I stand, facing the wall I stand with my hands in the air. Red paint splattered across my backside silhouetting my form on the wall.

Its arms are down.

The wall stretches very high, so high I can't see the end of it. I look left, then right and note the end of the wall about 4 meters away from me on either side. But I look up, and I start to climb.

Its arms are down.

The white paint that covers the brick is a thick kind of paint. It covers the edges of the bricks and making them smoother and shiny. The paint drips of my back and the drops hit the ground under me. I have ascended 2 meters from the base.

Its arms are down.
Its gaze moves up.

My body is more muscular than it really is. My arms are thicker, they are as thick as arms of other men, so are my legs and chest. I have no hair and I have a tattoo on my lower back. A tramp stamp. My surroundings are gray and there is no wind.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.

I keep on climbing, my fingers worming themselves into the creases of the wall. My toes try to do the same but can not. They support me while my fingers do the real work. My thoughts wander to birds: amazing, huge cranes with billowing feathers of white, blue and yellow. My nails are breaking and ripping. The red drops below me are not only paint. I keep climbing, focusing on the (never) end.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms open towards the sky.

Around me the horizon is white, in between there is gray and above me there is a black dot where the wall (never) ends. 200 meters above my comrade. The paint has dried on my back, crusted and cracked it flakes and drifts down. Dust. My face is turning white and my eyes are sinking and my fingers find their way still into the folds. On either side the wall stops, below me it starts but above me it goes on. My lips part for air.

Its arms are moving upwards.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bending.
Its embrace is open.

My feet slip and so do my fingers. I fall away from up. My eyes now firmly focused on the start. Now there is wind. Images of cranes come back to me.

Its arms are ready.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bent.
Its embrace is open.

A sky of stars is rushing towards me. Red stars in a vast white space. Billowing feathers come to my mind, I look down and I see the (never) end still the same. And I close my eyes.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are closed.
The knees are straightening.
Its embrace is empty.

I feel like my heart is on the verge of either imploding or exploding :P in a good way.

In it's yellow eyes it holds a block of cement, its is heavy and it has rods in it. It is a thing of construction... the broken Tower. Once a magnificent thing... it once was a glorious thing but now it is a gray lump. Where is the glamor?

The heart is a strange, fluid thing. It is not fluid in the meaning that it flows... but that it is a fluid, it seeps and follows the gravity. Like fluid it runs into the cracks and holes and imperfections of the skin. It is fluid in the way that you can not, no matter how hard you try, hold it in the palms of your hand.

Yellow eyes follow every drop as it falls down towards the ground, towards gravity, and the slightest grin appears on its face. The shame is unbearable... the humiliation of loosing yourself, the overwhelming, undeniable fact that the only thing that is truly yours... you can not hold it. And that smug grin on its face! The shame, the vulnerability, the nudity and those eyes bearing down on you.

You can only hope, as you stand there naked, that just maybe... possibly... the universe willing! That your heart, dripping away from you into the dirty ground, will find a seedling. You can only hope that something good can come out of it, that there will be life that can feed from it. That your hearts liquid will create something. While you stand there, desperately trying to slow the leak, back bent, knees buckling, brow clenched and your eyes staring into those yellow, cold pools.

And that horrid grin..

it's wonderful
outstanding
releasing

in water we have wings
I feel like it feels to be superman
I feel like it feels to have superpowers
I feel like my body is agile and beautiful
I feel like my mind can focus and gather like a pearl

I can't breathe

in water we have no weight
I feel the connection with my world
I feel like other people around me are with me
I feel like my influence extends further than I can tell
I feel like i understand the integral fluidity in the world

I can't see

In water things are so clear.
I swim
I get air
I swim
I get air
I swim..

outstanding
amazing

it's so scary

how close it is..

water is life and water is...

if we stay under long enough

if we stay superman
if we keep the power

.

A traveling salesman,
he is dressed in a brown trench-coat
dark blue, red pinstripe underwear
shiny brown shoes
black socks with white markings
pale brown trousers
white t-shirt
pale blue shirt with a breast pocket and clear buttons only they have tiny swirls of white in them, a white string attaches them, the needle must have traveled so many circles in and out. Each round making the button safer and stabler. Not unlike the salesman.

