my innocence defies me.

Sharp gazes, low voices.  Insidious strength: hands, shoulders, and chiseled features.  The play of sinew and muscle; lines that trace the most subtle of movements.. And every once in a while my awareness sparks and fizzles with wonderment and wonder - - what if?

by Chloe Myaskovsky

i have changed

so much.  "Home" now feels like foreign territory.

What on earth have I become?

what has been

absolute chaos has finally subsided. There's a lingering finish in the air, overripe, but intriguing, if only for the novelty of the pulsing life it remembers. The windows are open now."

Written two days ago.

It is the curse of the introvert, I suppose, to forever be looking back. We weather what storms we're given, and then we try to make sense of the aftermath, withdrawing deep within to search for answers. There are so many memories to process now, happenings that I have long delayed mulling over simply because I hoped to avoid what truths I have yet to arrive at. But limbo is over now, and I'm finally headed home. Here is yet another road trip, another migration, both of body and mind. I have 7 hours, during which my thoughts can take any number of roads. I can only pray this journey will be easy.

I have made an enemy out of time. Perhaps we can negotiate? Let's go slower, please.  

Maybe I should try this sometime.  I started this blog as an outlet, a place to express myself where otherwise I would not.  My mind is exhaustingly active - so many errant strains of thought, running along spontaneous whims and fancies - and by writing them down, I hoped that I might clear my head a bit.  It serves as a method to my madness, if you will: organizing words across white canvas, if only to learn to be a little more coherent to others and a little more honest to myself.  Oddly enough though, doing so has proved much harder than I originally expected.  Despite the ease with which I wrote before, it seems that I am better at dreaming up other people's stories than relating my own.  Apparently, my reticence has, over time, retarded me somewhat, rendering me dumb on a profound mental level.  So perhaps following Hemingway's advice isn't such a bad idea.  This is college: what's a little alcohol, but to set fire to the spirit and burn down inhibition?

STOP.

Close Facebook, close LookBook, close BlogSpot, Tumblr, WeHeartIt, GoogleReader, GMail, Sephora, and whatever else you're going A.D.D. over right now and GET THE FUCK TO WORK. Remember that unlike everybody else, your semester's not over, and that's shameful.

ENOUGH EXCUSES.

I think I've gone on long enough avoiding responsibility - it's time to clean up my act. But maybe I'm really hopeless, because I'm officially starting with a haircut. Or we could just look at it as a symbol, a new image to go along with a new me. Hehe bottle half full guys; bottoms upp ;]

here's to new beginnings ♥

unless we tell stories about ourselves, we’re in deep trouble. it’s an age-old human need: the lights go down, our thumbs go in our mouths, and someone says - - "ONCE UPON A TIME" - - and we believe it.

ALAN RICKMAN

oh hurros, snape :]

tonight

We play...

hard.  HAHHA I'm so punny.  ;]  This is how to end a semester: roomie dinner, ice skating in SF Union Square, free rave featuring the above, and then back to Bezerkeley for a holiday party at Acacia.  Ohh yess, Acacia - keeping it classy, always ♥