And how may I escape that of which I have placed upon myself. In the secret follies admired unjustly by my soul, the caving of my spirit had become known. He is but something only the temporary would happenstance to wish upon. Never at enduring, only at dying, within the slow, subtle, breach of society's echoes. I am laced about my winding thoughts, they dread abut the weary darkness. To a front I play the fool, to live in the life I thought was needed. Never again, will I allow this weakness upon me. I shall not, and will not fear, but only with non-conditional, mandatory rulings placed within my heart. She crosses you plainly, yet you enlist about a warmth of light. She churns in the mixing of the others perspective, and you drool about how one can be so accustomed to conformity. You say you wish upon the unknown wench, the one of the night. The one that calls to the sea, and places her soul in the wind. I, but a feather to the bay at oceans current. Never amongst the thoughts, not even the shadowed ones. "Life would be no more than a succession of days. I wished it to be brief, for the secret follies of passion had become alien to me."-The Princess of Montpensier

Why what peace you must have. A lovely tourniquet follows you around like a plague. It invites its victims with a wave of apathetic endearment... Later to be crushed under the air they cannot breathe, because they are not of your kind. Can no one love you? Are you such a kind that waves the sight of containment, at its loss, never at its gain. Never understanding... Only fearing. At a time, you will be haunted, the lonely air will freeze at the sight of you. The trees will wither with your face, the sky will darken as the fog brazes the wind it travels. The sun will find you, but die soon after. Instead the moon will have you at your soul, but even keep its distance. For never will you have it. Never will you see it, gasping, emotions running deficient. You do not allow anything justified, you only desire wavering trifles. You wish upon the forest, the trees that are dying, the trees that search in sake of societal gain. The trees that give up on themselves to follow an importance. The trees that hate themselves, and convince themselves otherwise. I love you, but even that has its faults.

Wherence, I find my stature diluted upon. To understand is to forget all of ones naturals state, into the unknown. Does fate envelop love? Does love overtake all of its predecessors? In alacrity, my mind seethes upon my thoughts unto its honing instincts. If it were, the infatuation claims a faulty crutch, leer me, a fortuitous substitute. My sentiments relapse within these yearnings, as I shout to the heavens my elusive nature. Never again, but only this. Thus a prison, thus a market, a sell of endowment, a sell of predetermined prospects, these my parents take refuge abut. We fade amongst the lilies, at bay, neath the kingdom stay. Trust is a fortified argument, nothing to be sham, and a loose lengthened array to favor ancestral dominance. Folly echoes the breaths of my past. For it to never be again, a proof of longevity, to natures charm, and societies wit. Only but a change, a swivel I must take.

To but just have a glimpse of hope, I shall be sustained in loneliness. If only but a thought. The essence of my mind, a trifling encounter, a mercy beckoning cry. At the weight of my judgment, a far-sighted nigh. And with it the loose lengthening emotions that are me. I control you, but I cannot. If I could do whatever I did I would be lost. Lost and forgotten in myself, a wintry falsification of truth. He's a thinker, dressed in fastidious black. A forever aloof embellishment, and a long lighted texan. This place is dry, this place is wet, but it shall whichever of displeasure. I am discontented, but shimmering in my countenance. As it were, though as you could tell, a dull lingering furtherance. Last Christmas was a fun discontinuation of my soul. I shan't bring myself upon susceptibility again. I thank thee that inhibits me. Upon you I give my graces to, for you give rise to my innate self. I gently kiss the weathered disposition that has become of me, become of us. Have I finally reason to move from this cold, assuming path? Yet a bitter wind of chills from the north, and all I have is knowledge of the abyss.

I wonder at this extremity. I only work with subtle affirmations, and it brings me to my demise. Under the sound of simpering whispers, under the torches lighted dimly, the wood of the roots, and the essence of moisture in the desert air. Of which I reciprocate, of which denial beseeches its receivers. I could never feel a kiss so bold, I would never see love if it was written so plainly, I wont ever realize the depths of emotions so bluntly expressed. Only at ambiguity can my stature be replaced, and therein it will remain. Unto me a founded place, it only disintegrates with its known existence. I rot herein and find myself panting for a sacred haven. I gloat upon and temper trued. And now I understand, no further amplifications will be upon state. This hour, if it but had of me, I would say hello. The chill in the wind frees me from my expectations, but I must face them. I look to the face of my life and I recognize my likelihood of survival: at nigh of an oblivion. "The winner takes it all"

It may be your abilities, and not what your abilities have placed upon you. I cannot look to the face that he is. How can you look upon my existence with a nonchalant high? It seemed as though we could make nothing of it, but in realism a better bough. An extension of you, that is the longing I sore of. Maybe for the best, I do contend, but not as if I wanted it to be. How you can say so much and mean nothing of it. How the world is implied, in a rosemary of sorts, and a parsing ache. Your obsessions delve themselves to your side, to your feathering whims. And at a caustic trifle, a sound is made. The sound of your life, in a twenty second abated interval. I hear it trudging along, dreading itself, and at a far sighted plea I leer upon a grin. A fateful sigh, and I relic upon you a rye expression of dull adherence. I acknowledge your presence and with a muddle you disgrace mine. Am I not the person that my words condone?

I need to stop fettering with the stars. They plague me so, they leave me deftly. I find a mist to wander in, I find a wolf to dance with. I died that night and you never looked for me. But again with this soundless whimpering, this finicky plow of determined existence. And I cave at the edge of my thoughts, the edge of my mind. I feel the presence of evil as it rays its lovely etching across my understanding. Have I escaped? Or am I stuck in the burrows of haphazard emotions? Had it been absolved, I would be free. Had it been a relic in times fragrance, a smear in the dimension's opening. Had I never known the other side for what it really was, I would still be looping about in my own world. But no, exposition at it's greatest, in the thicket of nonsense, in the layers of treason and remorse, and tall tail signs of pigmented truth. I foretell the eyes that see me, in a bliss of wandering soughs that make of me my soul. Ah, but it would never had it ever. Calm your senses dear dear Julia.

I climb upon this ladder of uncertainty. I am lost in this fog. I need to reach out, but I don't know where I will be taken. I find myself lurking among stupidity in the face of curiosity. That's all it is... But I'm too scared to fight it. I can't fight it. I won't. I'm shaken off my feet, caught in this whirlwind, once again, oh but once again, a many more times in probability. I'm shredded to the very finest of texture, and yet I complain. This lazy confinement i have figured is taking it's toll. I listen to 60's music, and it calms me. I used to hate 60's music. I just don't understand. I fight you in the face of idealism, but what I need is realism, that is you, but do I really. No one knows, and no one will ever know. I figure things to my advantage and I figure my advantage to society... A terrible thing, a vicious cycle, and yet I partake in such. I don't really know you, I only know what has become of you, but what are you, who are you, how can I tell, and I am lying to myself. Time can only tell the face of these manners, only time can bring upon understanding. But time used is time wasted... Or is it?

It seems as though the more I try to avoid awkward situations, the more I become involved in them. So many times I try to date guys shortly after meeting them to avoid awkward pretenses involved with me and my guy friends or guy acquaintances. But there are so many problems with dating guys without really knowing them. I never know what I'm going to get, and that's really annoying. But I'm glad I finally figured it out. Now I just need to find some magical potion to go back in time so that I can get to know guys before committing anything to them. The only thing I can't argue with is that when I break up with a guy after thinking I was in love with them after not really knowing them is really not that hard, just annoying to be looked upon with animosity.