It's funny what a pair of blue eyes can do. They have a sort of power, all on their own. They spellbind you in a very particular way.
Brown eyes do too, but in a different way. Brown eyes are mysterious, appealing. They lure you, draw you in. Allow you to dream, but never quite deliver. Brown eyes make you want them. But you know they're too good for you.
Green eyes are funny. They always smile, even when the rest of the face doesn't. They sparkle, they spell "mischievous". Come along, we'll have some fun. They always have a plan. But mostly you're not part of it, in the end.
But blue eyes.
Blue eyes are shy. Blue eyes say everything, without the mouth saying anything. Blue eyes always stun you. Because you never quite remember how blue they were.
You forgive blue eyes. For everything. You might have given up on blue eyes, but all it takes is one look and you forget everything.
Blue eyes hold you. Almost in a scary way. You forget to look away from blue eyes.
But blue eyes are shy. Eventually, blue eyes look away. But they stay with you, even when they're not there.
Blue eyes will not, cannot be forgotten.
Blue eyes are perfect.
The blue eyes belong to you. And you're as perfect as they are.
onsdag 21. april 2010
This is how a heart breaks
You know that feeling you get the exact moment your heart breaks? The feeling of total an utter emptiness. It’s like someone’s flushed out every emotion you have, leaving you completely void.
And then, as you’re trying to figure out what this is, what just happened (even though you know so well), it hits you. That crushing blow. The one that smothers your heart into itsy bitsy pieces, scattering them on the wind so you’re convinced you’ll never find them again and that your heart will remain broken forever.
The realisation that the one person who you’re convinced could make you happy, the one person out of all the people you know who you actually see yourself with. The realisation that this person will never make you happy. He has no interest in making you happy. He never did. He never will.
This is how a heart breaks.
And then, as you’re trying to figure out what this is, what just happened (even though you know so well), it hits you. That crushing blow. The one that smothers your heart into itsy bitsy pieces, scattering them on the wind so you’re convinced you’ll never find them again and that your heart will remain broken forever.
The realisation that the one person who you’re convinced could make you happy, the one person out of all the people you know who you actually see yourself with. The realisation that this person will never make you happy. He has no interest in making you happy. He never did. He never will.
This is how a heart breaks.
Probably nothing
A canister of an unidentified, potentially dangerous substance is opened in Walter's lab, leaving our four friends isolated until the substance is identified. When you've said everything you have to say, maybe it's time to say the things you never thought you would...
Ships: Olivia/Peter
Spoilers: None, I think
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing Peter, Olivia, Astrid and Walter for my own (and hopefully your) amusement.
Forgive my incomplete knowledge of dangerous substances and horrid diseases, as well as the process of identifying them. I have tried to acquire as much information as possible, but alas; biology was never my subject. I wasn't really going down that road in the first place, but as always; I stray...
Three degrees of tension
There was something in the air. Something so thick you could cut it with a knife. Tension would have been a good word for it, but after two days of isolation it was too meagre a description. Four people, each in their own corner, each with their back turned to the other three. The silence was absolute, almost pressing, save the odd sniff or cough. Everything that could be said had been said at least twice, and now they all tried their best to forget each other, and where they were. A heavy rainfall had been beating against the windowpanes far up on the wall, but had died down about half an hour ago and left the four prisoners in the now unbearable silence.
There was a mark on the desk where the canister had stood, faintly traced by a small layer of the greyish dust which sparkled every so slightly in the dim light from the work-lamp. Two days ago it had exploded out of its container like a cloud of silver, settling all over the lab, including its four inhabitants. Thirty minutes later the room was hermetically sealed. Walter had insisted he could easily identify the powder on his own, but agent Broyles had refused for "safety-reasons". Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
- Corn dog!
Inevitably, it was Walter who broke the silence.
- I should very much like a corn dog. Perhaps a banana milkshake. Peter, would you be so kind as to fetch me one?
- We're not allowed to leave the lab, Walter, remember?
- We're not? Why?
- Because they haven't identified the substance yet.
- They haven't? What's taking them so long?
When Peter didn't answer, Walter just shrugged and began humming the national anthem. He cut of midway through the verse, and changed tunes to an unorthodox version of what sounded like «Fly me to the moon», eagerly conducting himself as he hummed.
Peter abruptly pushed his chair away and headed for the only other room they could visit, a small bathroom at one end of the lab.
- Where are you going, Peter? Walter inquired, but the only reply he got was the slamming of the door.
Olivia's cellphone sounded, its chirp echoing all around the lab. She answered it, her expression unchanged as she listened to the voice on the other end.
- I see. Yes. Well I guess we'll just have to.
She hung up, and Astrid looked at her.
- No news?
Olivia shook her head.
- Nothing.
Peter drew a sink-full of ice cold water, and splashed his face several times. He stared up at the dismal sight in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, bright red right to the pupil. His hair stood out in every direction, and he saw no point in trying to settle it. His skin itched, but he felt certain that could be construed to the hay he'd (tried) to sleep on last night, not the mysterious powder the DHS and FBI were so worried about. Had it not been for the events of the last few months, he would have discarded the powder as harmless a long time ago since none of them showed any symptoms of anything. But the things he had seen since Olivia had recruited him had taught him nothing could be discarded.
The door opened behind him.
- Walter, I don't want an audience while I'm peeing.
