Ikhelek

Embrace the image of solitude. It is the essence of our being the center of who we are. No matter how many arms surround you, no matter how many voices call to you, no matter how many faces greet you, They must remain outside. The definition of individuality is solitude. We are alone in our thoughts in our feelings. Sharing the feeling is mere coincidence. Only you feel each emotion to its fullest, never sharing it in pure form with another. The source of those feelings remains your isolated core. You.

Consider the wind. The strength to wear down mountains, the force to level buildings and raze cities. Yet, it never remains constant for long. It shifts. It moves. It flickers. Faster than any flame. Down to its core inconsistent. It gives shape, a force unparalleled in our world. Pause, and consider the wind.

 The dark blue computer screen illuminated in a flash of glaring white light, a familiar chiming noise drawing Donna's attention from the kitchen.  She placed the black-handled chef's knife onto the granite countertop and stepped up to her laptop on the dining room table. Roxie23: (7:24pm) Hey u there? Donna bit her lower lip, trying to resist the urge to respond to the instant message. Roxie23: (7:27pm) ?? Roxie23: (7:27pm) u mad at me? She let loose a soft sigh, shaking her head.  She had been avoiding answering Roxie's messages for the last few days, staying hidden on her instant messenger.  She was having so much trouble justifyi

 Alice's life was quite the ordinary one.  The daughter of former hippies reformed into the suit-wearing power couple of the 80s, she lived the same typical life of any child born in the 80s.  She had been raised by Elmo and the Count, with a little help from her nanny Consuela.  She had not exactly had an enjoyable childhood, but it was pleasant enough in comparison to the lives of so many people she had seen featured on Dateline and 20/20.  Life for Alice was perfectly cookie-cutter: it wasn't grand, but she was too practical to live life looking for perfection.   Instead, life was a grand collection of unimpressive flaws and mediocre revel

Alice's life was quite the ordinary one.  The daughter of former hippies reformed into the suit-wearing power couple of the 80s, she lived the same typical life of any child born in the 80s.  She had been raised by Elmo and the Count, had been raised by her nanny Consuela.  She had not exactly had an enjoyable childhood, but it was pleasant enough in comparison to the lives of so many people she had seen featured on Dateline and 20/20.  She grew up in a public school in the cheerfully dull suburbs of Cincinnati.  Life for Alice was perfectly cookie-cutter, and she never had a complaint.  Life wasn't grand, but she was too practical to live li

Peter: (walking into his apartment, slamming his keys onto the table by the door) What the fuck is wrong with me?  Seriously?  Was that really a smart decision?  You were practically drooling over that guy last night, and then you actually took his number?  Why?  We know better than to even pretend to pick up on those signals and you just sat there holding his card with a shit-eating grin on your face.  (walks across the single-room of his studio apartment, throws himself onto his bed roughly.  The coils of the mattress squeak under the sudden pressure) Yeah, he was cute.  Yeah, he was nice.  Yeah he looks like he's successful.  But we can't

The disco disclaims and discolors a world without standards to withstand the sweet, sweet beat. Like a train on its tracks the music will smack through our veins. The sweet, sweet beat moves our feet to its groove, the disco we don't understand It's revolution and evolution (baby) a path to new promised lands. The disco disarms and discredits a world without form to combat The deep, deep rhythm. Like a boat on the stream the music will scream to our hearts. The deep, deep rhythm slips us into its grip, the disco we don't want to find It's destruction and friction (honey) a path to dark lit tirades. So play it funky

 I spend most of my time on weekends being unproductive.  Be it by sleeping into the mid-afternoon or by never leaving my bed, there's not much to be said about my weekends.  The only constant for productivity always seems to be laundry.  Every Sunday once I manage to escape my self-inflicted bonds of blankets and sheets, I gather up the dirty towels and t-shirts, the sweaty underwear and socks, throw them into the same massive blue basket, and make the long trek to the laundry room. Now, Sundays are always strange days.  There's always something that manages to go awry, be it by a thunderstorm hitting your picnic or by waking up in the bed

Mornings start so slow and fast And everything sticks too quick to last We’re trapped in freedom, we’re lost in found And everything’s a silent sound Beautifully surrendering to all the things we could not be I cannot stop imagining you’re dreaming to be part of me ‘Cause after all we’re nothing more Than all the things we cannot see. Today comes like tomorrow won’t And we wish we did the things we don’t We hope for fears, we fear our hopes And dirty ourselves with bubbly soap Beautifully surrendering to all the things we should not be I would not stop imagining you’re dreaming to be

Just silly little things these dreams on strings that glide and glitter like butterfly wings: they rise and fall and dance about shifting quickly, things sown in doubt. Clutching tightly to dreams ephemeral we, too, begin to rise and fall. And dancing on strings we flit and sing all too like puppets, we silly little things.