love floats, just like sorrow

button eyes.

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 13:19:04 GMT

This a cat.

About two months ago, I got into this... sewing frenzy. And I made this; Alice. My brother named her after a song, I forget which, but she's the first in a little abstract cat family that I created and that now sit in a bag on my wardrobe door. I don't know what to do with them. Alice lives in my brother's room, as his present, the rest I need to find the space for, I suppose. :P

They are sentimental little things - they all have the same brown eyes, old beads from a necklace I had that snapped. Alice is made out of our grandmother's old quilting supplies: the lace I use in my journaling, sometimes, the pink heart/blush/thing under her left eye an old nightgown I had long out grown. She's stuffed with the insides of an old pillow. The pink polka dot ribbon leg warmer is from a roll I bought four, five years ago, when I went through my hair ribbon phase. The lady told me it was the last they had, that the ribbon was actually twenty years old, which was older than me at the time.

Alice is made up of bits and pieces.

My grandfather thought she was a pincushion. The Cowboy didn't believe me when I said she was a cat. My brother was perhaps the only sweet one about it. :P

I was going to make one for the Cowboy even though he thought all my cats were ugly; he left so quickly though, and I wasn't brave enough to do it.

I have more; I'll probably post them up later. :P

& watch the light shine through.

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 07:25:26 GMT

I painted a wooden box.

The handbag is so precious to me - I bought it for ten dollars from this tiny fashion store that was closing down, about three years ago. I rarely get any use out of it, which is a shame.

The nightgown was only four dollars; originally I thought to cut it up and use it in my journal. I've grown to love it too much now, though, so I'll keep it safe.

The wooden box I painted, my diary from when I was thirteen, and my old, old copy of the adventures of Winnie the Pooh. :)

I slaved over the lid of this tiny box for ages - the flowers were cut out and glues on, and though you can't tell in these pictures, the box has been given several thick coats of varnish. :) I love how it turned out. The little girl in me, the one that tried to do projects like this but just made a mess or gave up to play with her brother, is very, very happy.

My tiny treasures; the old gold rose embellishment from a bottle I broke when I was little. A rabbit button. The swan brooch that my grandmother wore. The vanilla scent I used to always wear. My grandmother's ring. Lace, ribbons. The angel in the heart that my brother gave to me when we were twelve. Small silly things, but they make a pretty picture.

childhood glory.

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 09:15:54 GMT

I've decided that I might see if the art gallery in town needs any volunteers. It's small and I know that the Old Wives Art Club (as I call them) quite happily do all that's required... but we'll see. I might as well be useful somewhere. :P Writing it here makes it more of... must do, I suppose, until I get a whiteboard.

Hope is the thing with feathers,
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without words,
and never stops at all.

- Emily Dickenson

Another pretty quote. :) I'm not so sure about the sketches on the right, though. The boy is pretty but there's something about the girl's chin that I don't like. A work in progress, I suppose, to keep me humble, lol.

I really like that rose cut out. I need to print out more of them, whenever my printer works again.

I'm sad about this spread - it's so much nicer on the page! :( At least I've figured out why my pinks never show up well - I've been using a fluro pink to mix in. It looks lovely in person, which is why I use it, but I'm guessing my scanner hates it. I guess we'll have to find a middle ground.

These are the lastest additions to my imagination - Winnie and Theo (for the moment). They're cousins; their fathers were brothers. Their hair is actually dark brown as are their eyes, but thanks to my scanner, you can't tell that. I'm not sure if they should be friends or bitter enemies or indifferent until I age them to their teens. Hum, hum, hum.

my heart was blinded

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 11:32:55 GMT

I find myself incredibly boring, these days.

Life is in one of those, uneventful lulls. I've had a lot of free time on my hands, lately, and finding something to do with it has proven to be a challenge. I've let myself lapse into this lazy, summer-days mode which is apart of my problem. I need a use for myself, but I don't know what. My grandfather is happy letting me lounge around which is something my grandmother would've never stood for.

Mostly, I potter around doing odds and ends of housework, making small things. I took up sewing a little while before; I made these misshapen "cat" things that I'm actually quite proud of, funnily enough. I might post them in here; I bought a paid account with my brother's paypal to intice myself into staying here and posting on a more regular basis, so I might as well make the most of it. He finds it funny; we have this weird... I don't know how to describe it. System, I guess, where I'll make him cookies or cake or sandwiches, sew him things, tidy, basically be his housewife, and he sets up a monthly fund for me, looks "after" me, spoils me.

One day, I know, those ties have to go. I don't know how I'd explain this to anyone that comes into our future. It's just the way we work, now. Like a team, like a pair of old parents, maybe. Sometimes I think we have more of our grandparents in us than we're willing to admit.

I have a copy of the owl and the pussycat that I printed out, somewhere in my room. I never realized how pretty it was, how nice. And I love how the picture turned out; the pussy looks very much like a flirt to me.

I never finished this page because I got into a fight with my brother while doing it, and it's ruined for me. I think I did something wrong with the superhero's eyes - they're too feminine, maybe. After I thought that I lost all desire to continue with it. They have a story, or a semblance of one. I have sketches of the pair in my notebooks - the girl had shorter hair back then, and a dress with big red poppies. The boy's face was different too, I think I like it more than this version. His costume hasn't changed, though.

I've always kept books of things like this, stories and people. I don't know why. It's something that's just been natural for me, along side keeping a diary. My brother is the only one that really knows about it - when we were younger it was almost like a game we played. He would tell stories. It's one of those old rituals I miss.

I don't really like the jug page, if only because I was still simmering when I did it. It's unfinished but since this is my journal, something I do for me, just to unwind, I'm alright with leaving it as it is. The page over I actually ripped in a fit of anger after trying to write about it. In the end I just made do with pasting a modified version of Corinthians 13:4-13 (Love is patient; Love is kind; Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude) on the page because it was exactly the opposite of how I was feeling.

Susannah and the Jackalope return. :) She's much sweeter in colouring in real life, but of course my scanner could never let me show that. I like how the deer turned out, and even how Susie and her little furry friend did too, even if they've changed slightly from their older counterparts. I don't know why, but this is my brother's favourite page. He really likes the Jackalope.

My corpse bride - I call her Miss Havisham. Her lips are much pinker on the page, but other than that I really like this one. :) Her hair is a little too much and I suppose I need to work more on how I draw and place hands, but I think she's a pretty thing, sitting their with her man.