- Trust me, I have no desire to see it.
He turned, smiling at Olivia.
- Thought you were Walter.
She smiled back
- Yeah, I get that a lot.
She shut the door behind her, and turned to him.
- Broyles just called.
- And?
- They think they've cracked it.
- What is it?
Peter looked eager.
- They're not sure, but whatever it is, it closely resembles anthrax. Except it's some kind of unknown mutation.
She hesitated.
- What?
- They don't know what will happen. We might not get sick at all, or we might...
- Die horribly and painfully?
- Something to that effect.
- How about a cure?
- They can't give us that until they know what they're up against. It might make it worse.
Peter nodded.
- So we just hang in there?
- Yes. I haven't told Walter and Astrid, I didn't...
- There's no point in telling them yet, Peter agreed.
From the lab came Walter's muffled singing. He appeared to have changed genre to show-tunes. Olivia leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight.
- I adore your father, Peter, but one more song and I swear
Peter opened the door.
- Walter, take five!
- I don't believe I know that one.
- Then take a break.
- All right, Peter.
He closed the door, and she gave him a thankful smile.
- Sorry, I just
- Don't worry about it. I share a hotel-room with him, remember?
- Ah, but he doesn't sing with you.
- No no, you're right. The Fibonacci-sequence, night after night after night, is so much less annoying.
She laughed a little, and he smiled.
- You look tired, he said, serious again.
- I am, she admitted. -
- I didn't sleep much last night.
- Me neither, he confessed.
- Walter kept kicking me.
- He kicks in his sleep?
Peter shook his head.
- No no, he just kept kicking me.
*
- This is taking far too long.
Walter resolutely got up, and headed for the powder-covered desk.
- Walter, you're not supposed to
- Mildred, I cannot stand sitting idle while mine and my son's life hangs on someone so clearly void of competence.
- And yours and Agent Dunham's, of course, he added absentmindedly.
He started roaming a cupboard, pulling out several jars, tubes, pipets and bottles of different coloured liquid.
- Walter, I really don't think you should, Astrid started, but he waved a hand at her.
- Either you are with me, or you are against me, my dear.
She sighed, but went to help him.
*
Olivia sunk to the floor and closed her eyes. Peter joined her.
- You know, it's not half bad being stuck here, he admitted.
- The company is good, at least.
She smiled.
- That's true.
A strand of hair fell in front of her face, and Peter tucked it away behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek slightly, and she startled a little. He wasn't swayed. His hand continued up into her hair, and he tangled his fingers into it. With his other hand, he lifted her chin so her face was level with his.
- Olivia?
- Yes.
- In case we do die a horrible, painful death, there's something I have to do.
His breath was warm on her face.
- Yes?
- See, I'll never forgive myself, in this life or the next, if I don't kiss you now.
She smiled.
- Well, we can't have any of that.
He laughed, tangling his other hand in her hair and pulling her closer. Their lips met, eager and demanding, both of them pouring months of sexual tension into this first kiss.
Suddenly he pulled away.
- I shouldn't do this.
- Why not, she asked, catching her breath.
- I just had a cold, Peter grinned.
- You might catch it.
*
- Walter, I'm not entirely sure Agent Dunham will be to happy about this.
- I recall you speaking very warmly of a concert tomorrow, Kirsten, Walter said, stirring carefully in a dark green liquid.
- I wouldn't trust the Department of Homeland Security to take that into account in their work.
- What makes you think you can solve this any faster than them.
- I don't know that I can, he admitted, adding some of the powder to the green liquid. It changed colour and turned dark brown.
- But as long as I'm working on this too, you have twice as big a chance of making said concert.
*
Peter reached past Olivia and turned the lock in the door. His lips found hers again, and he kissed her eagerly.
- Do you always kiss with this much vengeance? she teased
- Only when I think I'm going to die, he muttered against her lips.
- Why, are you complaining?
He began to pull away, but she grabbed him and drew him close again.
- Not even a little bit.
- Funny, he mused.
- I never thought our first kiss would occur in the bathroom in my father's lab.
- Out of curiosity, where did you think it would happen? Olivia asked.
- Being that you can't leave him alone, I mean.
- I figured we'd just have a quickie on the sofa while Walter was reciting numbers in the next room.
*
- Oh, how very clever!
Walter looked spectacularly pleased with himself.
- What is it? Astrid asked, putting down the book she had been flipping through.
- I'm not sure, but this looks very much like a decoy.
- A decoy?
He grinned.
- Yes. Ingenious really. It closely resembles anthrax, but from what I can see this is completely harmless. I'm not 100% percent certain yet, but it seems you can start getting ready for... what was it? Dollar?
- 50 cent, Astrid sighed, but couldn't help but smile.
- Yes, well if I'm right you will be seeing Mr. Cent very soon, Walter smiled.
*
- What are you thinking, she muttered.
- I'm thinking I hope we don't die, Peter smiled, kissing her forehead.
- Would be an awful shame not to get to do this again.
- Peter! Agent Dunham!
Peter sighed.
- Yes, Walter.
- Are you both in there?
- Yes, we are.
- I see... Oh, are you two having sexual intercourse?
Olivia collapsed in soundless laughter, and Peter stifled a dejected moan.
- No Walter, we're not.
- Oh. Well, good. You can come out then?