Notice his face?
can you see it?
his face is cut by shadows
hard shadows hollow out his face.
I wonder if he has wrinkles?
He seems not to have ever made a facial expression in his life.

He must have...
When he had is birthday last year,
when he saw his mother last week,
when his daughter gave him a picture she drew,
when his wife ... well you know.

He must have...
When he stubbed his toe,
when he lost his father,
when he lost that hand,
when he ... well you know.

But still,
those shadows cut him
and his face is hollow

his step quickens
his gaze moves forward
his hand moves away

"WAIT!"

white markings,
on the floor, down that street
definitely leading down to there. down there. down, there.

There is always that pavement
brilliantly glazed by street-lamps and traffic lights
it's almost like the northern lights
a road paved with... electricity.

oooh! OOH! DOWN THERE! THERE HE IS!
Look! can you see him!? there!?
RIGHT THERE!
look at him run. Not unlike a gazelle no?
light brown legs, shiny hard shoes
OH! he is beautiful!
His face never changes but those eyes...

Those eyes have been cut 300 times and 300 times more for every cut

he's gone... around the corner.
he is walking still
his hand firmly gripped around the handle
his chest completely still
and his face ... well you know.

A traveling salesman

but his face,
he must have...

Volcanic, eruption.
Fucktarded progressive spewing epitome praline!
tíkar tussu drulluhala fokk skít drasl kráarskráargat skellur rass gróft blek krítar kall!

hlaupa og hlaupa og hlaupa á vegg og blæða í jörðina, brjóta bein, hvítt flass af ái!
þrusa hendinni inní stein nema að hann gefur eftir og grípur svo, vera fastur þar til að hann slær tilbaka.
horfa svo stíft á sólina að augun frjósa og litlar sprungur koma og sýra flæðir niður kinnarnar niður í tær og inn í merginn!
Rauður, hvítur, dökk brúnn og króm litaður stafur ítrekað þrykkt í höfuðið.

steinvölur í hundraðatali að þjóta um loftið eins og smástyrnabelti sem hringsólar í kringum lítin postulíns hund.
ennisholuþrýstingur, litlir naglar, þrýstingur þrýstingur það til allt brotnar og springur.
hnefi í hurð, litlar flísar inná milli naglanna að éta sig í gegnum holdið.

FOKK IT!

Ég er alveg að pissa á mig!!! við erum að ræða 3 klósettferðir á sama klukkutímanum... nema náttla er búin að sitja hérna heillengi að sötra og surfa, kanski er ég búin að fara 3svar á klóstið á 3 tímum eða meira :S I dont know.
en allavega, ég þarf á klóstið núna.... aftur. nennir einhver að fara fyrir mig?
Ok ég skal sjálfur
*fer*

AH! þetta var gott!

Ég sakna íslenskunnar svo mikið! hafið þið fengið þessa tilfiningu? að þegar þið eruð búin að tala ensku í X langan tíma að þið farið að finna fyrir froðu uppí munninum? Ég fæ froðu og verki í munnin eftir of mikla ensku.
Ég man síðast þegar ég kom heim, ég var beðin um að vera með kaffikynningu, og ekkert smá góður í því b.t.w. seldi ca. 50-60 pakka a einum degi ;) hehehehe. Anyway anyway anyway, ég var að kynna kaffi og ég var spurður oftar en einusinni hvaðan ég væri á hnettinum, ég var farin að tala svo bjagaða íslensku að ég var eins og mjööög duglegur nýbúi. FÁRÁNLEGT! fólk hló í opið geðið á skömm minni yfir þvoglumælginni. Ég sagði jafnvel við einn mann "þetta kaffi sker frammúr".... ég missti andlitið! FUSS!

