Self indulgent B*****d

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I can take the occasional joke from people I don’t know
I can take all the insults you want to throw
You wanna get drunk and text me that shit
Each word of that text was like being hit

You think your God’s gift and all girls should just fall
Well that’s a load of shit; I don’t buy it at all
Once I would’ve just let it fall to my feet
Thinking I need a man to make me complete

 I am not that type of girl, only here to serve you
I am gonna see the world, there’s so much more I can do
I’m not perfect and I will never conform
I wanna get somewhere I never underperform
 

So take all your crap, I’m closing the door
I don’t need all that shit from you anymore
Get drunk and go for those girls and be one in her millions
But one day look me up I’ll be earning billions
   

Dreamy.

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His feet pad on the sand, his large grey-black boots hammering the compact grains with each step. The ocean waters collide with his feet as the white wash crashes onto the shore. The man’s eyes are locked onto his feet, his head bowed as he walks heavily. Still in doing this his dark red-maroon eyes are hidden by his brown hair hanging by his face. He sighs. The man is tall, muscular, well built. He wears dark blue jeans and a tight black tee, nothing much else other than those, underwear and boots. The sun sets over the sea as the man walks. The sky a deep orange, the sea a deep blue, the man silhouetted against the skyline. His head is heavy, his eyes tired, his legs weak. The man could continue walking for hours, as he has for the hours before. But he decides against it when coming close to a small beach village.
The man trods towards a beach hut, a man in tattered clothes stood outside, this being easily visible as a visitors hut by the colour of the sticks, being painted red rather than the natural brown of the other huts. “I’d like to stay the night” The man sighs, his eyes moving up to those of the tribesman. “30 caruca.” The tribesman nodded, his long braided hair shuffling on his head. The man in the boots handed over the coins, no hesitation at all, already knowing the cost of huts on this island that he’d walked upon for so long. “I am Cammir, enjoy your stay” The sharing of names was important to the tribesmen of this island. “I am Tiger, thank you” The weary man replied, walking into the hut through the palm leaf door. Tiger listened as the man began to stroll home, he’d have waited all night for a passerby to take homage in the hut if he’d had too, the money from this being all he’d get. Tiger kneeled onto the palm leaf bed on the floor. His palms and fingers pressed together tight as he prayed, warding off all evil in God’s name. Once done Tiger lay down on the leaves, pulling another set of leaves tied together over himself as a cover. With nothing but money and clothes on his person there was little else for him to prepare before sleeping and thus the tired, tired man lay down for the night, the weak light from the sun on his face through the gaps in the wooden twigs. His eyes were tight shut. “Goodnight darling” he muttered to an entity that was not there. His body relaxing as sleep consumed him.
His fingers entwined with hers, their palms pressing up against each other. There was a warm connection between them that wasn’t present between themselves and any other persons. They were subject to something special and they could tell, and everybody else could tell; simply from the way that their hands fit into each other, from the way they touched. They walked side by side across the beaches, their hands always together. The beaches were the same. They never changed. But the two had little care of where they were, as they walked together. Always together.
Tiger's eyes dragged themselves open, wincing as the light thrashed his retina. He sighed, rolling from his side and onto his back, staring up at the dream charms hanging from the roof of the hut. “Cammir, could you come in please?” He asked, knowing that the man was stood outside. Cammir walked in gladly, assured that nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen. “The charms, wh-” Tiger begun only to be interrupted, “The charms, they give good dreams, they give perfection”. “Thank you, Cammir” Tiger said, paying the man for his information as would be expected. The tribesman then left the hut and standing once again outside the hut, giving Tiger his privacy. Tiger pondered over this perfection, his past was amazing, but was it perfect. The world was invisible to him, all he saw was her and all that he had ever known was her. Is that perfection, love, true love. He pondered this for hours, unsure what to make of the theory that was “perfection”. What was he to know of perfection, how was he to experience such a thing before coming to the pearl gates of heaven. He hated the idea of perfection, despite that at the time all that was, was perfection to him. He had learnt since then, his knowledge and experience having expanded higher than that of his younger self, his views on the world had changed. His view on perfection. ~S

Time's Weight

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Time does not wait. Time has no weight. That is unless you count the way in which it weighs upon me. And how heavily it weighs. Time doesn't creep, nor crawl. Yet creep up on me it does, and so too does it crawl, when least I want it to. Time imparts wisdom, yet...

Even a fool may appear wise, if silent he stays.

Silent I am not, yet neither am I entirely foolish. The middle-ground is safe ground, it does not necessitate daring or risk, nor does it lead to ruin. Does that make me a coward? It makes me something, of that I am sure. Change is what's needed, as...

If nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies.

But change is difficult. Change requires risk and can lead to ruin. Change must be handled with wisdom, then. Appearing wise is not enough; staying silent is not enough. True wisdom is needed. Time imparts wisdom, so we must wait on time. But time does not wait, time weighs. Weighs heavily upon me.

