Myself while talking to a younger girl...
"Sometimes you've got to put a bit of your heart in your head. Other times, drop your heart entirely."
I haven't posted in ages. I've not much to say to you except that I want to talk to you about a problem that has been interfering with my life, and it's not even myself that has the problem.
There are long, drawn-out moments in which we find time to observe in others what we see in ourselves, for we must come to understand that all humans share in common quite a few things. Burning passions or more hidden and subtle desires exist in every person and cannot be entirely avoided. Some choose to ignore or suppress these natural inclinations, while others embrace it and let it be their cynosure in all aspects of life. Either way, the dictations of the heart preside in all of us and the only marked difference is how we choose to let it define who we are and our perspective of the world.
At a time in England’s history, when exploration for gold and glory paralleled the exploration of new religious doctrines, by people who were constantly seeking higher satisfaction, Elizabethan writer Thomas Dekker also found in himself what was being reflected in society. He was never content with his work. He was relentless, to the point of careless mediocrity, and he concluded that humans “are ne’er like angels till our passion dies.” When Dekker speaks of angels, he refers to the goodness that lies within every person, and our ability to transcend our self-destructive desires. As angels, Thomas Dekker implies that man would be free from evil and pain, from passions that take hold of us and bind us in chains. A similar point of view concerning human nature is Rousseau’s idea that, “man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.” As with Dekker, Rousseau finds man’s natural desires are somehow the cause of narrow-minded, selfish, and limited thinking. In his age, Dekker saw passions as misdirected and the source of every flaw in susceptible people. Thomas Dekker believes that our passions represent everything that is condemned. However, he knows that our passions will never go away, thus humans will never be angels. Perfection and purity will never be attained. We are confined, as humans, to moral corruption and mortality.
What about the good that can come from passion? While Dekker believed it contributed to the loss of godly principles, William Butler Yeats, a notable dramatist in the 20th Century, believed emotions allowed us to connect with our spirituality. He goes further to say that man’s intuitive logic comes from the “heart”, or rather the deepest part of our souls. “The only business of the head in the world is to bow to ceaseless obeisance to the heart”, depicts the notion that everyone is initially guided by their emotional feelings, and that humans observe the world through their passions, and desires. It also hints at the idea that it is not up to humans to prove everything or to know everything through mere logic; our intellectual and philosophical thinking is to be guided by our morality.
Thomas Dekker believed passion leads to all the evil and suffering humans are subjected to and that we should strive to rid ourselves of it, while Yeats believes that this same passion is something humans should accept, and something we should let guide even our logic. Both recognize that if our understanding of human nature is correct, our passions will never leave us. Humans have learned that whether passions are a blight or treasure, no one is ever alone in their affections, aspirations, and ambitions.
I was informed that the 2nd sentence is a bit strange. Don't let it lead you to thinking that this is a pornographic or sexual piece, because it isn't.
Wearing nothing but a golden nude bra as I'm sitting on my bed. The only cover for my crotch is a thick cherry red, floral pattern blanket, which has red and green stripes on a mushroom-coloured background. The bed cover has a nice pastel yellow, pink, and green floral pattern on white and my big, puffy white pillow with a white pillowcase is behind me. The bed is in the center of the room.
Around me are four off-white walls and an off-white ceiling for added genericness. Looking at the ceiling, I see my round ceiling lamp straight up in the center. It has a nice, thick white border (how shocking), and inside the inner lines of the border is a half-sphere made of glass with several outverted vertical, clear lines starting from the top and ending at the bottom. The top is like the middle of a full sphere. The bottom has a hole which is covered by a white metal circle.
My neck aches me, my pale skin becomes paler, and my black eyes grow wider as I write so hesistantly over this flower pressing kit. My dark brown ringlets touch the paper I'm writing on in a surrendering stance. But I won't stop.
Ahead of me, to the rightmost of the wall in front of me is the door out. It's grey with a doorknob that is an ancient green in all but the front, which is a light, dusty green. A grey, thick border surrounds it.
