poisonedgrace: (what that do?)
 Been trying to spend as much of today as I can squeeze in studying time travel theories.
I'm absolutely fascinated by them and they'll be handy in some story lines that I've been working on. recently

a clinical dissection of pocket timelines and the consequences on perceived history as presented in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure is slowly making it's way across my note pad and staining my fingers with ink.

it's becoming rather smudged, but it is also filled with awesome.
poisonedgrace: (what that do?)
 Been trying to spend as much of today as I can squeeze in studying time travel theories.
I'm absolutely fascinated by them and they'll be handy in some story lines that I've been working on. recently

a clinical dissection of pocket timelines and the consequences on perceived history as presented in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure is slowly making it's way across my note pad and staining my fingers with ink.

it's becoming rather smudged, but it is also filled with awesome.
poisonedgrace: (Default)

I have a serious rant inside my head right now. It's banging the pots against the pans and stomping all over and causing mischief of one kind... and another. However, there is not one person who reads this who would understand it in the least (except my mom lol, and we've already had the conversation several times). So I'll just leave it in my head, and I'll try to come up with something else over it's noisy rampage.


  I did have a dream last night... 
I'm not sure that'd make any sense to anyone either though...
I could write a whole story about how in my dream, I was M'kali Stormcaller and I had to go with my friends in August's car on a quasi-military mission where through disguise and trickery, as well as brute force and magic, we had to fight a den of Shrike Matrons who were trying to set up a rookery in Amaranth.  Apparently this unlocked some keys about the mysterious southlands though, and I suppose it would serve me well to at least make this small note, even though nobody will have any clue what I'm on about.

Sometimes... sometimes I wish this was the dream, and that was real.




 

 

 

poisonedgrace: (Default)

I have a serious rant inside my head right now. It's banging the pots against the pans and stomping all over and causing mischief of one kind... and another. However, there is not one person who reads this who would understand it in the least (except my mom lol, and we've already had the conversation several times). So I'll just leave it in my head, and I'll try to come up with something else over it's noisy rampage.


  I did have a dream last night... 
I'm not sure that'd make any sense to anyone either though...
I could write a whole story about how in my dream, I was M'kali Stormcaller and I had to go with my friends in August's car on a quasi-military mission where through disguise and trickery, as well as brute force and magic, we had to fight a den of Shrike Matrons who were trying to set up a rookery in Amaranth.  Apparently this unlocked some keys about the mysterious southlands though, and I suppose it would serve me well to at least make this small note, even though nobody will have any clue what I'm on about.

Sometimes... sometimes I wish this was the dream, and that was real.




 

 

 

poisonedgrace: (alone)
 I'm sick.
Not the kind of sick that's going to be solved by acid reducers or nasal spray.
Not the kind of sick where the right pills would have me bike riding and kayaking with a partner whose health I repect.
Hell, not even the kind of sick where I can lay on a couch and some jerk with a notepad can make a flow chart of by life.

I'm sick like a junkie.
Sick in a 'Daddy needs his medecine' kind of way.
Only what I need does not exist.

I'm sick because the entire world is at war with my brain... with my heart.
Everything I have ever known or seen is trying with all its might to convince me that you do not exist.
That you have never existed.
That you will never exist.
This entire world with all of its beakers and tubes, all of its prayers and religion, its silicon chips and tissue cultures all of the math, science, religion, blood, sweat, tears and money - it can not make you exist.  It will not let you exist.

And oh, my heart of hearts, how I miss you.
I miss the never-was and the blinding light of truth.
I miss the stories and the aching bones.
The rain, the wind and that ominous tapping on the window.

Sometimes, I slip. I think I see your reflection somewhere.
I chase through the night, capering after ignis fatuus for time untold, only to find another husk, dry and cracked.
I feel as though my longing could move a world.
Yet it keeps not happening.

Slowly, all the world outside starts to take its toll and I begin to doubt.
My sanity. You. The past, the future, time itself! I begin to doubt myself.
That... That makes a pain inside of me.
A pain that turns into a rage. A rage that fuels my heart while it is consumed of the pain until in a brilliant shattering glory, I burn.

The ashes stir and Something That Looks Like Me comes out.
It eats my memories, consumes the shards of my personality.

I start all over again.
Waiting. Searching. Forever.

It's becoming tedious, my darling, this eternity.
If I could stop seeing your reflection, pale and wan, as if in a frosted glass then maybe I could forget.
But I can't help that.  There are times that the light shines your colour and it's been so long since I've seen you that even the faint glow blinds me and I am drawn like the moth.  Relentlessly and endlessly, my love.

Maybe you do not exist. Perhaps you never did. Maybe you're fragmented into a thousand bright stars and all I can see is your reflection mingled with the base essence of another.  I can never put you back together again.  Insanity creeps at the corners of my mind with teeth, bitter and sharp.

Or maybe, we all have the capacity...
And nobody bothers to polish.
This is maybe the worst idea of all because it speaks of a million lost causes, an infinity of sinking ships.

I am not fit for this world.
poisonedgrace: (alone)
 I'm sick.
Not the kind of sick that's going to be solved by acid reducers or nasal spray.
Not the kind of sick where the right pills would have me bike riding and kayaking with a partner whose health I repect.
Hell, not even the kind of sick where I can lay on a couch and some jerk with a notepad can make a flow chart of by life.