- Yes, we can Walter.
- Then I suggest you do. I have something to show you.
- Can it wait a few minutes? Peter asked.
- Of course, yes. You need to get dressed.
Olivia jumped up and unlocked the door.
- We're not naked, Walter.
- I can see that very plainly, my dear.
Peter got to his feet too.
- What was it you wanted to show us, Walter?
- Huh?
- You wanted to show us something?
- I did? Oh yes, I did. Or rather, I wanted to show you what's not there.
- Walter identified the powder, Astrid shot in.
- Yes, that's right. I did. He grinned proudly
Peter looked expectantly at him.
- And?
- And what?
- What is it, Walter?
- Oh, right. Yes. Nothing, it's completely harmless.
- Walter, are you sure? Olivia asked.
- Absolutely, my dear.
Olivia's phone chirped again, interrupting the conversation. She answered it.
- Dunham. Yes. Yes. You don't say?
She shot Peter a sly smile.
- Well, thank you. They'll be very pleased to hear that.
She hung up, and looked up at the other three.
- The powder is harmless, she announced.
- We can all go.
- Bye! Astrid shouted, and disappeared before anyone had time to return it.
Olivia smiled at Walter.
- Next time Broyles doubts you, I'm sticking up for you, Walter.
- I appreciate that, my dear.
Ships: Olivia/Peter
Spoilers: None, I think
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing Peter, Olivia, Astrid and Walter for my own (and hopefully your) amusement.
Forgive my incomplete knowledge of dangerous substances and horrid diseases, as well as the process of identifying them. I have tried to acquire as much information as possible, but alas; biology was never my subject. I wasn't really going down that road in the first place, but as always; I stray...
Three degrees of tension
There was something in the air. Something so thick you could cut it with a knife. Tension would have been a good word for it, but after two days of isolation it was too meagre a description. Four people, each in their own corner, each with their back turned to the other three. The silence was absolute, almost pressing, save the odd sniff or cough. Everything that could be said had been said at least twice, and now they all tried their best to forget each other, and where they were. A heavy rainfall had been beating against the windowpanes far up on the wall, but had died down about half an hour ago and left the four prisoners in the now unbearable silence.
There was a mark on the desk where the canister had stood, faintly traced by a small layer of the greyish dust which sparkled every so slightly in the dim light from the work-lamp. Two days ago it had exploded out of its container like a cloud of silver, settling all over the lab, including its four inhabitants. Thirty minutes later the room was hermetically sealed. Walter had insisted he could easily identify the powder on his own, but agent Broyles had refused for "safety-reasons". Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
- Corn dog!
Inevitably, it was Walter who broke the silence.
- I should very much like a corn dog. Perhaps a banana milkshake. Peter, would you be so kind as to fetch me one?
- We're not allowed to leave the lab, Walter, remember?
- We're not? Why?
- Because they haven't identified the substance yet.
- They haven't? What's taking them so long?
When Peter didn't answer, Walter just shrugged and began humming the national anthem. He cut of midway through the verse, and changed tunes to an unorthodox version of what sounded like «Fly me to the moon», eagerly conducting himself as he hummed.
Peter abruptly pushed his chair away and headed for the only other room they could visit, a small bathroom at one end of the lab.
- Where are you going, Peter? Walter inquired, but the only reply he got was the slamming of the door.
Olivia's cellphone sounded, its chirp echoing all around the lab. She answered it, her expression unchanged as she listened to the voice on the other end.
- I see. Yes. Well I guess we'll just have to.
She hung up, and Astrid looked at her.
- No news?
Olivia shook her head.
- Nothing.
Peter drew a sink-full of ice cold water, and splashed his face several times. He stared up at the dismal sight in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, bright red right to the pupil. His hair stood out in every direction, and he saw no point in trying to settle it. His skin itched, but he felt certain that could be construed to the hay he'd (tried) to sleep on last night, not the mysterious powder the DHS and FBI were so worried about. Had it not been for the events of the last few months, he would have discarded the powder as harmless a long time ago since none of them showed any symptoms of anything. But the things he had seen since Olivia had recruited him had taught him nothing could be discarded.
The door opened behind him.
- Walter, I don't want an audience while I'm peeing.
- Trust me, I have no desire to see it.
He turned, smiling at Olivia.
- Thought you were Walter.
She smiled back
- Yeah, I get that a lot.
She shut the door behind her, and turned to him.
- Broyles just called.
- And?
- They think they've cracked it.
- What is it?
Peter looked eager.
- They're not sure, but whatever it is, it closely resembles anthrax. Except it's some kind of unknown mutation.
She hesitated.
- What?
- They don't know what will happen. We might not get sick at all, or we might...
- Die horribly and painfully?
- Something to that effect.
- How about a cure?
- They can't give us that until they know what they're up against. It might make it worse.
Peter nodded.
- So we just hang in there?
- Yes. I haven't told Walter and Astrid, I didn't...
- There's no point in telling them yet, Peter agreed.
From the lab came Walter's muffled singing. He appeared to have changed genre to show-tunes. Olivia leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight.
- I adore your father, Peter, but one more song and I swear
Peter opened the door.
- Walter, take five!
- I don't believe I know that one.
- Then take a break.
- All right, Peter.
He closed the door, and she gave him a thankful smile.