~J.L.

I - Iridescence

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The first thing I always notice about a person's face is the colour of their eyes. I have held the opinion for a long time that the eyes are the most attractive physical aspect of a person, and that much can be told from them. The owner may speak falsely, but they never lie. I can remember the colour of many people's eyes – I have a good memory of them. And I never forget a truly stunning pair of irises, from either a male or female. It's the part of the face I like to observe the most, especially concerning the latter. It is rare that I forget someone's eye colour.

Eye colour: light brown/honey

Further observation: a pure, scintillant colour which appears to glow like a distant star. The colour within them appears to be perpetual, mysterious. Reflect a carefree, friendly personality without any observable taint.

Eye colour: dark blue

Further observation: irises are flecked with even deeper tints of blue, in a pattern not unlike lightning. The depth of the colour is indiscernible... yet the colour remains. Reflect a powerful, determined personality yearning for freedom.

Eye colour: light blue

Further observation: a pale, azure colour not broken by any pattern. Reminiscent of a clear, cloudless sky. Reflect a laid-back, yet devoted personality impacted by an inner feeling of halcyon.

Eye colour: light blue

Further observation: a lucent blue colour comparable to cornflowers. Spiderwebbed by lines of pale yellow. Reflect a hard-working, intelligent personality which observes and knows more than people think.

Eye colour: dark brown
Further observation: the levels of melanin in these eyes is beyond anything I have formerly seen. Dark, smouldering eyes the colour of dying embers amongst firewood. Reflects a caring, intense personality which is ever loyal.

Eye colour: hazel

Further observation: fascinating, predominantly brown eyes. Sparse explosions of green which look like ivy spreading across a tree – the pattern is uniquely articulate. Reflects a amiable, complex personality who lives for their aspirations.

Eye colour: hazel

Further observation: it is occasionally difficult to pinpoint the exact colour. They are darker at times, yet the small flashes of green are ever present. Reflects a-

>-S->

H - Hamartia

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When you woke you were out of bed. Standing up. You had never before been so calm. It was not at all strange to you. Nor were you concerned that it was dark. You were not scared. More intrigued. You had never seen anything like this before. You have no visual memories. Your eyes were missing then. But you got them back. And now you used those eyes to look upon it. It looked so neat. So thin. It was taller than you. Taller than 'Mummy'. Taller than 'Daddy'. You knew this because they were there with it. 'Mummy' and 'Daddy' said nothing. You assumed they were like you. No theory to how it was possible. The small heart in your small chest beated slowly. No anxiety at all. You wondered how anyone could be so tall. You had never saw anyone like it before. You saw a suit and tie. Clad entirely in black. Impossibly long legs. Impossibly long arms. You could not see its face. You concluded it was something to do with his hat. You felt a spike of jealousy. It had more arms than you. You should have more. It stood watching you. It stretched out its left hand. It stood far away but his arm was long enough to reach you. You touched its finger which was more of a blade, long and sharp. A bit of blood came out. A umbral manifestation and the flashbacks started.

It seemed to be that it had followed you throughout the entirety of your painfully short life. It was as if you were a observer to your own eulogy. For as it were, you had assumed the guise of it. You were present at your own birth, your blind eyes and scrabbling hands reaching out to that same perpetual abyss. Like a unrepentant futility-filled denizen of that same unrelenting vacuum.

A little later now – you were in the family room. You watched yourself sit by the fire, holding a book upside-down. What are you doing? Asked 'Mummy'. I'm reading, you replied. With that a single tear crawled down her face. 'Mummy' didn't realise the tear was swiped before it hit the ground like some precious garnet.

Years. Those people had given your eyes back to you. You would have thanked them, but you had no idea of gratefulness, of sympathy, of love. These things did not exist to you, in parallel to spirits refusing to apparate before the living. But you did. With malicious intent... You remember vividly the first thing you saw -not 'Mummy' or 'Daddy'- but yourself as you were now, looking on a bygone self. It was as if you knew – you did not register or fear your presence. You just knew, and acknowledged it.

Thus the tautology came to a close. Your form had not shifted. You looked upon little you, so out of touch with the world. The two people who had protected you, tried to issue you some kind of emotion were gone. Their forms cast away like mere chaff. They begged you to give yourself your eyes back. You had agreed but there was never a truly pure covenant with you. It was delightfully ironic to think they did not provide to you what their autistic child could never provide – specifics, details, intricacies. That was their sin – and once last life was to be stolen in penance. They let you in... and you will take them out. You try to resist, but you can't stop yourself. The process of self-elimination had never seen such an artistic method. You extend your arm. Your small form seemed ever smaller by your spectral size. Your small form, intrigued, also reached forward. “NO!”

>-S->