Words, words, words. (II. ii. 1230)

Seven hundred and three days ago, the day we met.
The countlessness of our relationship,
the breakdown of social expectation.
One hundred weeks and three days—
and we still stay up past midnight talking.
Seven hundred and three days...
maybe if numbers were words, they would mean less.

It wasn't one point five five one years of together,
it was eighteen months and eighteen days
of disconnect and momentary passion.
I have truly loved you for five hundred sixty five days
of this expanse, this fabric in time.
But, if numbers were words, and yet—

It only took three days to drown;
only point five three one percent
of the time I spent knowing you, I have spent not loving you.
Only a fraction of a hundredth,
an infinitesimal amount,
of the past eighty weeks and three days
have not been suspended in haze.
Hazed meanings and words,
words that might make numbers mean—

If numbers were words, would they mean any less than they do?
Would the kiss of five hundred one days ago
disappear in a few hours?
Can numbers make forever happen?

The young detective

My (accidental) take on the thought-fiddler, Mr. Derren Brown. <3

(I have a lot of gripes about this one. His eyes aren't quite right. The contrast is all wrong. He doesn't look adorable enough. You can't tell he's really reading your mind... etc.)

Like a wave

Another year, another planner cover. I like this one much, much better than last year's. My first time actually painting something for fun! And so it was--fun I mean. Perhaps I should do it more often.

Nikki and Mel

Sketches [5]

This is pretty much what my new sketchbook looks like.

Zea - colored pencil practice

Practice with colored pencils. I don't know if I like the way it came out... I think I worked on it too long. Should have used a reference.

színes nyár

Took me all day. I'm rather proud of it, to be honest.

Ode to Alphonse Maria Mucha

I should have went ahead and drawn flowers around her. In the next one I will!

The scanner is in my mother's possession presently and her computer doesn't have photoshop so I didn't really get a chance to clean it up and the like.

Yakkers West at night

YES! She's finished. Now if only the background and midground were a bit more realistic. One step at a time.

One year

I drew a doodle similar to this in AP US sometime this March while not paying attention to the First World War. I had the song below on repeat in my head, all melancholy like. I feel like now is an appropriate time to finish it, at least partially.



----
Six days till the one year anniversary. I feel a bit broken inside. I feel like I'm not the same as I was that day; naive and emotional. It's unreasonable for me to say that I won't move on, but I don't believe I can go through the motions; not now, not without him. And even though he's changed so much from that night and I have too, I feel remnants of my dreams still reawakening that burning desire, like part of me would take him back unconditionally if only he asked.

I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer certain what is for the best--neither for me, nor for him. I think about the months, the seasons. Sweaty July nights experienced through a drained body fighting sleep. Chilled August, 2 a.m. on a dewy golf course. Frosted November, the zoo, the road, a fence... A pained and reluctant December, an ecstatic March's kitchen and fancy dress giving birth to a disappointed and distant April.

No, not all of me felt this, only a part I cannot repair. And it's the rest of me, in a gesture of saving face, which has diminished the value and importance of that part. The rest of me answers questions concerning my well being, my school, my friends, my grades... my life. The rest of me interacts, while that part stays hidden and shrinks. But nevertheless, a year later, now almost fully recovered, I find myself unable to move on and to let go. I find myself unwilling to accept my broken part as is, accept that missing piece as forever lost. I have changed because of time, because of a year. I have changed, and my parts now feel lost.

----
I just thought I would share this with you, an entry to my personal journal. Even though I can listen to the same songs I listened to then, now without crying or feeling sad or nostalgic, and even though I now only think about this every few days, as the marks imprinted by the past travel through time, I find I think about it constantly. I walk through the same places I walked through once before, and I still see how they were then through the veil of how they are now. I still feel the hole that has not yet closed.

----
What did you say?
That you only meant well, well of course you did.
What did you say?
That it's all for the best, of course it is.
What did you say?
That it's all for the best, you decided this.