- Sorry, I just
- Don't worry about it. I share a hotel-room with him, remember?
- Ah, but he doesn't sing with you.
- No no, you're right. The Fibonacci-sequence, night after night after night, is so much less annoying.
She laughed a little, and he smiled.
- You look tired, he said, serious again.
- I am, she admitted. -
- I didn't sleep much last night.
- Me neither, he confessed.
- Walter kept kicking me.
- He kicks in his sleep?
Peter shook his head.
- No no, he just kept kicking me.
*
- This is taking far too long.
Walter resolutely got up, and headed for the powder-covered desk.
- Walter, you're not supposed to
- Mildred, I cannot stand sitting idle while mine and my son's life hangs on someone so clearly void of competence.
- And yours and Agent Dunham's, of course, he added absentmindedly.
He started roaming a cupboard, pulling out several jars, tubes, pipets and bottles of different coloured liquid.
- Walter, I really don't think you should, Astrid started, but he waved a hand at her.
- Either you are with me, or you are against me, my dear.
She sighed, but went to help him.
*
Olivia sunk to the floor and closed her eyes. Peter joined her.
- You know, it's not half bad being stuck here, he admitted.
- The company is good, at least.
She smiled.
- That's true.
A strand of hair fell in front of her face, and Peter tucked it away behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek slightly, and she startled a little. He wasn't swayed. His hand continued up into her hair, and he tangled his fingers into it. With his other hand, he lifted her chin so her face was level with his.
- Olivia?
- Yes.
- In case we do die a horrible, painful death, there's something I have to do.
His breath was warm on her face.
- Yes?
- See, I'll never forgive myself, in this life or the next, if I don't kiss you now.
She smiled.
- Well, we can't have any of that.
He laughed, tangling his other hand in her hair and pulling her closer. Their lips met, eager and demanding, both of them pouring months of sexual tension into this first kiss.
Suddenly he pulled away.
- I shouldn't do this.
- Why not, she asked, catching her breath.
- I just had a cold, Peter grinned.
- You might catch it.
*
- Walter, I'm not entirely sure Agent Dunham will be to happy about this.
- I recall you speaking very warmly of a concert tomorrow, Kirsten, Walter said, stirring carefully in a dark green liquid.
- I wouldn't trust the Department of Homeland Security to take that into account in their work.
- What makes you think you can solve this any faster than them.
- I don't know that I can, he admitted, adding some of the powder to the green liquid. It changed colour and turned dark brown.
- But as long as I'm working on this too, you have twice as big a chance of making said concert.
*
Peter reached past Olivia and turned the lock in the door. His lips found hers again, and he kissed her eagerly.
- Do you always kiss with this much vengeance? she teased
- Only when I think I'm going to die, he muttered against her lips.
- Why, are you complaining?
He began to pull away, but she grabbed him and drew him close again.
- Not even a little bit.
- Funny, he mused.
- I never thought our first kiss would occur in the bathroom in my father's lab.
- Out of curiosity, where did you think it would happen? Olivia asked.
- Being that you can't leave him alone, I mean.
- I figured we'd just have a quickie on the sofa while Walter was reciting numbers in the next room.
*
- Oh, how very clever!
Walter looked spectacularly pleased with himself.
- What is it? Astrid asked, putting down the book she had been flipping through.
- I'm not sure, but this looks very much like a decoy.
- A decoy?
He grinned.
- Yes. Ingenious really. It closely resembles anthrax, but from what I can see this is completely harmless. I'm not 100% percent certain yet, but it seems you can start getting ready for... what was it? Dollar?
- 50 cent, Astrid sighed, but couldn't help but smile.
- Yes, well if I'm right you will be seeing Mr. Cent very soon, Walter smiled.
*
- What are you thinking, she muttered.
- I'm thinking I hope we don't die, Peter smiled, kissing her forehead.
- Would be an awful shame not to get to do this again.
- Peter! Agent Dunham!
Peter sighed.
- Yes, Walter.
- Are you both in there?
- Yes, we are.
- I see... Oh, are you two having sexual intercourse?
Olivia collapsed in soundless laughter, and Peter stifled a dejected moan.
- No Walter, we're not.
- Oh. Well, good. You can come out then?
- Yes, we can Walter.
- Then I suggest you do. I have something to show you.
- Can it wait a few minutes? Peter asked.
- Of course, yes. You need to get dressed.
Olivia jumped up and unlocked the door.
- We're not naked, Walter.
- I can see that very plainly, my dear.
Peter got to his feet too.
- What was it you wanted to show us, Walter?
- Huh?
- You wanted to show us something?
- I did? Oh yes, I did. Or rather, I wanted to show you what's not there.
- Walter identified the powder, Astrid shot in.
- Yes, that's right. I did. He grinned proudly
Peter looked expectantly at him.
- And?
- And what?
- What is it, Walter?
- Oh, right. Yes. Nothing, it's completely harmless.
- Walter, are you sure? Olivia asked.
- Absolutely, my dear.
Olivia's phone chirped again, interrupting the conversation. She answered it.
- Dunham. Yes. Yes. You don't say?
She shot Peter a sly smile.
- Well, thank you. They'll be very pleased to hear that.
She hung up, and looked up at the other three.
- The powder is harmless, she announced.
- We can all go.
- Bye! Astrid shouted, and disappeared before anyone had time to return it.
