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 ^{(it's beta!)}

i like the way my feet look with toe rings on them, especially if i turn my feet, instep up, so you can't see how man-huge they are. i love toe rings, i'm a bit obsessed, but not enough to spend money on them. and they can't be dinky things i'll squish and lose in the grass. nono. i need badass loops of silver; twisty but unbreakable.

they kinda look like collars for my toes, like my toes are so wild i have to contain them.

rawr.

:D

Writing was like reading for me, as a child. Writing was like reading like breathing; like lying.

By first grade I was writing short stories, and blatantly lying in them. (As long as a writer doesn’t claim to tell the truth, no one expects it from them...)

No one noticed.

Reading was always easier until I realized that I was correcting passages, rearranging the books I enjoyed to make them better.

It started with changing sentences in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and continued when I made up songs to the tunes in my head. I tried poetry first. I guess I unconsciously knew then what I consciously flail myself with now: I haven’t got the attention span to write out relationships between people. I also, at the time, lacked the experience necessary to record the interactions between people.

My first attempts were clumsy, with maybe 1 good stanza out of every 3rd poem, if that. But I liked it, because the words were entirely mine, and no one else knew about them. (I always liked that about words; that they could mean so many things and the same thing all while being used in my way as well as a million other ways.)

I started keeping journals in 6th grade, though I have since destroyed most of them from that year because they made me cringe in disgust. I have since kept record of my life in several (about half a dozen) spiral notebooks in various colors, every entry dated, most written in pen.

I have easily read more books than I have written words, words that meant more than they said anyway. My dream as a writer was once to attempt to reach others; to try to give a stranger a glimpse into the way I see the world. Strangely, however, sharing my work with my friends is an anxious process which occurs only rarely, usually on spur of the moment and often later regretted, despite their praise.

I write the tales in my head I can’t write on paper. I am the main character of thousands of short stories that will never touch notebook or hard drive. I dream vividly most nights and many of the stories I have written are based off those dreams, even if all I can remember when I wake up is a single line, evanescent and trembling.

On principle I do not write love poetry. I refuse to bastardize an emotion I hardly believe in; as if to write it down is to cage it, to define it, and eventually to lose it without proof of its existence. Lust poetry, however, is an entirely different story.

I have a lot of that.

Dear IndyFluency,

After simply three days without my computer, and indeed, three days without you, I am forced to realize that I love you more than is appropriate. In fact, I am quite obsessed.

This is not fair since I am rather sure that you will never love me back in quite the same way. Oh you may like me, but your eyes don't ache for a mauve background and a chatterbox filled with milky's antics, you do not stay up until 4 in the morning reading my poems, you do not twitch when you can't visit me.

In short...

this means war.

Love, sincerely and all that truth,

burning_sands.

It's night and the moon is full and my hair is wet and my feet twitch to dance on the gray on black shadows of grass.

But there isn't any rain.

ahh to be a second semester senior. i spend my time reading, going to indoor guard and not doing work.

i'm into 3 colleges. i've only to make a decision.

i want cloudy skies, warm rain and high(er) temperatures. i want sleeping in and staying up, movies on demand and black and white home-made photography.

i want deevart, indyfluency, fantasyessentials, xanga, xkcd, QC, ASW, neil gaimain's blog and StumbleUpon.

i want wrestling and bonfires, hair pulling, shaved legs and shorts. tank tops, tan lines, old friends, new friends and senior week.

i want italy.

i want college.

i am sick of high school and i'm sick of (most of) the people i know. i am sick of this shitty excuse for a library. i am sick of being inside because of coldness. i am sick of sweatpants. i am sick of fake winter.

i'm waiting for motivation. which perhaps defeats a purpose.

(perhaps)

i want this