Það er alveg ótrúlegt hvað maður lærir mikið á því að fara útfyrir landsins steina, ég hef svo miklu meiri virðingu fyrir öðrum löndum. Það er magnað hvað önnur lönd (sem og ísland) hafa ríka menningu og sögu sem blæðir framm og aftur í sögu þeirra. Við tökum mörgu sem mjög sjálfsögðum hlutum, orð og orðatiltæki og þvílíkt án þess einsuinni að velta því fyrir okkur hvaðan þessi setning og þetta orð kemur. Við njótum ekki okkar ríkulega arfleiðar, mér er ekki furða að Afi minn fussi og sveii yfir slakandi íslenskukunnáttu dóttursonar síns!
HAHA! ég man hvað amma mín var yfir sig hrifin þegar ég sagði við hana "ég er að fara í geim" en ekki "ég er að fara í partý" það var ótrúlegt brosið á þeirri gömlu!
Mikið hrikalega þykir mér vænt um hana Ömmu mína, hún er svo falleg kona, hjarthlý og góð. Hún myndi aldrei nokkurntíman gera nokkri manneskju það að dæma hana fyrirfram, hún er skilningsrík og leynir á sér! Ég held að það sé ekki neitt sem maður getur ekki spurt hana um, hún er alvitur og það ætti að vera mynd af henni í orðabókinni við hliðiná orðinu viska.

Orð: Viska
Skilgreining: Ketty Ellen Snorrason (Amma Bitten)

Man eftir því að ég var að velta því fyrir mér hvað ég ætlaði mér að gera fyrst að ég kláraði ekki MH, ég ætlaði mér náttla út til Englands í leiklistarnám. En hún Amma mín! hún ætlaði mér sko aðra hluti! ;) hún ætlaði mér til Camebridge eða Oxford í enskar bókmenntir! Þessi kona vissi líka alveg að ég þyrfti að spila á mínum styrkleikum, og þessi enskusýki mín gæti sko spilað sterkt í þessu fagi!

Getið þið ímyndað ykkur?! Ég! Bókmenntafræðingur í enskum bókmenntum! :D HAH! Ég verð að segja að ég er soldið uppi með mér á þessum metnaði í Ömmu minni gagnvart honum litla mér :) bókmenntafötluðum einstaklingnum.

Ekki það, Afi minn er líka voða merkilegur einstaklingur :P algerlega höfuð fjölskyldunnar. Ég man eftir því að ég og Afi vorum einusinni að rífast. Við skulum hafa það í huga að Afi minn er fyrrum forseti lögmannafélag íslands. Hann er hardcore rökræðari og þá sérstaklega hvað varðar lög. Við vorum að rífast um fyrningu kynferðisafbrota. Ég var andstæður og hann meðfylgur. Við rifumst þanga til að hann varð rauður í andlitinu og ég farinn að skjálfa og Amma og Mamma (eða Didda) þurftu að draga Afa inní næsta herbergi til að róast og ég að hætta að tala.
Amma sagði svo seinna við Kristján minn í einhverju boði "tjah, hann Hafsteinn okkar, ég get sagt þér það að það hefur enginn staðið í hárinu á honum Sveini (Afa) eins og hann Hafsteinn" við erum að ræða að ef stolt væri mælanlegt á richterskala að þá hefði ég fellt 2 til 3 stórborgir :D. Það er fátt sem getur gert mig eins stoltan og hrós frá henni Ömmu minni. Hún er eins og englendingarnir segja "The Dogs Bollocks!" algert flippin' ÆÐI!

Mér finst svo mikil skömm í íslenskunni minni, ekki dagsdaglega sko, en þegar ég er að skrifa Ömmu og Afa e-mail þá verð ég svo stressaður, ég þori varla að skrifa neitt af því að ég er alltaf að reyna að skrifa sem réttast. Ég er svo hræddur við að skrifa þeim eitthvað og þau fara bara að kúgast af móðurtungunauðgun. Ég vil ekki að þau missi virðingu fyrir mér eða haldi að ég sé heimskur eða eitthvað.