One day I will do something with this. It's always just been something I've done for myself, though, like alot of my hobbies have been.

the last test and proof.

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 17:23:09 GMT

for one human being to love another;
that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks,
the ultimate,
the last test and proof,
the work for which all other work is but preparation.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

I am so lazy. It is, honestly, my biggest fault. And I hate it. It disappoints everyone. And I'm scared that I will be like this forever - a stop starter, someone that leaves things unfinished, that forgets things, that just doesn't do them.

I am scared that I will stop myself. I know what I want, I do, I'm just terrified that I will be too lazy and slow to do it. Most of the time it's fear - I walk away from things, people, and then get scared of going back, facing the music, facing reality, so I don't. It's gotten so bad that I dream about the things that inspire that particular kind of guilt within me. I hate it, but the longer I don't face it, the worse it is.

I have never liked being told off. I have never liked disappointing people. Lord, I am the biggest wuss I know. Sometimes I feel like I would feel better, even if I got scolded, even if I had to face that look, the one that says I've shown a side of myself that they'd rather not see.

Thinking about it makes me feel sick. :(

The dolls I love - my mother hates them. My brother hates them too. In that they're both alike, one of those uncanny moments where you see just how far the apple fell from the tree. They both think they're creepy, ugly. The difference between them is that he wants me to have them, she does not. I drew the hair on and the suit to invision the look I want for them.

It's surprising how much time I can consume working on my journal. I move things around, cut things out, throw things away. It's one of those nice, numbing things, I think. Something where you don't have to think, just breathe, just do.

A story, a part of it. I want to write gentle worlds and people. Even if it's only ever for me, or my brother. He is the only one that really understands how deep the waters go and even then, I wonder.

More of the Kids. Missy got a new friend - he is a paper shadow of my own. I need to stop this. Adding him means the story is not finished and I don't know how it should be, what should happen.

My brother underneath his tough act is a nerd. I just wanted to draw something pretty. They don't have names yet, though my cousin thought they were Anakin and Padme at first, thanks to my theft of the clothes. I loved this picture. The city behind them was my favourite part to do.

The idea was lust - I meant to draw another girl, one in love with Long Hair but I couldn't get her face right, so in the end I gave up. They make me think of a boarding school in Spain, strangely, spoilt and left to run wild. I don't know why, I just like drawing the uniforms.

A rose from my teaparty, ages ago.

And, bird bones, because I wanted to. Because I thought I could be macbre. I couldn't eat dinner after - marinated chicken wings. The teacup seemed like a good idea, if not odd - I asked my brother, actually, and he said I should do it. I said it was a weird cominbation - he said it was perfect, since they both were delicate, fragile things. Sometimes he surprises me, and I see how we would be so perfectly alike, like the proper twins everyone insists we are, and yet so wonderfully different. I love him.

The last test and proof. I love this quote; it's something I am willing to believe in, wholeheartedly. I think it's a wonderful way of looking at life.

I have to admit, this is my favourite spread. There's something in the girl's face that I am more than pleased with.

Paris. One day. It's a promise.

Ballet shoes, because I could, because they are pretty, because I wish that I was the petite kind of girl that wore them.

Even with everything, with how I run away with things, with the general not knowing, I love being alive. I love being here, in this town in the moment. Everything is oddly perfect even when I'm scared, or sad, because I just feel like there's something beyond it all, something that my body and soul know they're meant for.

texan sunset.

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 04:52:35 GMT

Firstly, I'm sorry. I am not the most active of LJ friends; I only come here when I have that itch, that need to write or to pour my heart out and it's very much like I'm using this as cheap therapy, which I don't like.

I just want to write today. It's sunny and beautiful outside and all the windows have been thrown open; the house is brighter and I'm alone and I don't mind, I never mind. The wind makes the trees rustle and move and there's something about sitting in a white room in the sunshine that I love.

I think I fell in love. And now I miss him.

He was an asshole. They always are, aren't they? He was an asshole and he knew just what to say to undermine everything I had to feel good about - my journal, the way I dressed, the way my hair sat. It was like he deliberately went out of his way to make people feel like crap, to take the offensive.

He always said he didn't care.

He went out of his way to flirt with anything with a skirt. He said he used to be a fat kid, once, the kind with braces, the kind that got into fights. He was far from it now, though sometimes in his face you could still see it, how it was a little round, like a reminder. He said his flirting was a way of making up for "lost time" and I had to wonder if that meant he'd been rejected once, by a girl he really liked. I told him, once, that I hated it, that it made me jealous. He said he knew and that's why he did it.

Once he offered to stop. I didn't know what to say, so I changed the topic.

He loved music. Our tastes always clashed. I don't think he ever forgave me for the mixtape I made him.

He was from Texas. He didn't have the drawl, though he'd fake it for me.

There was another girl - one "back home". Not a girlfriend, He said, but a friend. He would always compare us, though, with a tone that I never heard before and I would hate them both.

Once, he wrote me a story. Because I was predictable, he said, and he knew I'd love it. I still have that stupid thing.

He was my best friend. He found that hilarious, then admitted that yeah, I was his too. I told him I'd never let him forget that - he threatened he'd walk away if I tried.

He left anyway, back home. We didn't say goodbye. I miss him. I miss that with him, I wasn't so dependant on my family. I thought my brother would be smug about it - we had fought about him before. My brother thought my friend was a prick. I didn't talk to him for days after that, but when my friend left my brother let me cry all over him.

Now on the weekends we go out for breakfast at the bakery. And I still sit there and think of the Texan. The Cowboy, as I called him, though he had nothing to do with ranches or farms.

And my brother just sits there, and listens when I interrupt his stories to talk about it, with a patience I don't remember him having.

Today, I decided that I have to leave the cowboy behind.

consumerist.

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 06:51:40 GMT

Lingerie, nighties and dresses oh my.

I love to shop.

It's a good thing I don't have a debit or credit card at the moment - I'm the kind of buyer that sees something pretty and purchases out of reflex; a fear maybe, that that pretty thing will be gone and I'll never see it again. It's almost childish, actually, like a loud I want, I want, I want.

What I want now are dolls.

