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Lingual Diversity

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Time can heal many wounds [Jul. 11th, 2009|10:23 pm]
Lingual Diversity

[Current Mood |calmcalm]

She fell apart slowly.

He imagined it in a macabre fashion, arms separating from the shoulders leaving no blood or mess behind only scar tissue, the hands and wrists already lifeless on the floor. The feet, the knees and finally the hips. The scar tissue was pink, newly healed skin, but a mass of creases. The last blow was the head, but without the head nothing can function, the head controls the heart, and so the blood oozed slowly out of her neck, as her heart pumped the body to death.

She didn't realise it happened. It didn't in real life. It was just a metaphor, a metaphor that he used to explain what he could see happening. To resuscitate her he cut the scar tissue off and reconnected the veins, arteries and nerves, allowing the feeling to return first to her head. Her head and heart needed to work together. 

He forgot, or maybe he didn't, maybe she forgot, to connect the nerves from the heart to the head, and he was slow in connecting the arteries that gave blood to the more emotional parts of the brain. It wasn't fatal the brain damage, but some of the nerve endings connected there never completely regained their previous strength.

She didn't know when she stopped being numb, how or who stitched her back together, but she knew it was baby steps. Sometimes the numbness returned and he could see the stitches dissolving from the skin, the blood seeping out where there was a joint. However, this happened less and less.

Khronos watching this, smiled, as the seconds slowly healed the stitches inexpertly applied by her own subconsciousness, with his help.
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Can we hit delete soon? [Jul. 2nd, 2009|07:44 pm]
Lingual Diversity

[Current Mood |apatheticapathetic]

Some days she did feel like she was moving on, days where the sun beat sharply down, making everything seem a little bit lighter. Her mood followed the weather, cloudy overcast days made her want to curl up in front of a fire with hot chocolate and whipped cream. They would never solve anything, but the world was always a better place, and it was comfort food.

As she moved on slowly, she tried to figure out what love was, wondering whether or not souls existed. The closest she had come to closure, was that when you fell in love with someone you gave them a piece of your soul. Sometimes you got just as big a piece back. Sometimes you didn't. Either way there was nothing you could do about it.

She had given him a piece of her soul, it had been a fair exchange back then. Something freely given cannot be taken back, it was a gift, one for him to keep. One he probably never realised he had received.

She wondered if, when people died their souls would be weighed, and those that were heavier than when they started would end up in hell whereas those that were lighter would end up in heaven. She wondered if people who were better at giving were closer to heaven, those who gave too much too freely could sometimes become a burden.

Maybe nothing happened after death, maybe all that this exercise would prove was that some people were simply better at giving and some were better at receiving.

She was good at giving, but sometimes made the mistake of believing she lost something every time she didn't receive something in return. Or maybe she didn't believe that, maybe that was just the way it felt, as the piece she thought had been a gift was wrenched out of her hands, all too suddenly.

If she could only let go, enjoy the ghost of the piece left behind, because there was always something left behind, she could move on, remember the good things and later forget the bad. Not now, not while it was early days.


[Hmm, not sure I like it, it's too personal, can't get the distance I'm looking for which is deeply frustrating!]
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The summer she went clumsy [Jun. 24th, 2009|05:38 pm]
Lingual Diversity

That was the summer everything went wrong. The year she became clumsy, tripping over her own feet, like the cliche teenage boy who is said to be "tall and gangly, and doesn't know where his joints are". She knew where her joints were, she knew how to use her body, at least she thought she did. She had known how to use it for a while.

It was the summer she was clumsy, the falls didn't hurt and people didn't laugh too much, but she cut a ridiculous figure, from standing to sprawling. Her knees didn't buckle, she literally just tripped over her own feet, as one somehow seemed to get in the way of the other.

The weather was gorgeous, and she cut an acceptable figure on campus, her clothing having regressed to high school style, almost fashionable, but her feet had suddenly no longer wanted to obey Pauli's principle. They wanted to be in the same place at the same, reality interfered, and she tripped.

She was emotionally unstable, like a spinning top that was slightly unbalanced. You twirled it with your fingers on the table and the third time it skids off, beneath the table you don't bother finding it. Sometimes she had control over who span, sometimes someone just dropped by the kitchen, picked her up and off she span. She wondered if the falls where an expression of how she was offbalance inside, a physical expression of an emotional problem.

She didn't know what she wanted, where she was going, and in the mean time she kept tripping.
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I'll wear a heart for you. [May. 15th, 2009|11:21 am]
Lingual Diversity

She was not the kind of girl who wore jewellery, had for years worn only a necklace in gold with a heart as a pendant. She would sometimes, for special occasions exchange for other jewellery, but the heart was one the few things that remained almost constant. The earrings were the simplest money could buy, gold because she was afraid of allergies and she lost the back constantly, last time this morning during breakfast as she was fiddling with them. They were bought used in a small store.

The necklace with the heart had too many memories tied to it, and she had put it away for a while, as she decided she needed time to think, to reevaluate her life. She was wearing silver now, a pendant her grandmother had bought used in the same store where the husbands owner had died of cancer, and had had it repaired, replacing the missing stones at the edges in Italy, because it was cheaper. Her mother had paid for repairs and there were 3 generations tied to the necklace.