Yakkers West at night - WIP

My hand's gonna fall off. Will finish in the morning.

---
Edit:


Still working...

Robin - Finished

Robin - WIP

I NEED SLEEP.

Sketches [4]

Oops, eyes are lopsided.

Aona [2]

Yay! I did paint it! You know, I had to install an older version of my tablet's driver because it was acting strange? And then I spent fifteen minutes trying to have it only map monitor 1 not both. *sigh* it was worth it though.

Aona

I love drawing her. I used a picture of Hyde from L'Arc~en~Ciel as reference. This realism business isn't all that difficult at all. Color to come, hopefully.

Sketches [3]

True Love

Here's to you, my 89,
Because when I ask you for the cosine
of pi over six, you answer to me
it is one half the square root of three
Oh how I love thee, my dear 89.

And though David G. Myers*
may make my knees weaker,
I hope one day soon he retires,
for he mistook a flask for a beaker.
But you will never lie to me, my dear 89.

No one can derive like you
I ask d of 2x comma x, you say two,
and I know it is true.
For you, every function I will define,
because you are my dear 89.

I am the only one who can appreciate
the magic you do when you integrate.
And when I work up the nerve
to ask for the area under the curve,
your answers help me pass, my dear 89.

---
*Author of Psychology, 7th ed. (2003), AKA the best textbook ever.

Sketches [2]

Poses and ALAN DAVIES! <3 I just need a huntsman spider and a cake with a candle on it.

Flies away and the other...

RD in watercolor.

Copies of your chart

I was rummaging through my old (8th grade) sketchbooks and found some Miyavi fanart. Haha, I laughed. This is so childishly drawn and look at the proportions oh goodness, I'm glad these stay tucked away where no one can see them!

I'm always critical of my past art, in a very grateful way. "That's sucky old* me, I'm where I am now and I can show you up with this awesome thing I'm gonna draw right next to it." Also, my new pencil lead came in today. Mmm... B lead mechanical pencils.


I miss listening to Miyavi all day. Well.. this is why we fight. At least I can listen to Regina.

---
*So we say old meaning in the past, but let's face it, 17 years is more than 13 years. I'm older NOW. Therefore, "old me" = "young(er) me." Only in English can we make old = young. [don't quote me on that, maybe you can get away with it in Swazi]

Sketches

Robin who doesn't seem lonely and depressed!

Henry who looks more handsome and better defined than last time.

And silliness!

Someone next door's...

Fucking to one of my songs.


I'll always opt to fall down these stairs in the end...

Trains and Sewing Machines

I've been playing hide and seek with a fever the past two days. I can't sleep. I wake up every few hours frantic, like I'm supposed to be elsewhere doing something important.

The reality that I am supposed to be doing important things is beside the point.

Import'nt stuff is happening, and I'm delusional beyond belief, sleep deprived and light headed. But it'll work out in the end. I will make every single detail fit.


RD if RD were human. Oh I know, RD is a boy, and RD is a fish. But RD is also just a binocular cue for depth perception. Retinal Disparity has no gender.


In the garden of your love, I'll stay awhile.
To be, to be.


The sounds I have heard in your hello....
Oh, darling. You're almost part of me.

Oh, darling. You're all I'll ever see.

I love the Moody Blues. I love Imogen Heap. I love Regina Spektor. I love everything. I love the world. I love you.

Chemicals should not be stored in plastic sandwich bags

But we do it anyway.


That is definitely not a properly graduated Erlenmeyer flask, but that's okay. You shouldn't be using an Erlenmeyer to measure things. Certainly not to make solutions. They are great fun for swirling, however. The 50 mL ones make me smile. (All 50 mL flasks and beakers make me smile.)