Talandi um það! ég á tvö systkyni, ég elska þau mest í heiminum, þau eru aðal tengill minn við fjölskylduna. Eftir og á meðan gelgjuskeiðinu stóð þá fjarlægðist ég fjölskylduna eins og heitan eldinn. Ég hef ekki guðmund um af hverju ég gerði það, kanski var það skömm yfir samkynhneigðinni fyrst um sinn eða það að ég vildi ekki að neinn vissi hvernig mér leið eða hvað ég var að gera (djamma, lifa kynlífi, drama, læti) þannig að ég forðaðist. Síðastliðin 2-3 ár þá er ég búin að finna til mikils missis, ég er að fara á mis við svo margt. Ég á erfitt með að hafa eðlileg samskipti við Mömmu, Ömmu, Afa, frænkur og frændur. Ég get bara ekki spjallað við þau án þess að vera með SVOOOOOOOOOOOOONA stóran stresshnút í maganum. Þett er fjölskyldan mín, fólkið sem mun elska mig hvað sem á dynur en ég kemst bara ekki hjá þessari stresstilfiningu yfir hvað þeim hlýtur að finnast um mig. Anyway anyway anyway! Þetta allt á sér punkt.
Ég á tvö systkyni sem ég elska, þau eru magnaðasta fólk í heiminum, eilífur brunnur krafts, þekkingar, blíðu, ástar og knúsa. Þau eru líka bæði ÓTRÚLEGA greind og dugleg og hæfileikarík og sterk.
Don't get me wrong, ég veit að ég á líka margt til brunns að bera en það er alltaf þetta "yngstabarns syndróm". Mér finst ég svo oft vera að keppast við þau. Þau eru bæði með stúdentspróf, þau eru gagnkynhneigð og eiga börn, þau geta skipulagt, þau kunna stærðfræði! það er ekkert sem þau geta ekki gert og hafa ekki gert. Stundum líður mér eins og strumplings við hliðiná tveim risum.
Þannig að í sambandi við ömmu mína og afa þá get ég ekkert gert að því að bera mig saman við Diddu og Svein í augum þeirra, Þau eiga fjölskyldu og vinna sjálfstætt og hafa tekið nám í mikilvægum hlutum og fengið mjög góðar einkunnir og staðið sig vel. Sem og þau stunduðu bæði íþróttir og félagsstarf sem unglingar. Bróðir minn er fullkomin eiginmaður og systir mín fullkomin eiginkona and then some! Ég er soldið svarti sauðurinn, leiklistarnörd, hommi, dramtískur og eyddi bestu árum ævi minnar í þunglyndi svo ég ræði nú ekki að hafa algerlega fjarlægst fjölskylduna mína.

Ég hef fundið þetta mynstur í mörgum aðstæðum í lífi mínu :P
Þetta með að missa af fyrstu aðstæðunum, fyrsta tækifærinu til að kynnast fólki og svo þarf að reyna að komast inní það seinna meir.
Það er þetta með familíunna, að kynnast ekki fólki á þeim tíma sem maður er að komast að því hver maður er (gelgjuskeiðið) en ekki að finna tækifæri til fyrr en núna.
Og svo líka skólafélagar mínir núna í Bruford, fyrsta árið mitt þá bjó ég leeeeeeeeengst útí buska þannig að ég missti af öllu fólkinu að kynnast fyrsta árið, sterku vinasamböndin að myndast. Allir (flestir) bjuggu saman í skólaíbúðunum og þannig að þau kynntust og urðu náin, kynntust veikleikum og styrkleikum og solls. Núna er ég að reyna að kynnast fólki, en það hefur enga þörf lengur til að kynnast fólki,ekki það að það VILJI ekki kynnast manni en málið er að þau eiga vini, fullt af þeim og ÞURFA þessvegna ekki að eignast nýja vini. Það er getur verið soldið erfitt að brjótast í gegn. EN ÉG SKAL! Bæði fjölskylda og skólafélagar.

Jæja... ætli maður sé ekki búin að væla nógu mikið ;) hehehe

Ef einhvert af ykkur þekkir þessar tilfiningar, þá væri ég mjög sáttur við að heyra um það :)

~Spookyo_O familiar

Ég er í Prag, geturu ímyndað þér?! Ég er hér í miðri Bohemíu og er að elska þessa borg.

Ég helt alltaf að fyrst að ég hataði London og elskaði Reykjavík að þá væri það einfaldlega þannig að ég gæti aldrei fílað aðra borg.
en nei.. ég er Bóhemi og er að fílaða.
Það er kalt eins og heima, það er töluvert hreinna loft en í London, vatnið er drykkjarhæft og útum allt er merki um fegurð og sögu. London hefur orðið nýja new york og reykjavík hefur alltaf verið að skríða eftir ameríska draumnum þar til núna.

Þeir sem þekkja mig vel vita að ég er alltaf stressaður og með áhyggjur af gersamlega öllu. Ég held og vona að ég sé farin að chilla soldið, ég held að ég sé farin að taka í sundur ábyrgðartilfininguna fyrir veröldinni stykki fyrir stykki en það sem ég óttast (þarna kemur þetta orð aftur, sástu það?) er að með því verði ég tík. Ég vil ekki vera tík.... þannig að ég verð það öruglega ekki en þúst... það sem maður forðast á það til að koma upp að manni að óvörum.