Ball-jointed dolls to be exact. A Alice in Wonderland doll, American made, 12'' high. Some beautiful shy looking sweetheart on a Koren website that makes me go Aww everytime I look at her - her face sculpt, her expression, it's sweet and doe-eyed and pouty and I can't help but love it. She can be ordered with a friend that's slightly taller than her and has this grave, serious little look on his face - I adore him too and I want the both of them. I'd order them together in a heartbeat if I could, right now, if I had the money. But I don't so now I'm trying to decide whether saving and ordering them one at a time is best, where they'd go, what I'd actually do with them except sit the pair of them there and love them.

My brother has offered to lend me the money for them - well, Her for now. But it's not money I'm sure he could spare; he's saving for a new car and then a motocycle; things that he really loves, something that I know he wants just like I want those silly little dolls. It was so tempting to take him up on the offer when he made it. He sounded offhanded but I knew, know, what it'd mean and I just said no, even though I really, really, really wanted to - still do - say yes.

Sometimes I feel like I spend too much, want too much. I've just bought a hundred and thirty dollar quilt cover set - it's white and ruched and beautiful, girly, something to start me on my way to perfecting my room. There's another set that I've been thinking about as well - pink, silky soft. I'm this close to placing it on order.

I really like shopping. But now I'm making myself worry about it. I don't want to be materialistic but it's so hard not to be at times - and I like it, I like owning pretty things. It's just... how do you temper that and balance it out?

like a cheap paperback novel.

Wed, 25 Mar 2009 10:18:51 GMT

I am a swing-saw of moods, lately. I've been reading romance stories online, anywhere, getting into pointless fights with Him. Stupid, stupid things that normally start with me blowing everything up and then dragging him into a mess of yelling and "Fuck YOU!"s. They're stupid, stupid stupid. And they spiral into these ugly things were whatever has been annoying the other comes out to air. My anti-socalism with our friends, my friends. The way he can be so detached just when I'm failing. It's times like these where he's less the-boy-that-hung-the-moon and more the bastard-that-kicked-it-down.

I shouldn't idealize him. I shouldn't, it's so... I don't know, but I feel like I'm failing at being a modern Independent Woman by doing so. Perhaps it's unhealthy - I'm not unaware of his faults, oh, trust me, but at the same time I just have this unwaviering vision that he can Do Anything, Be Anything.

It is... a short-coming on my part. One that I have to get over.

These were meant to be reflections but there's enough differences that if they were cut out into paper people and held up to their flesh and bone counterparts... it just wouldn't work. Portraits are not for me. I just can't capture that thing in people's faces - that slight movement of their mouths or eyebrows or just the right curve of their eyes that makes them them. All these little things add up and in the end I might as well have drawn a whole new person.

His lips are too big. Her face is curved wrong. There's dents and marks and angles that I just couldn't draw and I have to wonder if it's something that I can.

I'm not upset by that, though.

I am sad it's so crinkled. :( It's thanks to the acryllics I used on the other side. The perfectionist in me, the one that wants smooth pretty pages cries at this.

Drawing The Kids is complusion now, if it wasn't already. I've been reading too many clichés not to have their story half-way invisioned. It's a sugar rush and I adore it and satisfied easily by running through it all like a movie when I'm bored.

I love roses. If that wasn't glaringly obvious. These ones were the first I've tried to properly paint from a picture but the tones I used are wrong and whenever I look at them I think of vaginas, mutated God-like vaginas that swallow men whole. I might be lying, though, or showing the flithy mind I have - I try not to look at that area too closely to really know if I'm right in my assumption. It's so... I'm so immature but I just can't look at that, drawings, porn, mirrors. Sex is different for me - I can handle that, that's okay. Nothing to break a sweat over. Penises are nothing, ugly, but I'm not going to flame up at picture or diagram of them. But show me a vagina, be it medical illustration or smut, I just do not want to know. Avert the eyes, too much infomation.

Which is kind of like that whole paragraph. Hahaha.

Romantized. Oh so badly; I have old old paper journals from when I was twelve, thirteen, wondering what sex was like and the complete naïvety is amazing. On the flip side there's the rougher things, the uglier things that seem so much more unheathy than a daydream of roses and candles, but sexier for it. I can't explain it without sounding as if I'm a sadist or have emotional issues about abuse (ha), but... hm. It's the best way I can think of phrasing it, for now.

Clichés. I really do love them. And I want them to have one so badly, but then I wonder how that would happen with Blondie, and having Blondie be somewhat... human. Someone somewhere must've written this, their perfect ending. Or lived it.

among the fields of barley.

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 16:49:55 GMT

My collection of magazines fuels the need for a picket fence house. Something pretty, something small; in the country, maybe, or by the sea or in the mountains. I'd have glass chandeliers small or large, wide open windows, white curtains and roses everywhere; framed prints, in vases, growing in the garden, embroidered onto the sheets. It's a highly idealized wish; I know the up-keep of a home like that would be hard, annoying. I've never been good with housework.

But it would be nice. Perfect, even when the novelty wore off and the enthusiasm for keeping it tidy and picturesque died.

It'd have to have the same feel in the afternoons that home does now; the noise, the bussel. The golden light pouring in down the hallway, the bedrooms, the smell of grass, of coffee, of dinner. The gust of chilly air that'll wash through the entire house on those stormy afternoons. The way the curtains flutter when there's thunder coming in. All those little things that I'll know I miss if I ever break free of my stockholm syndrome and leave.

we grew up.

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 11:05:52 GMT

I've tried to tell stories with my drawings.

Unwittingly, the kids have their own story morphing through my scribbles - I favour brunettes too much so I drew this out of an desire to add a blonde. I thought I'd give the kids a new friend; but then, they all grew up and suddenly I had a little drama going. Honestly, I have a love/hate of the Best-Friends-Falling-In-Love cliché; when I was thirteen, fourteen, I collected a series of books I found at the book exchange called Sweet Dreams. Basically they were tame mills&boons aimed at teenagers. Each book was a stand-alone and god, I loved those stories. Best friends falling in love, arch rivals falling in love, nerds and jocks falling in love, everyone fell in love and I adored it. I wanted to write one.

But the BFF angle was used a lot (at least, that's how I remember it) - and now, when I read a story using that I'm always a little scornful. There's always a girlfriend who ends up the villian, or completely understanding of why her boyfriend would want to trade her in for the pretty-but-quiet-best-friend he's only just realized he's loved all along. And it gets to me, it really does sometimes. Why weren't the girlfriends as sympathetic as the protagonist? Why couldn't they be well-rounded characters with something to like and hate? "The Girlfriend", generally, always struck me as confident, out-going. She did, after all, snag the guy in the begining. There must of been something about her that he liked. She couldn't simply just be a plot device, could she?