Olivia smiled at Walter.
- Next time Broyles doubts you, I'm sticking up for you, Walter.
- I appreciate that, my dear.
tirsdag 20. april 2010
Blank pages
The blank page is mocking me again.
It's just sitting there. Mocking me.
"C'mon then, what are you waiting for? You think you can do me justice? You think you leave a mark? You think you can make me something?
Who do you think you are?"
It knows. It knows I have a story, right at the tip of my tongue, refusing to find its way to the tip of my fingers. It knows I want to write. It knows I wish I had all the time in the world, all the inspiration I could find. It knows.
And its mocking me.
Its daring me. "Go on, do something brilliant like you've always talked about. Let's hear it, genious. I'm right here! Fill me with substance, make me something."
It knows I can't. Its won by now. It's no longer a blank page, and I've failed it yet again. I've proven it right.
More words wasted. More words that could have been something, that could have mattered. They've all turned to nothing.
I've almost filled a page.
And it's nothing.
It's absolutely nothing.
It's just sitting there. Mocking me.
"C'mon then, what are you waiting for? You think you can do me justice? You think you leave a mark? You think you can make me something?
Who do you think you are?"
It knows. It knows I have a story, right at the tip of my tongue, refusing to find its way to the tip of my fingers. It knows I want to write. It knows I wish I had all the time in the world, all the inspiration I could find. It knows.
And its mocking me.
Its daring me. "Go on, do something brilliant like you've always talked about. Let's hear it, genious. I'm right here! Fill me with substance, make me something."
It knows I can't. Its won by now. It's no longer a blank page, and I've failed it yet again. I've proven it right.
More words wasted. More words that could have been something, that could have mattered. They've all turned to nothing.
I've almost filled a page.
And it's nothing.
It's absolutely nothing.
Why
I never thought about why...
I thought about it a lot, but never about why. I thought about how to stop it, about what I'd done to deserve it. But I never thought about why.
Why you?
And why me?
Why?
I thought about it a lot, but never about why. I thought about how to stop it, about what I'd done to deserve it. But I never thought about why.
Why you?
And why me?
Why?
onsdag 14. april 2010
True love
Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds (Shakespeare)
Love... true love, no less. We've all got an idea, as we're growing up, about just what that means. Mainly, it's finding the man of your dreams, having kids and living happily ever after. The ONE.
... well, you'll get no arguements from me. Except no one ever said there's only one kind of true love...
I've found a kind of true love that might not fit the mould, but explains the concept. Because William is right, love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. And the best way to explain it, is football.
(that's really football, the kind with goalkeepers and offside and stuff)
No no no, don't leave. Hear me out. I have a point, I promise.
How many people do you know who's changed favourite teams?
... exactly. That relationship that you end up having with a favourite team, that love you end up feeling for the players, the club... you don't change favourite teams. You just don't. They win the league, you're over the moon with them. They relegate and you share their tears. Look at the Leeds-supporters. Their team has been down in the dump for years, and they're all still loyal.
You love them all. The players, the coach... even if it's a player or coach you couldn't stand before he came, and can't stand after he leaves. While he's there, you love him.
Isn't that true love? Staying by someone's side through good times and bad, supporting them no matter what?
Love... true love, no less. We've all got an idea, as we're growing up, about just what that means. Mainly, it's finding the man of your dreams, having kids and living happily ever after. The ONE.
... well, you'll get no arguements from me. Except no one ever said there's only one kind of true love...
I've found a kind of true love that might not fit the mould, but explains the concept. Because William is right, love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. And the best way to explain it, is football.
(that's really football, the kind with goalkeepers and offside and stuff)
No no no, don't leave. Hear me out. I have a point, I promise.
How many people do you know who's changed favourite teams?
... exactly. That relationship that you end up having with a favourite team, that love you end up feeling for the players, the club... you don't change favourite teams. You just don't. They win the league, you're over the moon with them. They relegate and you share their tears. Look at the Leeds-supporters. Their team has been down in the dump for years, and they're all still loyal.
You love them all. The players, the coach... even if it's a player or coach you couldn't stand before he came, and can't stand after he leaves. While he's there, you love him.
Isn't that true love? Staying by someone's side through good times and bad, supporting them no matter what?
søndag 11. april 2010
He doesn't see me
He doesn't see me
He just doesn't
I don't know if he doesn't want to
Or if he simply can't
But he doesn't see me
I'm right there
Right in front of him
Alive and breathing
And ready to be all he wants me to be
But he doesn't see me
I see him
I see everything about him
Even the tiny details
Like how he sips his drink
Or scraches his nose
How his voice booms when he's angry
And how his eyes sparkle when he smiles
But he doesn't see me
I notice how his lips move when he talks
How he kicks the ground when he's embaressed
How he he claps
How he sings
But he doesn't see me
I see him even when he's not there
I see possibilities
I wonder
I hope
But he doesn't see me
I see where this could go
Where I'd want it to go
How good it could be
How perfect we are
But none of that helps
Because he doesn't see me
He just doesn't
I don't know if he doesn't want to
Or if he simply can't
But he doesn't see me
I'm right there
Right in front of him
Alive and breathing
And ready to be all he wants me to be
But he doesn't see me
I see him
I see everything about him
Even the tiny details
Like how he sips his drink
Or scraches his nose
How his voice booms when he's angry
And how his eyes sparkle when he smiles
But he doesn't see me
I notice how his lips move when he talks
How he kicks the ground when he's embaressed
How he he claps
How he sings
But he doesn't see me
I see him even when he's not there
I see possibilities
I wonder
I hope
But he doesn't see me
I see where this could go
Where I'd want it to go
How good it could be
How perfect we are
But none of that helps
Because he doesn't see me
lørdag 10. april 2010
[blank]
I was gonna write tonight. I was! I was gonna sit down, and create brilliance. I've even installed myself with tea and candles and everything. I was going to write something splendid, something moving, something that actually WAS something for a change.