Nothing is important

i am;

a surrealist swimming
in the sea of illusions
my words are so honest.
my heart.
my only living organ; still intact.
i babble, lucid. i make sense,
i understand—
but i'm so confused.
lost in a world of perception.
it felt so good, so good to talk
like only that moment mattered
only it existed.
"but it's okay now"
"it's okay... now"
it's alright
everything
every single thing...
it's alright.
like i'm tripping; delusional but realistic
clarity weaving in and out of focus.
taunting.
but i understand—or do i?
every single thing!
...it'll be alright
cow heart and banana;
it'll be alright.
today i stand, born again
i fly like the crow


i fly so, so high.

So they give it a word, and the word is...

I had a wonderful yoga practice today. And I'm inexplicably happy...

I know why the skies all cry...

Om.

I figured I would fix up my phone case like I intended to all those months ago. I'm so happy, guys. I want everyone to be happy; joy should be contagious.

Om shanti shanti shanti. Peace, peace, peace.

Laments of a Span

Another frozen sun ascends through the dense air. It casts long reflections of blocked out buildings onto the catatonic river beneath me. No sharp wind disturbs me on this winter morning. Snow laces the river banks as well as my railing, like confectioners' sugar on dark chocolate cake. Mornings like these make me see the beauty of life—of the nature only I witness. I would sigh if I could.

Yet amid this natural beauty, I see no one. Such a pristine landscape should not be marred with people. Only I stand strong, straddling this river bed, providing passage to anyone who wishes it. I am functional, I am sturdy, I am repaired when needed. My black metallic railing rusts at the seams. My cobblestone back erodes with each passing season. My infrastructure predates the roads I connect. But I am useful when people come across me.

I have seen many people come and go, but none on this morning. Perhaps the biting cold keeps them inside. Perhaps the morbid branches of withering trees which obscure the landscape with veils of scattered black deter them; I do not blame the warm blooded for their reluctance. I would stay inside too, if I could.

Nothing awaits them out here anyway, only the outer walls of old, crumbling buildings painted in browns and grays, and a river—though possessing the grandeur of a stream—with calm, yet polluted waters, that meanders through the city. People do not have to stand atop me to see it. Any spot will do. The reflected elegance is not exclusive to my back. Yet no one takes advantage of this opportunity. No one bothers to see the view.

And though the chill dives into the very core of my being and I may lament over my loneliness, I love this winter solitude. In utter selfishness, so no one else can, this moment and this pastel scenery I will steal.

Major Arcana: Card 0

I stare at the ominous desk in front of me. Seventy-eight cards stare back. Amidst the blinding glare of the cold winter sun, one captures my mortified attention. Zero, the Fool. Thrown down like the rest, the Fool still floats to the surface to haunt me.

I am zero. I am the Fool, the beginning, the faith, and the folly. These cards decide my life, with their embellished borders and smooth surfaces; like my fate, slippery and meretricious. The Fool-the only word my eyes can read in the sea of possibility-shows the only qualities I see in myself. Yet nothing about me embodies the Fool. I lack spontaneity; I can't accept my choices; I don't let go of worries and fears.

I let the cards govern my life. The unconditional trust of the Fool I see in myself. "This card mocks the questioner," the spread guide should say. Below him I see, slightly buried, the card of despair; the IX of Swords. This card, shrouded by shadows, stabs at the questioner's deepest fears. I find myself fearing my future.

The rest of the cards—the Star, the Empress, the VII of Cups—become obscured by the sun. They possess too much goodness and light for me to even consider them. No, I am the Fool, the nothing, the zero. Naive and trusting, I walk myself off the cliff of indecision; push myself into the abyss of relinquished control. I pass on my responsibility to inanimate objects printed in China. They decide my life choices, not I. I submit to their will. I no longer possess any control of my life.

Yet, save for these occasional lapses in certainty, I feel no guilt for my inaction or diversion. These cards are my veil to the world; I see in them what I want to see. The frenzied delirium of blind devotion fades, and the sounds of the outside world trickle into my consciousness. But fear still lingers, fear that one day I will be responsible for my decaying future.