Enska hefur orðið mitt fyrsta tungumál núna, ég tjái mig betur á því máli og finst ég hafa helvíti betri tök á henni heldur en íslenskunni, ástæðan fyrir þessu held ég að sé það að mín kynslóð og eflaust sú næsta á undan og á eftir séu soldið týndar. Þegar við ölumst upp þá erum við marineruð í ensku, enskuslettum, cúltúrflði og INTERNETINU! Við fengum mjög takmarkaða "kennslu" um þann ríka kúltúr og fegurð sem fylgir íslensku tungunni. Hér er ég ekki að tala um kennslu af kennurum af því að það er eðli nemenda og kennara að nemendur mómæli kennslunni og reyni ítrekað að fara í gagnstæða átt við hvert kennarinn reyni að fylgja manni. Ég er að tala um kennslu af öllum sem er í kringum mann, fjölskyldu og samfélagi, þetta er Ameríkuástin sem íslendingar (sem þjóðfélag, soldið generalisation en þú skilur) hafa, við erum eins og táningur, við neitum að horfast í augu við það sem við erum og höfum, allt það góða og fallega við æskuna okkar og orkuna. Við þráum að verða stór og takast á við heiminn, það er ekki fyrr en við fullorðnumst sem við getum séð styrkinn í okkar þjóðfélagi. Vonandi er þessi massívi vaxtaverkur sem við erum að upplifa núna að benda okkur á eitthvað, að við erum ekki stór eins og Pabbi og Mamma, við erum ung og orkumikil en við erum eitthvað allt annað og við höfum aðra eiginleika. Ef við gtum fundið stoltið aftur af því að vera íslendingar og stoltið af því að vera lítil, þá kanski gætum við staðið sterk og falleg. Vonandi munu börn dagsins í dag tala góða íslensku og hugsa til okkar "eldri" kynslóðarinnar með vott af "oooH! Pabbi! þetta "BÖGGAR" þig ekki heldur fer þetta í taugarnar á þér eða angrar þig! Jeminn!"

Ég fer stundum í svona fílíng, að vilja tala við einhvern um allt en það er eitthvað svo klént að tala um þá hluti við fólk því að það mun segja eitthvað ótrúlega rökrétt og maður bara "DOJ!" og líður eins og kjána. Ég fíla soldið það að maður getur postað allskonar svona og getur verið frekar viss um það að einhver lesi en maður þarf ekki að heyra kjánaskapinn sinn opinberaðan, nema að einhver leggi það á sig að commenta... sem fæstir nenna hvort sem er ;) hehe það er fegurðin við þetta!

Þetta hefur verið mest boring post á ævi minni, átti að vera rosa revelation, endaði sem bullcrap.

HAFFEH!

more animals

an old room, filled with nothing but a sourceless, dim, light and her,
her knitting in the dark and grey matters only slightly illuminated by her absence
she hasn't seen what she had wanted and she hasn't heard what she needs, her baby has been bought and sold and given a new home
it has no need for her anymore.

there are shiny buttons lying on the floor, spread wide, spread like the stars in the sky only not of star material
grey matters wafting through a crowded room, they mix with cigarette smoke and whirl in the upwind of candle-lights.

ashprints dotted around the floor, the small prints are that of a child's and it carries the hue of a rainbow
the flame cannot bother these anymore, it has already consumed and given the world light
ashprints up the winding staircase.

there is a breeze coming through the cracks of the jewelry box, there is a glint of light inside, warmth that only matchsticks can provide
flimsy, weak, pieces of wood destined for a moment of combustion, a moment of acceleration, of epiphany, a moment of eternal light
where is the key?

she knits, she dreams, she is lost, she has been cold for so long
the halls are filled with paintings, they have been cracked by time, time is the destroyer of worlds and creator of life
black, mauve, green and grey
old eyes staring blankly at the wall, without voices and without warmth
her braided hair falls down to her waist, she walks as if in water, crisp and clean water, lighter and softer

wings beat far away from her and she listens frightfully as they carry on, beating, fluttering
then they stop
the silence brings a shockwave, a brick wall of shadow
the dim light illuminates, her eyes shimmer in the same way as a pearl
ashprints turn a corner and she follows
where is the key?