Even as I write that I think I'm a complete hypocrite. I want something like that for the kids, for their story - but then I go and draw The Girlfriend in a cheerleading uniform, the most ultimate of stereotypes that I know. I make The Best Friend look like a simpering sook. If this was a written medium I could give the scene the depth that I want, the insight, but it's not - it's a drawing and it's hard to show what I want.

It's a little disappointing. I want what I draw to be as I see it in my mind, feel it, but I'm not at that stage yet. Incentive to work harder at my art, I suppose. :P

I want a rocking-hare. I think one would be cute, heh.

And I want that dollhouse. I'm babied enough without acting like one as well, but the little girl inside of me is screaming for that beauty. My friend that was my soul mate when we were younger came into my bedroom for the first time in seven or so years a while ago, and told me that it hadn't changed at all. It was meant as a compliment, but a part of me was horror-struck at the idea that maybe I'm treated like a child because I encourage it. At the same time though, I love my bears, my tea-cups. I love my frilly pillows, my porcelain kittens, my dolls. And I don't want to give that all up just because I feel like I need to grow up. It's so confusing, though.

I'm too romantic for my own good.

And I actually dislike moths, immensely. The Mothman Prophecies terrified me; an aunt took both my brother and I to see it and for nights after the both of us were too spooked to look into mirrors.

I wish I had a deep and meaningful story for the paper butterflies. But I just wanted to cut things. :P The "Lovebug" comes from my greatest shame - The Jonas Brothers. I've been banned from playing the song outloud, heh.

The Regency era is one of my favourites, absolutely. It seems so perfect, even with the classes and the politics of marriage. I love movies based in this era; and I love Jane Austen's novels. There's a magic in them that I envy.

The kids again. My brother's suggested Michael and Violet; Blondie still doesn't have a name. I suppose I should name them something practical but I love the Kitten & Duke thing. My Grandfather thinks that "Mikey" and "Violet" are siblings - he thought Violet was younger than Mikey and Blondie. I like the idea of them all being friends though - but at the same time I can't escape the fact that they do have a family resemblance. That's my own fault for drawing brunettes, drawing him over and over, reincarnating him on paper, but... I don't know. I like it, I like doing it.

I just feel like I'm drawing a chain of brunette shadows around myself and that it's going to get stale very quickly.

I still didn't post the photo layout - Friending my entries feels so wrong after all I've written. You either do it all the way, or you don't do it at all.

That doesn't make me feel any less guilty (why guilty I'll never know), but it is something of a personal creed so I'll stick to it.

of Byblis and icecream.

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 13:21:06 GMT

Byblis had a twin brother, Caunus, with whom she fell in love; Ovid's version of the myth (and the most commonly accepted) talks about the passion she had for him, the way she took to dressing to please him, the utter devotion she had that went beyond anything a sister should have. In Ovid's version, Byblis admits her love for Caunus by letter - he's disgusted by the idea and refuses her wish of their being together. She stays persistant in her love and eventually Caunus is driven away to another land where he founds a city. Byblis follows him, crazy in heartbreak but never sees him again. Depending on what you read, she either falls by a wood where her crying attracts the pity of some nypmhs, who turn her tears into a well, or she falls and dissolves into a spring.

One version of the story has Caunus fall in love with her - but knowing it's wrong and unable to stop it, he leaves for the city he will one day create. Byblis searches for him but never finding him, hangs herself with her girdle. Then there's another version which follows Ovid's beginning - Byblis is deep in love with her brother, but rather than admit it she instead throws herself off a cliff where she is saved by nymphs who enchant her into a deep sleep and make her one of them, a hamadryas.

No matter the version, the way she dies or if her brother loves her back, the story makes me sad. You can't see it but in my picture she's crying.

They're still nameless - but I have a million and one things for them to do, silly things, some things borrowed from my own childhood or ideas suggested by family, friends.

I have a third layout. It's more lace and pink tissue paper and cut out flowers and cats, but the thing that makes me hesitate is that it's a photo. A print off of a photo but a photo none-the-less and no matter how much lace and cut out flowers and cats I paste over it, no matter that his eyes are cut off from the frame and that it's really only me, it's still clear. I want to post it - I like the look of it, I think the whole page is pretty and I always want to share those things that I do here.

But for all that I write in this journal, for all that I've written on tangible paper, for everything that I've been able to spill and share this is something that I can't bring myself to, and I hate myself for it. I feel like a hypocritic.

tea among the roses (it's a sunday bakery).

Mon, 09 Mar 2009 11:06:54 GMT

On Sunday, I decided to have a teaparty.

Our grandmother collected teacups; when she died, the Aunts came and took the bits and pieces that they liked. Out of a collection of all sizes, colours and patterns, of plates and glass bowls and cups, we were left with two. It's a bittersweet thing, these cups. I remember the hunts we'd go on, Nana and I - our time together in second hand stores and flea markets. She bought a pink and white set just for me; I don't know where it is, or who has it and I'm sad about that.

But now, working in the store that I do, the love of tea things has been rekindled. I bought a tea set - tea pot, cream jug and sugar bowl, handmade with "Helen" scratched into the bottom. After this, a tea pot from the kitchenwares store and then another teacup from my workplace - it's blue and white with flowers and a gold trim and has "Bell Chime, made in England" stamped on the bottom. Then there's the newest addition, the tea for one set, as it's called. It was a spontaneous gift from my brother, and my favourite for it.

After arranging all these things, I decided that they should be used, at least once.

It was more of a coffee party than a tea party - my brother was the reluctantly invited. I wanted this to be sweet, fun; I'd found a tablecloth at work, a pretty thing with cross stitched flowers that sat perfectly on the table. Granddad left some freshly cut roses for me, sweetly, so that was the centerpiece. One flower had seemed to have given up completely as the petals kept dropping, trailing all over the floor. I ended up scooping them up and scattering them all over the setting.

I started baking at around eight o'clock - the lamingtons and chocolate marshmellow cookies had been bought - the cherry and coconut slice had been made the night before. All that was left was to brew the coffee, make the english tea cake and make the sandwiches (which were chicken, herb butter and cream cheese; I was going to have cucumber sandwiches for the tradition but I think a part of my brother would've died inside if I'd gone as far as that :P).