And what am I writing? More "blank page"-crap!
I refuse to believe that God has give me this overactive imagination if he didn't want me to use it for something constructive. Because if I've just got it for my own amusement then seriously, God; you gave me too much.
Overanalyzing to the degree I'm capable of is only fun if you can overanalyze it into stories, or scripts or something that can be used for something else than a blogpost!
I do have ideas. I have TONS of ideas. They'd be fun to write too. I started one of them. A love-story, of sorts. Haven't decided how to end it, but I'm leaning towards your standard, happy, mushy ending. Considering how pissed I get when people rob me of them.
It's even in Norwegian. I haven't written in Norwegian in ages, and it turns out I'm no good at it anymore. Why write in Norwegian, when everything sounds so much better in English?
How am I ever going to write professionally, when I can't even use my own language?
And what am I writing? More "blank page"-crap!
I refuse to believe that God has give me this overactive imagination if he didn't want me to use it for something constructive. Because if I've just got it for my own amusement then seriously, God; you gave me too much.
Overanalyzing to the degree I'm capable of is only fun if you can overanalyze it into stories, or scripts or something that can be used for something else than a blogpost!
I do have ideas. I have TONS of ideas. They'd be fun to write too. I started one of them. A love-story, of sorts. Haven't decided how to end it, but I'm leaning towards your standard, happy, mushy ending. Considering how pissed I get when people rob me of them.
It's even in Norwegian. I haven't written in Norwegian in ages, and it turns out I'm no good at it anymore. Why write in Norwegian, when everything sounds so much better in English?
How am I ever going to write professionally, when I can't even use my own language?
torsdag 8. april 2010
[no name]
Sometimes... sometimes you just want to write something. Anything. It doesn't matter what. Mostly, you wish it's something of substance. Something that means something. Something that might turn into something. Sometime.
But sometimes it's nice to just write. Just concentrate on making sentances. Long ones, filled with words you have to look up just to make sure you've both spelled and used right. Or short ones. Two words. Just because they're short, doesn't mean they don't have meaning.
Writing in itself can be quite rewarding. An escape, of sorts. When you write, you have to think about what you're writing. And then you automatically forget everything else, because you become entranced with the task of making sense. And making it sound beautiful.
It's no wonder writing is meant to be therapeutic (I had to look that up). Imagine all the things you can have, if you just write them. A healthy imagination and a blank page, and the world is at your feet. Fair enough, a world that only exists in those few (or many) lines you write. But still; isn't it better to have a fantasy, however fleeting, than a harsh reality you can't handle?
Maybe you'll say I'm avoiding reality. So what if I am? Sometimes, it's good to get away from reality. Reality can be a bitch. In reality, you have little say over how things go. You can try, you can succeed from time to time. But in most cases, reality overrules you. Reality wins. Reality makes the rules, you just have to obey.
That's what's so wonderful about fantasy. Fantasies live by your rules.
So you can't really do magic.
In fantasies you can.
So you're not skinny and beautiful like Keira Knightly.
In fantasies you can be. Or you don't have to be.
So he doesn't look your way.
In fantasies he can. And he will. And a whole lot more.
The only thing stopping you is... well, you.
But sometimes it's nice to just write. Just concentrate on making sentances. Long ones, filled with words you have to look up just to make sure you've both spelled and used right. Or short ones. Two words. Just because they're short, doesn't mean they don't have meaning.
Writing in itself can be quite rewarding. An escape, of sorts. When you write, you have to think about what you're writing. And then you automatically forget everything else, because you become entranced with the task of making sense. And making it sound beautiful.
It's no wonder writing is meant to be therapeutic (I had to look that up). Imagine all the things you can have, if you just write them. A healthy imagination and a blank page, and the world is at your feet. Fair enough, a world that only exists in those few (or many) lines you write. But still; isn't it better to have a fantasy, however fleeting, than a harsh reality you can't handle?
Maybe you'll say I'm avoiding reality. So what if I am? Sometimes, it's good to get away from reality. Reality can be a bitch. In reality, you have little say over how things go. You can try, you can succeed from time to time. But in most cases, reality overrules you. Reality wins. Reality makes the rules, you just have to obey.
That's what's so wonderful about fantasy. Fantasies live by your rules.
So you can't really do magic.
In fantasies you can.
So you're not skinny and beautiful like Keira Knightly.
In fantasies you can be. Or you don't have to be.
So he doesn't look your way.
In fantasies he can. And he will. And a whole lot more.
The only thing stopping you is... well, you.
mandag 5. april 2010
You,
I can't take my eyes off you.