tattered piece of fabric, coarse against her heels and the tone of her footsteps change into a noise
if she could hear she would become frightened, the touch of skin and strings of twine
there is a staircase leading to a room, down a dark corridor, there the mice have their domain, her tenants
joy of joys to find them, to hear laughter again, to share food again, to kiss and speak and love again
she quickens her pace and she skips steps, the footsteps change back to a beat, now only quick and light
a flutter of wings
and glimpse of her teeth as her lips part stretching towards her ears, laughter, again, one more time
she reaches the bottom of the staircase, her feet are bleeding, there are shards of bones that have lodged themselves into the soles of her feet

pain of realisation, pain of logic, pain of reality, pain of the way things are
grey matters surrounding her, like clothes, a dress, fit for a queen
only a humble body within a grand building, built by her forefathers, it is beautiful
only a humble body within a holy mind
within a stained glass window
within golden snowflakes
standing alone
where is the key?

"I can't wait to get out of here"
There was an urgency in his voice as each word fell over the other in their daring escape.
There was a genocide in her mouth and it cried for vengeance.
Their solace would not be found.

I never used to pride myself in my use of key-holes but there I was still panting heavily as I witnessed a rainbow of sounds and textures.
A long thin white cloth hung from the ceiling held a noose and inside it was a brush.
A brush I had used the previous day, it was a helping hand for me and the white picket fence had no holes.
A picturesque statue, the famed cat-woman on the prowl searching for her litter.
A generation of blind mole-like creatures had entered the world. Relying on a sense of smell and the colour of life.
They seeded the earth and the earth gave an orgasmic quiver.
Soon s/he would erupt in a violent convulsion of his/her anus.

A penetrative thought entered and searched for a long lost love of words and agility.
I wanted so to reach the finishing line but instead I wasted away with my tea and cakes.
It is such a sad moment when you have to give up your children, even worse when you get nothing but a ball of yarn to comfort you.
The kitten has claws and they tear the flesh, the blood flows freely and organises colonies across my body.
The rhythmical dancing of the tribe shamans build a rising flow of molecules. Outside myself I create a new body, free of thought, emotion and drive.
I pray to thee, I don't know who, Jesus Christ I hope...

It is a tentacle invading every orifice of my cerebral cortex. It mutates my biomechanics so that my electric webbing catches not flies but but but but flutterbies.
The flea may bite and the dog my howl as a cat may sing and a owl will growl.
Exchange of loving sentiments, a mother caressing her sons hair.
Exchange of loving sentiments, a father caressing his daughters hair.
It is a smell I will never forget, a smell you have under your nose at every waking moment and pray it will go away as the aerosol fumes burn your skin. Smoking flesh and still the shaman dances and sings.

She never gave what she got and never loved what she had she never wanted what she hated and continued to prance about and flinging her excrement across her shoulder hoping that it would never reach her god. Her mother of course lent a helping hand and continually bent over backwards and screamed. The god the god the god the god the god the god was mine and mine and mine and mine and his his his his loving loving loving loving loving caressing and making my stutter so much worse. Fuck me and leave me dry so that when the rain finally falls I might finally sprout something other than a decaying body that cannot move a mountain across the vast desert of a growing field.

The cat maliciously chases a mouse, not malicious because she intends to eat it but because the chase is the thrill and it is a never ending pull and grab. The tail never breaks and the hair never rises as high as the clouds gliding across a pale moon sky, dark blue like the deep waters where the fish grow their corn.
A living breathing industry, not breathing air of course but oxygen.
Industrial chemical warfare is not on the hands of the poor or the rich but on the hands of the little cockroaches, little do they know that cockroaches do not die, tests have been made, we have tried stabbing them, hanging, bombing, poisoning and over feeding. Nothing will kill them and they will outlive humans a thousand times over.

As I panted and panted and panted I noticed my pants had not been loosened, the hooker had died from pre-coital exhaustion. The steam built up on the window, it made little droplets and they ran across the window, not vertically but horizontally. The finishing line was the edge of my mouth and as the droplets catapulted away from the window towards my face I took a moment to close my eyes and enjoy the thought and taste of their massacred bodies and lives blood between my teeth. But, alas, faced with the horror of what was to come the droplets changed their trajectory in mid flight and changed position with airborne dust-mites. The taste, I was to find, would be dry, bitter and full of sorrow.