It was a mess - I'm not a tidy baker, I need a dozen bowls for each little thing. And with the sandwiches Granddad had bought an unsliced loaf from the bakery, which was charming but a pain to cut neatly.

In the end, though, the mess and the subsequent clean up was worth it. Using Nan's cups, eating and being silly and just having a good time is one of those moments that makes those old teacups and new, shiny tea pots special, the kind of things that I know I'll love for the rest of my life.

lace & flowers

Sun, 22 Feb 2009 08:24:28 GMT

I lost my groove for a while there, but it's coming back. :)

The first pages of my new moleskine journal - my brother bought it for me, while he was down in the City with some friends. It smells like paper should and has a soft leather cover. I couldn't touch it for days, truthfully - it's always so hard starting in a new book.

The butterfly was drawn and cut out from a copy of Romeo&Juliet I bought at work; the handwritten scribble is to remind myself not to be so stubborn, to accept that things and people will and do change and that really, it can be a blessing. The lace and dark blue rose embodiery are also from work; I've learned to keep an eye out for useful, pretty things, things to use in my art. Underneath the lace netting is my name, in a dictionary-like format. :)

These little people are popping up in my scribbles, my books, on pieces of paper. They need names; I was thinking Puppy & Kitten at first but then I got the idea to replace Puppy with Duke, Kitten & Duke. My brother's suggested Pretty & Hat - something he's serious about in a stupid, charming way. I'm not sure of who they should be, yet.

In real life, the colours of their faces are softer; her mouth is sweeter, eyelashes more defined. I wasn't satisfied with the background I had for them, so I cut the page out, cut them out and glued them onto the next fresh page. :) I like the result. I like them, the couple. He has the same family resemblance to all my boys and their original source but there's something about the jaw and the mouth and the nose that I love drawing.

Limerence is a pretty word though sometimes I'm a little afriad of it's meaning. I wouldn't want to lose myself like that.

I've bought a tea set; a tea pot, a little milk jug and a sugar bowl that all ping when you flick them. I'm tempted to throw a tea party with it, but mainly I bought them because I wanted to draw them. I also have this ugly little doll sitting on my bedside table - her shirt has yellowed and there's these dark, almost rust-like stains on the back of her and her arms are only being held in place by one of my hair-ties carefully pulled and knotted inside of her, but she's strangley beautiful.

I'm doing an art course at the moment, here in town; the teacher has a love for pottery but he's promised me that he'll try to incorporate more drawing, more painting. Even so, I may sign up for the life-drawing classes at the little Gallery we have. Sometimes I'm so lost with what I want to do, who I want to be and art is the only thing that gives me focus, some meaning. It is the greatest part about me, the one thing that really is me. If there's a meaning to my life that it has to be this, to creating these silly little pages that I love.

bits & pieces (colours)

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 19:23:32 GMT

For Christmas I gave my brother a Jackalope. But only the drawn kind.

I've never given art as a gift, ever. It's never come to a stage where I've felt like it's good enough; I want to give polished things, lovely things and not the poor creatures and girls I draw. But that said, what do you give a sibling who can and does buy all the amusements he wants? Games, parts for the car, his bike, he takes care of it all and it's hard to think of something nice that he won't get himself.

So, I drew him a picture. There's so many small things that I owe him, that live and breathe in the things that I draw - even when I created them because I was sad or dreamy or angry, the inspiration always came from the same source.

And he liked the bunnylope.

In exchange, I got a bottle of Chanel's No. 5 - it's so soft, powdery; I love wearing it, smelling soft, feeling doe-eyed and romantic. Of course I felt completely embarrassed by this - he buys me perfume and I draw him a picture. I told him before Christmas that he was an impossible bastard to buy for and that I didn't want anything to flashy, a trade off of sorts. But he did it anyway and as mortified as I was, still am, I love his gift. It's a materialistic way of saying that I matter and it's sweet, especially since having my own bottle of Chanel has been a want of mine since I can remember ever really learning about it.

I found this necklace at work, underneath a pile of chains and plastic beads in the jewellery basket. The chain is tarnished black and brass in parts and I'm not holding any illusions that it's a family heirloom from the 1800s, but I adored it, and bought it for a dollar. My room and bookshelf and vanity table are slowly collecting a tribe of silly things.

A sunset. Twilight is my favourite time of day because of the colours. There's something magic about it, dusk. My Drama teacher in highschool learned about my love of sunsets and sunrises thanks to the photos a friend gave me in class, and said that it was worth pausing for them because they're never the same again.It makes me sad when there's a particularly beautiful one, and I have nothing to capture it with.

La Vie en Rose.

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 10:45:34 GMT

Recent pages from my art-journal, as something to show that yes, I still exist.

I think I'll make it. I think everything will be okay, and doing these pages just cemented that for me. :)

There's a story to this, to Susannah and the jackalope. I typed it, being silly, and then I wrote it out by hand, shorter so that it would fit on the page.

One day little Susannah found a jackalope in the woods. "Oh pretty bunny." She said. "You are such a lovely thing."

And the jackalope turned it's dark eyes to her and said, "Oh pretty bunny." In such a way that Susannah was startled to hear her own voice come from the creature.

She told her older brother of it, that night, when she returned for supper and when she was in bed their father turned to him and said, "Boy, if you catch and kill that beast, then we shall be made." And so the brother agreed to go out and listen for Susannah's little monster and shoot it.

The next day Susannah wandered out to the field where she had seen the soft jackalope, but it was not to be found and disappointed she decided to collect wildflowers instead. Her older brother, hunting in the trees beyond, listened carefully for the jackalope, thinking it would mimick his sister to itself.

"Oh pretty bunny." He heard ahead of him. "Oh pretty bunny." He heard again.

This was it, he was certain - the brother lifted his rifle and BANG, shot it, and there was a thump and a rustle and surely, surely he had gotten it.

The brother moved through the bushes, pushing them away so as to see his trophy - and instead found his little sister, white skirts and dark curls around her, lying face down with a posey in hand as the brown eyes of his true target watched from a tree stump. "Oh pretty bunny." It said. Then it hopped away away, leaving the brother to drop to his knees and cry in anguish.

