Recycled from the Skimmer

I don't know what will happen with the site, L'écume des blogues. Will it stay online forever, or dissapear. But I really liked the concept, am quite proud of my contributions. I had to quit, just because, well, life kind of took over, priorities and such…

 

I'm reposting them here, for posterity my own pleasure.

 

 

As in everything is in your hands… In my eyes

posted Oct. 16th

 

There are firsts and then there are Firsts. Just like there are words and there are Words. What determines the capital could be intent. The importance we attribute to. On.

I wish everyday brought a First. Of course one would tell me I'm the one making them. Bringing them to life.

I wish every word I wrote was a Word. Of course one would tell me all of them are. It's all in the intent.

Whether the day is bleak, or not so bad, or even nice once in a while, surely a First would make it fuller. A story filled with Words would make it magical.

Through troubled times, on the verge of losing my mind, I wonder… Are my expectations too much, too heavy to carry? I don't have the answer. Even when pointed to, I don't think I could see it.

A ghost, a sad poet, an error 404… A teenaged girl and a pseudointellectual bullshitivist… In a string of words, in the home of the quiet velcro or in the skirmish of dark and light. I find glory… I find love for art… I live life in your panels. To no end.

So today I intend. Because you were my Firsts, you are my Words.

 

 

"You won't be the first… You won't be the last"*

posted Oct. 24th

 

A journey of a different kind, but still I have to get in line.

Yet, why should I step on this path, as well travelled as it's been?

Conforming within my rebellious stance, the timeline eludes me.

My actions, as random as they may seem, are of the doomed and the broken.

I've been granted full access, but will I reach my destination?

Only with my eyes, my hands, my mind, can I really touch your soul.

A passing breeze, the caress of the willow's leaves on your cheek.

When I get home, the one at the end of the path, far from the maddening crowd, all this will have turned to dust.

*post title inspired by Franky

 

 

My map glows in the dark

posted Oct. 30th 

 

Empty… my life lived through my keyboard. I am engulfed in a debauchery of emotions.

Crystalized, my dreams float above, attainable only if I really want to reach that far.

Being afraid… of being happy. Of not being enough, or just too much.

Yet solitude… Yet isolation… Fill in the blanks, they'll never fit me for I am a world of contradictions within a universe of linear shit.

I look down, look to the floor for arrows to tell me where to turn. But I know… I know that maps can only tell me so much.

Simplicity itself I tell myself. Just get rid of that goddamn tattoo, that fucking stain on your soul.

Then the light will hit me. At last, sweet light.