The sorrow had its own colour which tinted the colour of my eyes. No longer were my eyes the shocking grey and yellow but a meld of love, light and peace.
I would never find happiness again.

It was a huge forest that she had been walking through. A long path made out of golden bricks.
The gold was the same kind of gold as his eyes, its eyes, her eyes, their eyes, our eyes, his eyes.
On her way she met a fair few of characters, Webster's creations. She wanted to find Home again.
There were no trees and she had never been mellow. The coloured girls never used to sing so high.
She climbed onto the topmost branch and started to bellow. Her voice flew far above the towers.

"Have I ever been here?" She wondered as the colours spewed from her ears.
The answer didn't come so much as it misted the air. Red, White and Blue.
What is the colour of this forest I ask you now dear reader, if you have it in your minds eye.
It is the colour of sadness yes? it is the colour of bread yes? it is the colour of you mothers lullabies yes?
Blue, Brown and Comfort.
She painted the skies with her gaze and they never looked quite the same.

There are six sexes, sex sixes, sick sexex, sexk sixix. O lover is a lover of a love that's been loved far to many times.
The language of the heart is to be objectified, synchronised, catagorised and liquidated.
For the sake of a socially realistic conformity of a mind that travels the road to... well you know where.
Webster had never intended this had he? I wonder what he would say now? Did he intend on the slavery of our enzymes?
I had looked within myself and seen the face of a maze, it was but a straight line all the way down to the topmost end of my hair.
It lead everywhere in the world.
I've never been to any of those places.

We met on that road, we stopped for a cup of coffee and we had a chat, She and I.
I asked her "Where have you come from?"
She replied "I came from my mother who in turn came from her mother and who came from her mother... it has been a family tradition for centuries."
She asked me "Where have you come from?"
and I replied "my father came and there I was as did his father and there my father was as did his father and then his father was and this has been a tradition for eons."
"It is the way things are yes?"
"quite so."
"How did you come to be in this place?"
"I walked a long way and with every step I took I laid another brick in the bridge that would eventually transport me to a world where the sky seemed to be tainted with gold."


Is this the return to Oz?

She had always wondered about my line of lineage, after about a year of sipping she finally asked me about it.
I had always intended on telling her the next time it was my turn to speak but I had always forgotten how to express my family through my skin.
She laughed and said "yes"
Turns out she's my sister. She's not the sister you all know and love but she is rather my sister as my brother as my mother as my... my... my... my.... mice.

I have this image stuck in my head, it's been there for a long time. I can see myself floating above Reykjavík. I am shining like a star and all the hate and anger and bigotry and death and sickness and envy is flowing into me. I am a converter, I glow as all of these energies flow into my heart and with every fiber of my existence I transform it a healing power. When I have changed all of this energy. I explode and die. The healing energy flows from the point of my death in a shining pink and green and golden wave that travels across the earth. It heals the hearts of everyone it passes giving them the freedom to be open and happy and loving. Every single machine in the world is transformed to become a natural alternative that will keep the earth healthy and the earth is healed as well. Every single animal in the world finds a way to live without killing and every single human in the world sees the truth of life and death and they too find a way to live without killing. As the wave reaches the opposite end of the planet it condenses in a single point and shoots out from the planet to the sun and there it becomes a perpetual fuel source that will give the planet earth sunshine for eternity.

I would be happy but you see there is a house growing in a mouse growing in a tree thats rooted in my brain. There's not enough room for my thoughts and them at the same time. It is quite embarrassing.

Where do emotions live?

We finished our coffees and said our goodbyes and headed our separate ways. We have a little sewing thread between us. Short as eternity and long as a second.

It is a joke and as a joke it makes people laugh.

It is a speech and as a speech it gives inspiration.

It is a story and as a story people don't believe it.

It is a lie and as a lie people believe every single word of it.

It is what you make it and as everything you make it's prone to malfunction.

When I reached the forest I climbed to the topmost branch and started to bellow.
The sky never looked quite the same.
The bricks where the colour of his eyes.
There were no trees.
The coloured girls sang
and it was huge.

Today there is a frivolity in our use of words and sentences. people who waste to many words to say very simple things. People also use words rather than just doing what they mean to say.