Me using paint, trying to create something ethereal with my usual theme. :p And something sweet, something I mean; I want to paint and I'm at a place where I am happy with whatever does or does not happen in my life, so... :) They have a balloon, because I love balloons.

I am surprised at myself - shortly after I stopped livejournalling, I got something that resembled a life; a job at a second-hand store where I am surrounded by gentle elderly ladies and small cute things that I always cave in and buy. I reconnected with a friend, a girl who was my platonic soul-mate when we were twelve. The only thing that really changed was that I wasn't drawing or painting as often.

My embodiement vow suffered. But at the same time it's something deeper, something more private, something that I'm not sure I'll share here.

I just need to make more time to draw.

Well, well, isn't this awkward?

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 08:02:49 GMT

The Madonna

I don't know when I'll start posting my journal again. It's something that I'm a bit odd about for the moment. I have to admit, I've been cheating a bit with my embodiment vow. :P Nothing too serious, I promise, but some nights I've just been feeling too burnt out to draw anything decent. Oh well. Ha.

A fire in the hand.

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 10:06:01 GMT

Ever just felt the urge to create the biggest mess you can? I did, and that's how missy here was born. This is, quite simply, a glorified finger-painting.

My grandfather doesn't like it because she has no face. He thinks I should paint one on, but truthfully, I can't be bothered. :p So, so lazy...

I've packed her away now though. There's no where to hang her in the house, so she'll just sit in my cupboard until I move out or do a huge spring cleaning and accidently break the framework and throw her away, poor thing.

Sun & Moon

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 15:14:40 GMT

She's delicate and cold, like a vast emptiness and he shudders as he touches her, but then dives in deeper regardless.

He's strong and hot, like a raging fire that has yet to smolder out and she hisses as he runs his hands over her, but then offers her mouth to his for more scalding kisses.

When they are apart they are their own colours and emotions, their own worlds. She is soft, lavender, white, a gray blue; gentle and entirely undemanding. He is loud, vermilion, orange, an intrusive gold; rough and completely ostentatious. Yet when they come together their colours spill over and fade, create new hues that she loves and that he would never admit to enjoying. Dusk-like pinks that she wears into the evening, trailing behind her like long shimmering skirts. Shinning whites that fade into careful blues, a gentleness he dons like a favour to remind himself of her. Their emotions, her quiet affection and his ear-splitting adoration meld, join, create a field of passions that she dreams of in gentle light while he thinks of it in terms of excitement, a pain that stings in a good way. Their worlds, which are containers of a singular type of beauty, connect, expand, morph into a kingdom that seems like a promise, one that they walk into with fingers entwined.

But then their carefully laid plans and dreams begin to crumble. Darkness seeps in and suffocates the fragile life that their love has spawned and she cries for it, for them, while he holds her and tries to salve her grief with his touch, wondering if they can create anything like it again. Light becomes unbearable and dries the wonderful earth, and he mourns the scenery that complimented their romance, while she wraps her arms around from behind him and wonders if they can ever hope to rebuild it.

Nothing changes and both are heartbroken. They can never rule together, beside each other. They must part ways, take back their halves and believe that the separation will restore the balance. Believe that in this way, a tiny part of their hearts and love will be able to remain.

Sad, sombre, he leaves first. It's selfish of him but he would not be able to take the pain of her walking away, so instead he gladly hands it to her and as she watches his retreating form she curls up and cries and cries and cries, almost failing to do what they both agreed to and take her rightful place in the dark void of night. She does eventually, her silver tears freezing in the darkness and becoming small lights that grow around her as more silently fall. She walks a funeral dirge, always trailing after the little glow of warm that he leaves behind him, wishing that it were possible to touch him once more. She doesn't see how broken he is, how the fierce heat that made him had become a distant cold. He sees the tiny lights of her tears, one or two having found themselves left behind, and he touches them or kisses them in the hope that when she comes round and collects them that she'll feel his love for her, feel how miserable he is without her near.

Yet out of their despair their world, not the single one they carry with them but the one they borne together, is recreated. It heals itself and both gather as much comfort from this as they can, turning their attention towards it to ensure that it will never be destroyed again. She ensures that it will never again know the terrifying, lonely darkness and becomes a light, a lamp, a shinning orb to chase away death. He refuses to once more fail and burn their precious creation, and travels across the sky in a wide arch, never concentrating his heat on any one place for too long. With their careful balancing act, the world thrives beautifully.

It does not ease the pain, not entirely. There is still an aching in her heart that whispers after her, her personal shadow that gets the better of her and cripples her, leaves their baby world dark every so often. There is a hope within him, a hope that he will see her or catch up to his quiet, gentle love and he lingers too long, forgets to be careful and eventually burns the ground so badly that it crumbles and becomes like tiny crystals; sand. Yet they push on, strive on, for their perfect world, for the last tangible reminder of their passion.

Then, it happens.

It had never been intended that they would again meet. They had agreed to stay apart for the rest of their eternal lives. Yet somehow she halted, amused herself with the pretties of her creation and he sped up, too fast, too impatient and they collided. Not collided, they met. They met and they stood together in silence before the world underneath them threatened to once again give way and, hearts breaking, they kept on moving.

But it happened again, some time later, and this time he touched burning fingers to her cool hand before walking away. When it occurred for a third meeting she touched his face, a fleeting treasure before forcing herself to continue on. The next time they crossed paths, he dared to kiss her quickly, aware that he was paving the way for more heart break but failing to care, greedy for more than memories.

They continued with these tiny moments, stolen and so achingly needed and soon gave birth to more wonders for their world; fey, dancing lights across the cold, blue ice caps. Obscene sunsets, red, violent, pink, soft, orange, proud. They found they could create together even if they could no longer be a constant in each other's lives.

Together in a shadow of what they were, but grateful they could hold it.

(complete self-gratification.)

Tristes Apprêts, Pâles Flambeaux, part 3

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 10:39:14 GMT

Monday: It takes me ages to go through my collection and find a picture that suits what I want to write, but, yeah. A bad Monday I guess. Just overwhelmingly lonely, useless, pathetic. Wishing for my friends, wishing I could just tell him everything, if only to have someone to talk to about it all. The mood went, but it's hit again. Yay. :p

Tuesday: More damn whimsical romanticizing of how incredibly isolated I felt/feel. I am the last person to go to sleep, in this house. And normally that's when everyone else is getting up for work. I just need something, I guess. Something to motivate me so I don't end up rotting.