Fair enough, I haven't really tried. Why would I want to? When God has gone out of his way to create someone so absolutely beyond all known definitions of 'beautiful', why on earth should I force my gaze away? Why else would he make you such a work of art, if it wasn't to attract mine (and others) attention?
It's an inapropriate little thing, this... infatuation, for lack of better word. I certainly don't know you, I can't claim to love you for anything but what I see. And what I see you do. Which, as I well know, is only a little part of who you are, and I harbour no illusions that I will ever know the rest.
Nor am I quite sure I want to. I believe, firmly, that sometimes it is better to simply let ones mind wander. To dream quietly, to watch from afar. To be content with what the eye can see, and the mind can dream up on late nights alone. Reality, after all, has messed up its share of fantasies...
Fair enough, I haven't really tried. Why would I want to? When God has gone out of his way to create someone so absolutely beyond all known definitions of 'beautiful', why on earth should I force my gaze away? Why else would he make you such a work of art, if it wasn't to attract mine (and others) attention?
It's an inapropriate little thing, this... infatuation, for lack of better word. I certainly don't know you, I can't claim to love you for anything but what I see. And what I see you do. Which, as I well know, is only a little part of who you are, and I harbour no illusions that I will ever know the rest.
Nor am I quite sure I want to. I believe, firmly, that sometimes it is better to simply let ones mind wander. To dream quietly, to watch from afar. To be content with what the eye can see, and the mind can dream up on late nights alone. Reality, after all, has messed up its share of fantasies...
søndag 4. april 2010
[no name]
I hate blank pages. I always have. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved drawing and writing, but I simply loathe blank pages. Where do you start?
I used to be able to just… well, start. I’d write a sentence and the words just flowed from there. Those days are long gone. Now, all my attempts at writing seem to start with some form of “I don’t know where to start”.
What happened to the girl who wanted to be a writer? The girl who wrote stories so sad and strong that her senior high teacher pulled her aside and told her (in not so many words) that she should cheer up? What happened to the girl who wrote about her feelings, and the things that peeved her? Who wrote about gay men with AIDS, lost and forgotten by family and friends. About women so obsessed with their ex-boyfriends that they killed them, only to kill themselves shortly after. About young boys with incurable cancer. Children who’s father was an astronaut, leaving on the first shuffle after the Challenger-incident. I’ll never forget the essay about the serial killer who killed by infiltrating people’s dreams. It got me an A. On an exam no less. What happened to that girl?
I have a theory.
She discovered reality. She discovered that people really do lie dying of AIDS, forgotten by the world. And that unless you’ve been there, and experienced it, you have no right to try and describe it. That the serial-killer stories have been done in every which version imaginable. As for writing about ex-girlfriends who kill you… well, let’s just say it’s no pick-up line…
One thing I can support though. One thing I do know. The pain of loosing someone to cancer. Those are feelings I can describe with painful accuracy. So painful in fact, that I just can’t do it.
And where does that leave me? Empty. Useless. The girl who once wanted to be an author ended up stealing other people’s characters, sticking them into sorry little love stories and posting them as fanfiction under a false name.
I used to be able to just… well, start. I’d write a sentence and the words just flowed from there. Those days are long gone. Now, all my attempts at writing seem to start with some form of “I don’t know where to start”.
What happened to the girl who wanted to be a writer? The girl who wrote stories so sad and strong that her senior high teacher pulled her aside and told her (in not so many words) that she should cheer up? What happened to the girl who wrote about her feelings, and the things that peeved her? Who wrote about gay men with AIDS, lost and forgotten by family and friends. About women so obsessed with their ex-boyfriends that they killed them, only to kill themselves shortly after. About young boys with incurable cancer. Children who’s father was an astronaut, leaving on the first shuffle after the Challenger-incident. I’ll never forget the essay about the serial killer who killed by infiltrating people’s dreams. It got me an A. On an exam no less. What happened to that girl?
I have a theory.
She discovered reality. She discovered that people really do lie dying of AIDS, forgotten by the world. And that unless you’ve been there, and experienced it, you have no right to try and describe it. That the serial-killer stories have been done in every which version imaginable. As for writing about ex-girlfriends who kill you… well, let’s just say it’s no pick-up line…
One thing I can support though. One thing I do know. The pain of loosing someone to cancer. Those are feelings I can describe with painful accuracy. So painful in fact, that I just can’t do it.
And where does that leave me? Empty. Useless. The girl who once wanted to be an author ended up stealing other people’s characters, sticking them into sorry little love stories and posting them as fanfiction under a false name.
Letters
A/N: I had faith in Severus all along, but even the strongest of us stray from time to time, allowing doubt to sow a seed. This was written two days after I finished the Halfbood Prince-book. I don't know what it originally started out as, but it ended up as a letter from Severus to us; his trusting fans.
I just found it again, and in light of having seen the movie yesterday and being reminded of how I felt right after I finished the book, before my senses came back and I thwarted doubt for good, I decided now would be a good time to publish it.
Disclaimer: Severus is not in any way my creation, but the work of the brilliant JK Rowling. I hope she doesn't mind me borrowing him from time to time.
Letters
My hands tremble, the blood still rushes through my veins. I am warm, yet cold. Tired, yet wide awake. Proud, yet shameful. Fearful, yet relieved. All these years I've been living a lie. Watched my every step, weighed my every word. Waited. Watched. Prayed.