To the left at the outer center of the height of the room is a plain white lightswitch. However, it's not important.
Moving on more to the left is my closet, which is obviously on the same wall as the lightswitch and door. It takes up half the area of the entire wall; half the width and the full height. Inside is more "white action" off-white walls inside, and a pure white shelf at the top third. Below the shelf is a dirty silver pipe for hangers. The closet has two sliding doors; each of which covers half of the front of the closet. The doors are a sandy brown with a pattern of hairy, almost primal, large dark brown circles and lines. Sets of chocolate brown, metal rusty bars border them.
In front of the closet is the trusty old and shockingly white air fan which hasn't been cleaned in ages. It's so dirty and dusty, and the blades are covered in what appears to be mud mixed with dust. When turned on, this fan spits the combination, in chunks, right at you. The fan is plugged into the wall at my left.
Further left is a six-shelve bookshelf, which is actually used more for tossed clothes and jewelry than books. It can be described solidly and perfectly in that it is a light brown and orange mixture with texturizing, vertical lines that make dark and light variations of the browns and oranges. A paint kit and mini chess kit are at the top shelf.
At the back wall are some white blinds. I don't even have to describe them at all, for it takes little imagination to picture them. All that can really be said here is that a spicey red pine car freshener is hanging on it the tassles that raise the blinds.
My desk is at the back but also to the right because of the backright corner. On it are various things, such as stuffed animals, clothes, gadgets, deodarent, and other miscellanious items. The colouring and texture is the same as that of the bookshelf, except for the black keyboard holder space, which has grey, horizontal plastic bars covering it, and the bottom and sides of the cabinet holder; also black, which touches the backright corner.
Right beside the desk to my left is my four-drawer night table where each drawer is bigger than the one proceeding it above. The table follows the bookshelf texture, but with a darker brown and orange colour. At the inside sides of the shelves are caramel, hairy strokes on a sand brown background. The bottom of the inside of each drawer is a sandpaper colour and texture. At the outside left and right of the table are black sides.
Lastly, we've reached the floors of the room. Below are squares divided into rectangles with some familiar patterns. In odds, the rectangles look like the inside sides of the night table, but in evens, they are reminiscent to the look of the front closet doors. Everything in this room rests on them.
I sat here in the darkness, waiting for your call
But if the world was colour blind,
I wouldn't have waited to hear nothing at all
I promised you we'd never be apart
But if the world was colour blind
I'd never have broken that part
It feels like centuries
since I've lost that part of me
And what I've convinced myself to be truth
was all along just blasphemy
If I hadn't lied
and if the world was colour blind
then maybe I wouldn't feel so hollow inside
and you wouldn't have committed suicide
This is a poem I wrote some months ago. I just found it last night in my cabinet (with a million other lost pieces). What I'd like you to do is answer me this.... what do you think the story behind this piece is? What relevence does it have to your life?
A big, rectangular prismatic room. The sides are a light yellow, smiling above at the mushroom-coloured tile floor. Up above them hails a big white cover; as white as snow. From it hangs a set of fifteen thirds of lights, forming a swingset of sabers.
Big squares are standing on pairs of gigantic metal staples. The squares are a harmonious honey brown with hairy brown circles being overpowered by black ones. Straight dark chocolate lines cut through them like knives, but yet again, their clone in black overpowers them. Other black and brown straight lines choose to just separate themselves from the circles. The jet black staples allow all of this to happen thirty times over; two for fifteen.
Look across. There's a silver circle within a forest green circle, containing the numbers 1-12 in Roman numerals. Over them, 2 black lines leave and return to them in a never-ending fashion. This set relies on the hollow orange rectangle behind it, which contains more black ahead.
Strange... the black behind her is covered in white clouds, and neighboured by pure white to the left of it. But who is she?
She rests on her black leather chair, accompanied by more squares; this time resting on silver, mirror-like staples. From this angle, blackness lies in front of her. But in the set next to her, the first brown and black combination returns.
To the left, there's an inner prism fronted by a black-bordered orange square. What's inside? Only she knows.
Where was I?
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