Wednesday: Our neighbour has some sort of problem, I think. Some condition where he has to watch the ceiling when he walks, and can't keep an eye out for his animals. Poor kitty, he stepped on the little thing and crushed it's lungs. He took it to the vet but didn't get it put down because of the cost or something, so he brought it to Granddad who's known for his ruthless, tough guy act. He was so angry when I called him; angry at the neighbour, whom he calls a retard, angry at the neighbour's mother for letting him have animals when he has to be so careful about himself... Granddad's not a stranger to having to put animals down or clean them out, but he hates weakness in others. In the end I think he got it with a shovel - I don't know for sure though, I couldn't watch.

Thursday: All the pubs and bars in town weren't going to be open for Easter Friday so everyone was making a big deal of going out on the Thursday. Awkwardness with my "friends" and some miscommunication led me to sit this highschool reunion out. So socible, I know.

Friday: We had a little spat about how pathetic I am at going out and hanging around. I know that I'm being completely ignorant by saying something like "I wish he'd hit me" but the passion of which we, or rather, just him lately, fight with is just so much worse. I want him to give me a reason to clean up my act. To get my backbone again. To be sensible.

Saturday: He convinced me to go out, just with him, just us. I think my brother was feeling sorry for me, for the fact that all I really have any more is him, and even then we're at each other's throats and disconntented more often than not. That charming quote was from the Grandfather, even though he's the first to complain when we don't get along.

Sunday: A lazy day, at least for me. Watched movies on his bed-well, he did. I just slept.

Monday: Easter Monday and I spent it daydreaming.

Tuesday: I didn't manage to get through ALL of their chocolate, but I tried just out of amusment. I suppose the family will be the ones laughing when I'm carrying their share of the weight. :/

Wednesday: A friend of his came around looking for him. He didn't stay very long, just grunted when I explained that he was at work then left in his car, playing his music really loud. He did smell like pot though. Not that it's a big deal in this town.

Thursday: I've been wearing my ring for a while now, on my right hand middle finger pointing away from me. My Aunt noticed first then Granddad started on about how I should wear it towards my heart because we're practically a built in couple anyway, and that's something that I should always remember, especially since my brother bought me that ring and his own and blah blah blah. I do and will blame the old man when I'm a spinister, living alone with her nine million cats.

Friday: More musing. It's the little things that inspire it.

Saturday: Not a proud moment for myself, and I couldn't even have a decent cry because I got found by my younger cousin. I wonder how much he guesses? He's so quiet, so unassuming, but then I just wonder if it's a case of "still waters run deep".

Sunday: (...what he thought about being an only child). I read way too much into things, if something like that can do me.

Monday: Bored, wanted money and was wondering how people get away with it in this day and age.

I keep reminding myself that I'm in this position because I put myself here, I that I should just keep my mouth shut and just work on getting it all to go away. It's still not working.

So strike me down...

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 17:12:51 GMT

I just have no idea of what the hell I'm going to do. What I'm meant to do. I'm so damn confused - fucked up - why the hell did I ever put myself into a position like this? It just keeps hitting me in the face how absurd and possibly dangerous I'm being. This isn't healthy - emotionally - for me. For anyone. I have to admit that it's slowly ruining things, burning them down and there's nothing I can do because, hey, funny thing, I'm the one holding the matches. I'm the one that's screwing everything up and I hate myself for it, I truly do.

Then there's the flip side of the coin, the part of me that thinks maybe I'm really suited to feeling like this, that I've never poured this much energy into myself. It's as if being sad lets me be selfish and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it.

I just wish I wasn't such an idiot. That I wasn't intent on ruining the best part of who I am.

Tristes Apprêts, Pâles Flambeaux, part 2

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 10:07:32 GMT

I don't want to push anyone's comfort zones, so I'm going to say that a good deal of the following entries talk about that issue. You know... the illegal one.

Sunday: When we fight, for the most part, the family ignores it, just saying, "oh, it's just the twins, hahaha". The last fight ran so deep though that everyone was feeling it - we almost got sat down like five year olds to talk about it. Our hippy aunty kept saying all these things about "clearing the air" and "resolving your wounds" and it was just ridiculous, especially since we were pretty much okay by this point. Saying that, I do tend to tense up around him now. It's just I don't want to let go of control, in any form. Too dangerous.

Monday: Real life is ruined for me. I live in pictures and words now, because it's a lot safer; it's only me and it's perfect.

Tuesday: One of those days where I just wanted to stay on the bottom of the tub and not resurface.

Wednesday: Our grandparents have this incredibly epic, tragic story of how they ended up together. I just wonder, can everyone do that? Is there something out there that'll show me what a idiot I'm being, or is this it? I don't know which answer would be worse.

Thursday: Another bad day. It's flippant of me to say things like that, but it did. It still does, sometimes. I'm not a person for pain - in fact, I'm a total wuss about it. But there are times when I hate myself and what I feel so badly that I think it'll be better for everyone if I just got some rope and strung myself up in the shed. Or grabbed a packet or two of pills from the medi tin. Drown myself in the neighbour's dam. Gas myself in one of the cars. The list goes on. I've given it a lot of thought, probably more than is natural or healthy.

Friday: Collected colour strips in case I ever get the chance to paint my room. I'd go with "Fantasy Pink". It'd be so soft and romantic with my lamps.

Saturday: The thing that inspired this entry was a dream I'd had the night before it. We were best friends and he was getting married so I ran away, was found by an elderly couple and did some weird thing were I became a little kid again and forgot all about him. Then we met on the street with his wife and kids and he was sad and kept saying that we were meant to the be same age, what went wrong? I couldn't remember who he was but then he was hugging me and I was older again and he still had yet to get married. I was refusing to go and everyone was getting angry at me for spoiling his day and he was furious and then sad (again) and then there was me debating whether or not to tell him how I felt, since he kept dropping hints about me saying something. Then I woke up.

A crazy dream, I know, but it led me to mull over what would happen if/when he does get married. It felt so... painful, thinking about it, knowing that I'd never want to ruin things for him and accepting that I would be there, see it all. I keep telling myself that if she makes him happy everything will be alright, and I know it will, but then the selfish side of me wants to know what I'll do; what role I'll play in his life after that. She'd be his friend and his comfort and just there, I guess. And... I don't know. I suppose it'll be the wake up call I'll need. It's just so hard to picture right now.