Some part of me always knew, though I tried to tell myself otherwise. Tried to calm myself. He was gone, his power crushed. His reign broken. But I knew all too well that evil does not diminish quite so easily. Had I not myself been closer to him than most, and more closely than any watched how desperately he sought power? How far he would go, and went, to get it? And yet, I let myself believe he would go that easily?
They still celebrate downstairs. I can hear their singing, their merriment. And I must join them soon. There is only so long I can hide behind excuses to allow myself to mourn. Though, what right have I to mourn? What justifies me grieving a life I knowingly took? Do I not deserve this torture of remembering his face as I shall forever se it; filled with disappointment.
Is it not only right that it should torment me? It was after all a choice I made willingly... or was it a choice at all?
"The time has come to chose between what is right, and what is easy." I may not have chosen right, but nor can I say my choice was an easy one. I paved the path to my future years ago, and back then I saw no other option. I did not take the wrong path, just a different one. We do not all have the freedom to make what we want of ourselves.
You will argue that we do. That free will enables us all to make the right choices. But free will is human, and human I stopped being years ago. There was scarcely any human left in me when I chose my way. For me, there was only one road. And call it what you will, but an easy one it has not been.
And thus, when he returned as I knew he would, it was only a matter of time before I would have to return to that road. You think I had a choice? All I could do was delay. Eventually, I knew I must return to who I once was.
I do not ask that you forgive me. Forgiveness I have not earned. Nor pity. You are angry with me, and I understand. You gave me your trust, and I misused it. You were there for me when no one else was, believed in me when no one else did. You fought for me, defended me. Trusted me. And this is how I repay you?
Anger, indeed. I deserve far worse. I have let you down, and left you to suffer. Broken your trust, and left your belief in vain. You will pay for my mistakes. They will tell you you were wrong. That they were right. That I was evil all along.
And yet, I offer my apologies. Not in hope of forgiveness, for I deserve none. But in the hope that you will at least understand. This was a path I chose long before I knew you, and when you came into my life, it was too late.
This is who I am, and who I've always been. It was never my wish that you should find out like this, but now that you have, know this;
I am truly sorry. Although I do not know how to say for how much. I regret so many things that regret is no longer in me. You placed your faith in me, and I betrayed it. I no longer deserve anything from you. I know I have lost your faith, your trust and your love. And I do not ask for it back. I only wish you find someone who better deserves it.
Farewell...
I just found it again, and in light of having seen the movie yesterday and being reminded of how I felt right after I finished the book, before my senses came back and I thwarted doubt for good, I decided now would be a good time to publish it.
Disclaimer: Severus is not in any way my creation, but the work of the brilliant JK Rowling. I hope she doesn't mind me borrowing him from time to time.
Letters
My hands tremble, the blood still rushes through my veins. I am warm, yet cold. Tired, yet wide awake. Proud, yet shameful. Fearful, yet relieved. All these years I've been living a lie. Watched my every step, weighed my every word. Waited. Watched. Prayed.
Some part of me always knew, though I tried to tell myself otherwise. Tried to calm myself. He was gone, his power crushed. His reign broken. But I knew all too well that evil does not diminish quite so easily. Had I not myself been closer to him than most, and more closely than any watched how desperately he sought power? How far he would go, and went, to get it? And yet, I let myself believe he would go that easily?
They still celebrate downstairs. I can hear their singing, their merriment. And I must join them soon. There is only so long I can hide behind excuses to allow myself to mourn. Though, what right have I to mourn? What justifies me grieving a life I knowingly took? Do I not deserve this torture of remembering his face as I shall forever se it; filled with disappointment.
Is it not only right that it should torment me? It was after all a choice I made willingly... or was it a choice at all?
"The time has come to chose between what is right, and what is easy." I may not have chosen right, but nor can I say my choice was an easy one. I paved the path to my future years ago, and back then I saw no other option. I did not take the wrong path, just a different one. We do not all have the freedom to make what we want of ourselves.
You will argue that we do. That free will enables us all to make the right choices. But free will is human, and human I stopped being years ago. There was scarcely any human left in me when I chose my way. For me, there was only one road. And call it what you will, but an easy one it has not been.
And thus, when he returned as I knew he would, it was only a matter of time before I would have to return to that road. You think I had a choice? All I could do was delay. Eventually, I knew I must return to who I once was.
I do not ask that you forgive me. Forgiveness I have not earned. Nor pity. You are angry with me, and I understand. You gave me your trust, and I misused it. You were there for me when no one else was, believed in me when no one else did. You fought for me, defended me. Trusted me. And this is how I repay you?
Anger, indeed. I deserve far worse. I have let you down, and left you to suffer. Broken your trust, and left your belief in vain. You will pay for my mistakes. They will tell you you were wrong. That they were right. That I was evil all along.
And yet, I offer my apologies. Not in hope of forgiveness, for I deserve none. But in the hope that you will at least understand. This was a path I chose long before I knew you, and when you came into my life, it was too late.
This is who I am, and who I've always been. It was never my wish that you should find out like this, but now that you have, know this;
I am truly sorry. Although I do not know how to say for how much. I regret so many things that regret is no longer in me. You placed your faith in me, and I betrayed it. I no longer deserve anything from you. I know I have lost your faith, your trust and your love. And I do not ask for it back. I only wish you find someone who better deserves it.
Farewell...
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