So I propose an idea!

Today you will make your immediate surrounding world a little bit better, more beautiful and kinder.

Take these sentences:

I love you.

I'm happy to see you.

You look pretty.

You are amazing.

Thank you.

Thank you for being in my life.

I'm glad I know you.

You make my life a better place to live in.


Look at these sentences and really see them, understand what they mean for you.
Now pick one, or make one up and pick a person that you will meet today and say it to them.
This will create positive feelings and therefore make your world a little bit better.

And remember a hug or a kiss or a smile go a long way.

Let's make the whole world better with tiny little efforts.

Thank you for reading this, I'm glad that you did.

~Spookyo_O

It's deep in my memory, a little flower, a little blue flower, blue flower that clings, little blue clinging flower.
He says "butterflies aren't made for walking, they were brought up as an alternative to bees" and I believed it.

They walked with me all the way down to the cellar and there we stood for a while, we watched as the the the, the, the. the.
White screen showed us sweet, bitter and sour all melting together in one colorful harmony. You could almost hear them whispering their secrets.

It was a huge brown staircase and the mould was rapidly climbing up in front of us, when it finally reached our backs. Our backs disconnected with the rest of the reality around us. My back sprouted legs. I had never been so-so-so-so-50-50-50... 50 million little ants are building me a throne, I will reach it one day.

Slow like a wasp. As you saw them on the discovery channel, sucking the honey out of the womb.

"Are you happy?" "I only barely missed it." "Have you ever been happy?" "I once dreamt of verona."

"How is your mother?"

"I never once said thank you, thank you for every single letter in the alphabet!"

"Lovers love, givers give, takers hold and mickey mouse isn't afraid of showing his face here." "He is a good friend of mine, we shared a cab once in my life, his ears are smaller in real life but he doesn't want people to talk about it" "nononononononono"

This isn't happening, the letters are all wrong and I cant get them to fit! My fingers are cold and so are you! I am lost in this sea of uncertainty and I feel I must agree with the big man because futility and eternity are only different by a few letters!

Old habits die hard, the red and blue of my heritage are swirling in my blood, my blood of course being red predominantly pushes aside my colder aspects. Sunlight can bring me into vitality and green can catch it so very well. If my mother had been green she would have seen the world in a much better light. harmony, symphony and tiny little keyholes. My gun is armed and you shall be shot soon, the barrel is aimed and at the back of your head you can feel the pressure mounting, without touching I can see my target, 10.......................................................... 9........................................... 8........................................
7.....................................
6..........................
5.....................
4............
3........
2.....
50 million spider legs sprouting out of the middle of my brain, they search and love and eat and collect and paint and dance and chime like a bell.

It's in the way I look at you, it's the way I touch your face, it's the way I bite your nose, it's the way the tears swell in my eyes, it's in my beauty, it's in my prolonged erection and it's in my premature. Quite happily.

you voice is a spurt of orange and brown, cold colors that give the effect of swimming against a loud current.

Green: "I have never and I never will be violent"
Yellow: "why so negative?"
Green: "Because you persistently copy my personality, you copy me like a 5 year old"
Yellow: "it is only because of my love for you"
Green: "How do you love me?"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "Like an amazing torrent, more than the rainbow loves the rain and more than an arrow loves blood"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "Like the multitude of colors in a drunken vomit pool"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "Like my mother loved the orgasm that conceived me"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "It is a talent that I have, it gives me the opportunity to fish for sharks with my own flesh"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "Because I was taught to never be wasteful"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "By following the crash instructions on the airplane guide"
Yellow: "How do you love me?"
Green: "The same way you love me"

Violet is a step away from violent and a step away from blue. Containing all the life in the world is water, clear and loving as a chrysalis loves the warm bed upon which it lays.

I come from a country far to the north, it is essentially an island in the middle of nowhere but it is a warm place. My mother lives there and my family lives there and so does my sister, grandmother, grandfather and my cat. This is a lie.

I actually come from a place far to the south, I have never seen snow. I am petrified of dogs. My family is small, there are three of us, when the 3 of us come together we have a beer together and sing songs that I got taught in school. This is a lie.

I tried and I failed but the final product was successful and I regret everything! Eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity was eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity is eternity.

"I never once said thank you, thank you for every single number in the alphabet!"