Sunday: Him just being so overwhelmingly sweet, affectionate. I hate it as much as I love it. Hate it because it makes me feel guilty and dirty, and love it because he's my everything.

Monday: I've always slept alot, but lately it's been a lot. I wonder if I'm coming down with something?

Tuesday: Me pondering my different futures.

Wednesday: His friend is still being nice, weird. Even though I know it'll upset my brother and cause another fight, I'm wondering whether or not to take his friend up on what I think he's hinting at. Horrible of me, I know.

Thursday: I wrote another letter. I like letters, and this one was just me saying how much he meant, apologizing for being an idiot and fighting with him, saying I'll always be there no matter who comes into our lives, or where I run away to.

Friday: "A rod for your back" is our grandfather's favourite saying. I think it means that you're causing problems for yourself, or something like that. Granddad was talking about how he is with me, I think. About how he's so doting and I'm so lazy, no doubt. :p

Saturday: We spent a nice afternoon together, full of little things that I wish I could write or paint for everyone adequately.

Sunday: This is why you should never have your music up so loud you can't hear who's behind you. A big no-no.

I still feel very... raw. I'm not quite sure of what to do. A little lost, I guess.

Tristes Apprêts, Pâles Flambeaux, part 1

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 07:24:24 GMT

... Well, not really. I'm only going to post a few pictures for now, then more next week and then some more. After all, I have a rough two months to show off. :P

Friday: We had a fight, a really bad one. It was my fault - I'm just so damn hopeless and pathetic and he just knows me really well; he says that he knows me really well, like nothing I could ever do or say would surprise him and I hated that.

Saturday: My ritual guilt-feeling and stubbornness. It's too bad that we're both jackasses when it comes to fighting.

Sunday: Our fight continued. It's surprising how painful it was, hearing him say that (and I'm sure that's a direct quote, I'm positive it is).

Monday: Little hints of us patching it up.

Tuesday: I just live in some really pretty, twilight moments. See some nice smiles or dimples or have a good hair day. I wish I could have snapshots of it all.

Wednesday: A pillow world of comfort. It was really nice.

Thursday: Me just mulling over how that maybe I keep myself deliberately sad. I'm not a total gloom puss, it's just that my diaries both paper and electronic cop the fallout. I am cheerful, most of the time.

Friday: (...I did any way, just because the 29th only comes around every four years. It felt special)

Saturday: Little things that proved he didn't hate me for being weak, for being stupid. I felt better afterwards.

And that's the end of Feb. March will be up as soon as I can be bothered to scan it in. :p Though I'm not sure if I should even post it... I didn't have a very cheerful month. It's kind of self-pitying and gloomy.

Oh, I want to stretch out and sleep.

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 12:56:51 GMT

.... or art, either.

Too bright and too dull. I have yet to win. I have no idea exactly why my scanner goes all out to annoy me-perhaps I hit it too much? Hmm.

Friday night: Yeah, I know. I'm a bitch.

Sunday: It's been about two and half years since our Grandmother died. On Sunday I was going through all the boxes I had and found the above photo-it's a copy of the original, one of several in the house. No one actually likes it-Granddad especially, since this was meant to be taken when she was 19, my age, an age that Granddad didn't know her. I had been saving the picture of the crown for a couple of months and the bottle was a lucky find, in a old magazine that I'd kept-it was her scent. The stag is from my book of fairytales. She loved mystic-type stories. Anything with magic.

She probably wouldn't be too happy with me these days.

Monday: My life has gotten to the point where I resort to make entries out of the weather. In my defense, it was crazy windy.

Tuesday: One of my windows. The morning view was me in bed and the evening view is me sitting at my computer. I actually kinda lied with the evening view. It was a tad bit more darker. Or maybe more grey... I can't remember anymore. :P But as for those little lights, seriously, I see them ALL THE TIME. I kid you not. And yeah, there are always more bats too.

Wednesday: Haha, it matches my online entry. Blah.

Thursday: I know I'm being a Drama Queen but it just seems so unfair to me, letting him get away with it when I can practically start fights about it with my brother. It's just all blah. Blah, blah.

I was made for the fifties.

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 12:48:02 GMT

So, since I don't contribute to the household with money and am, in actual fact, kinda like a useless ornament, I thought I'd make something for the men's afternoon tea. Granddad came home for lunch, as he always does, and he helped me make a huge, cake-like zucchini slice thing. I'm just starting out learning how to cook. My most successful thing so far is sweet stuff, like cookies and english tea cakes. Anyway, so I made the slice and then as I was home alone for the afternoon my brother's friend-the one who's been partly the backbone for some of our recent fights-came over looking for him. Kinda awkward, but he ended up sitting in the kitchen and eating my baking. I was both put off by how comfortable he is just making himself at home, and amused.

It was okay; he's been friendly lately, which is a huge turn-around from the asshole he was in highschool. The only weird thing was that he touched my hair and told me it was growing long. It wasn't anything sensual or crap like that, but just that he pulled on my hair as I was getting a drink and said, "Your hair's getting long."

Yes, thanks for that, I hadn't noticed. Thank-god my cousin came home soon after. I'm just not used to people touching me, no matter how. I hardly even touch my family (though in his case, that's a safety precaution). Hmm. Undoubtably, I will get over this. Maybe.

A pretty posy.

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 10:32:57 GMT

A paper rose found via this place.

I feel like surrounding myself with a rainbow of lovely, soft things. My room is a mess and my bed is old and boring. Whereas my brother has a water mattress I've been making do with proper material all these years. I need a change and the bedroom just seems the right place to start. Yet I don't think I'll get to do a makeover soon which-as shallow as this sounds-is something that really kinda bums me out. When I get into the mood to rearrange something I'm not happy until it happens. A glitch in the system. I'd like roses and soft blankets and... I don't know. Somewhere to feel pretty.

I want to be one of those endlessly magic girls, the ones that seem to trail beauty and fairy dust behind them, the ones that have tea parties with dolls and birds and little animals. The type of girl that people fall madly and stupidly in love with, the type of girl that inspires stories and songs and colours. The ones who seem to turn everything into golden glitter.

I hate the internet, because it seems they're everywhere and it makes me feel like I'm only here so you can appreciate them even more.

Silly, I know. I'll cheer up soon.