I'm sick like a junkie.
Sick in a 'Daddy needs his medecine' kind of way.
Only what I need does not exist.

I'm sick because the entire world is at war with my brain... with my heart.
Everything I have ever known or seen is trying with all its might to convince me that you do not exist.
That you have never existed.
That you will never exist.
This entire world with all of its beakers and tubes, all of its prayers and religion, its silicon chips and tissue cultures all of the math, science, religion, blood, sweat, tears and money - it can not make you exist.  It will not let you exist.

And oh, my heart of hearts, how I miss you.
I miss the never-was and the blinding light of truth.
I miss the stories and the aching bones.
The rain, the wind and that ominous tapping on the window.

Sometimes, I slip. I think I see your reflection somewhere.
I chase through the night, capering after ignis fatuus for time untold, only to find another husk, dry and cracked.
I feel as though my longing could move a world.
Yet it keeps not happening.

Slowly, all the world outside starts to take its toll and I begin to doubt.
My sanity. You. The past, the future, time itself! I begin to doubt myself.
That... That makes a pain inside of me.
A pain that turns into a rage. A rage that fuels my heart while it is consumed of the pain until in a brilliant shattering glory, I burn.

The ashes stir and Something That Looks Like Me comes out.
It eats my memories, consumes the shards of my personality.

I start all over again.
Waiting. Searching. Forever.

It's becoming tedious, my darling, this eternity.
If I could stop seeing your reflection, pale and wan, as if in a frosted glass then maybe I could forget.
But I can't help that.  There are times that the light shines your colour and it's been so long since I've seen you that even the faint glow blinds me and I am drawn like the moth.  Relentlessly and endlessly, my love.

Maybe you do not exist. Perhaps you never did. Maybe you're fragmented into a thousand bright stars and all I can see is your reflection mingled with the base essence of another.  I can never put you back together again.  Insanity creeps at the corners of my mind with teeth, bitter and sharp.

Or maybe, we all have the capacity...
And nobody bothers to polish.
This is maybe the worst idea of all because it speaks of a million lost causes, an infinity of sinking ships.

I am not fit for this world.
poisonedgrace: (</3)

"Did I request thee, Maker from my clay 
To mould Me man? Did I solicit thee 
From darkness to promote me?"


Why is it that so many people seem to get hung up on one part of any story.
It's usually a small thing to seize on, considering the work as a whole.
Ahhh the things Hollywood can do to influence something over time, and eventually alter things beyond recognition even though the original is still there as it has been for nearly two hundred years, just waiting for the few who are sharp enough to still manage to open up the cover and read.
But really... who does that anymore?
Even in our personal interactions... who does that?
Sad, but true.

Although I must admit I can understand in this case.  It IS a terribly romantic notion.  Something perfect and fitted and... *sigh*

Make one for me, lithe and free with burning hands, a voice like bells, Shinigami eyes and a penchant for the dark corners of the world.

"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin.”

~I remain, until the next time.


"Cutting with the knife
Blood is spilling everywhere
She will be my wife
Secondary spine
incisions must be accurate
I know just what to do
My hands are trembling
I can't spare 
to slip up with this knife
Her beauty so illogical
The beast come gliding in
Hideous chameleon 
stripped down to her skin
Dance to the burning flame
Pleasure exhumes the pain
The night bursts into flames"


poisonedgrace: (</3)

"Did I request thee, Maker from my clay 
To mould Me man? Did I solicit thee 
From darkness to promote me?"


Why is it that so many people seem to get hung up on one part of any story.
It's usually a small thing to seize on, considering the work as a whole.
Ahhh the things Hollywood can do to influence something over time, and eventually alter things beyond recognition even though the original is still there as it has been for nearly two hundred years, just waiting for the few who are sharp enough to still manage to open up the cover and read.
But really... who does that anymore?
Even in our personal interactions... who does that?
Sad, but true.

Although I must admit I can understand in this case.  It IS a terribly romantic notion.  Something perfect and fitted and... *sigh*

Make one for me, lithe and free with burning hands, a voice like bells, Shinigami eyes and a penchant for the dark corners of the world.

"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin.”

~I remain, until the next time.


"Cutting with the knife
Blood is spilling everywhere
She will be my wife
Secondary spine
incisions must be accurate
I know just what to do
My hands are trembling
I can't spare 
to slip up with this knife
Her beauty so illogical
The beast come gliding in
Hideous chameleon 
stripped down to her skin
Dance to the burning flame
Pleasure exhumes the pain
The night bursts into flames"


poisonedgrace: (Default)
"we have a whole world of people looking for salvation.
salvation in a handful of pills.
salvation in a little black dress.
salvation at the bottom of a keg.
salvation in an unborn child.
salvation at the end of the last episode.
salvation between the sheets.
salvation in an empty church.
salvation in an empty bottle."
poisonedgrace: (Default)
"Sifu, why are there so many different ways to make a fist?"

"Making a fist is the same as selecting a brush for painting.
For the composition, one must choose wisely the correct size, shape and texture.
If not, the art will suffer, and the outcome will lack in merit"

"Sifu, I do not understand."

"Then perhaps you should spend more time painting."

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