being completly numb. Those who know me in passing might find this odd, while those who know me better might find it ironically fitting. Writing is perhapse the channel for dark emotion which can't find expression through the rest of my personality. In a sense, perhapse writing makes me whole.

It occurs to me, however, that I am not alone in this phenomenon of pain-writing. Poets and lyricists come readily to mind, their art being marked by strong emotion. But even beyond that, no story is of any worth without some conflict, some pain. When the characters are happy, the story is over.

I think, then, that the phenomenon occurs because pain seems more real when you put it in words. Joy feels fake when you try to write about it; two-dimentional, hollow. Pain can be felt in words, it strikes a chord and resonates within us.

Pain can be falsified.
Joy can not; if you try, it falls apart. Joy is too real to be transferred in words - it must be experienced. Words fail to capture the essence of joy because it is so powerful, so far beyond what can be expressed in such a limited medium. pain is simple enough to be recognized. Joy has to be real.

All I need now is intellectual intercourse...

A soul to dig the hole much deeper...

Wow.

Yeah, I think I can safely say that last night I had one of the best conversations that I've had in a long while. It was... really kinda cool. She got on at around 9:00 or 10:00 I suppose... I'd seen her on earlier, but she was away, then she'd said 'hi' while I was away, and so this was the first time we'd 'really' gotten to talk.
We started talking, you know, just normal stuff. I was chatting with her and Leslie, having a fun time talking with each of them. And then all of a sudden she brought up in the conversation, and we just... clicked. I can't even really put my finger on it, but it was just back and forth, feeding off of eachother and... just having a grand conversation. i KNEW I should have been in bed - I had work in the morning, after all, but I didn't want to stop the conversation. It was easily after 2:30 when I managed to break free.

It was... good.
I was genuinely happy.

As a after-effect, though, I'm rather apprehensive about talking with her again. ^_^;;
I'll get over it, but... it was really good.

Winter

She got up, sliding slowly, silently out of bed so as not to wake him. She wrapped the soft robe around herself and went out into the hall. The street-lamps cast soft, eerie yellow light through the house, throwing shadows at odd angles. The house she knew by the daylight became alien. But the alien-ness was familiar. A board creaked as she walked across the threshold, as it always did. He wouldn't hear it. She settled herself into the same chair, looked out the same window. Snow was falling outside, but it wasn't sticking. It just left the world damp and oily-looking. She looked out the window, and she cried. A few hours later when the sun woke her up, she would climb quietly back into bed. His alarm would be going off soon.