They never bought anything in the shop any longer, when the cancer had been diagnosed the used jewellery and stamps had been sold to a young couple who wrote prices on anything and didn't give an inch. The half an hour that they used to spend in the store, the rings that had been found and displayed without the owners watching them like hawks no longer happened. New generation new rules, but she missed the laid back attitude.

She didn't know what the change from gold to silver meant, if it meant she valued herself less, but the heart had been placed in a jewellery box, and she knew it would not tarnish. The etching on the back made her smile, and cry at the same time. She wondered when she would ready again to wear hearts on her body to show that she was passionate. When the memories would only make her smile without some following regrets.
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Given enough time... [May. 11th, 2009|04:46 pm]
Lingual Diversity

[Current Mood |tiredtired]

Given time I won't think of you every time I wake up
You won't be the last thing that crosses my mind,
For hours on end as I try to fall asleep
I'll be able to see that I deserve better
That we just weren't quite right, or at the right time
That if you don't think I'm worth waiting for
You are the one that is not worth waiting for

Given enough time, other boys and some alcohol
It won't hurt running into you and chit chatting
I'll be able to sleep as I was able to, before I met you
I'll go to bed early, get up early, enjoy the day
Instead of going to bed early, falling asleep late,
Lying awake staring at a ceiling thats white
And pretending I am a zombie during the day.

But hang time, I want to feel better now.
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Repeat after me, again, again [May. 5th, 2009|10:27 am]
Lingual Diversity

"Repeat after me "The chemistry is gone, and I think we should stop seeing each other"". The teacher's voice is firm and the boys in the class are no older than 10. The boys were in their sex-ed class, and the girls were in the classroom next door learning how to say no.

The boys teacher was a girl, lady, woman in her mid fifties, wearing a dress that would have looked good on someone 20 years younger. The boys chanted in unison "The chemistry is gone", and were then asked to open their notebooks.

They were part of a new government program, one that attempted to minimise human suffering as it only decreased productivity. The thought was that if all the bullshit comments were weeded out, 'We can still be friends', 'I may be making a mistake' 'I'll see you next February' et. al. and men were allowed to get in touch with their emotions women would not loose sleep and weight trying to get the heart ache to stop.

Their notebooks were filled with other sentences, sentences that were given as homework or punishment, that were to be written and rewritten as they practised their handwriting, regardless of the fact that everyone used computers now a days.

What the government failed to realise, and why the experiment was only stopped after 25 years of brainwashing too many generations of under 10 year olds is that a no is a no, no matter the form or wording, and having someone tell you no will decrease productivity.
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"just a dream -- not a sex dream" [Apr. 22nd, 2009|08:49 pm]
Lingual Diversity

He dreams about her. But it's not a sex dream. Well, it's almost not.

She's standing in a communal kitchen. On one leg. Barefoot. A lifetime, so far, of never being sure what foot to stand on when interacting with other people, has made her stand like this. She switches feet, occasionally, on the floor, the free foot braced against her other knee. It's the way birds would stand if they had the lateral flexibility of humanoids. She's flexible. And likes the feel of skin on skin. But this is not about a sex dream.

She's making something. It could be a cake. Could be cookies. Could be a bomb. It's hard to tell since, in this dream, he's looking more at her body than at what she's doing on the counter. There's a bowl. A mixer. Measuring cups and spoons. A large container that holds flour, or possibly high-explosives. He's not sure.

But when she folds stuff in the bowl with a wooden spoon, her legs move from side to side like a pair of palm trees swaying in the kind of warm breeze off the Caribbean Sea in January, that makes people from places with real winter really thankful we invented airplanes.

more ...Collapse )
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The chocolate cake: Take Two [Apr. 19th, 2009|07:58 pm]
Lingual Diversity

She's always half a step behind him, but the word chocolate cake had stopped her, and she wanted to finish the thought.

She has stopped baking cakes a bit more than half a year ago, a time that coincided with meeting the boy with no face. He didn't real belong to this world, but she couldn't keep things separate and sooner or later, all liquids ends up in the same lake, only sometimes going through the sewage treatment plant.

Reflecting on it she concluded that the chocolate cakes were an analogy for something else, and a much more harmless pastime than the "Cheek kiss and long drawn-out, full-frontal, chest-and-hips-touch, linger hug, without the whisper of a hard-on" that seemed to break a lot of hearts, create a lot of thinking, and distracted her from school. She knew the recipe for a good chocolate cake in her head, could make a different cake if she was out of chocolate and though the basic formula was the same adjustments could be made along the way.

She never knew what foot to stand on when interacting with other people, found out too late what they wanted when. With cakes she could smell when they were ready, why one particular cake needed 5 minutes longer than another. With people (read: boys) she didn't read the right signals and...the analogy here did not fit, because while a cake left in the oven for too long is burned, boys can be patient enough, and will survive a longer cooking time. Those who do get burned are not worth bothering with.

Today she made chocolate-chip cookies. She wondered if she was being needy, but it wasn't for him to say and he didn't know.

She found a friend and talked, mixing the sugar and butter with her hands, licking the dough of her fingers, allowing herself more than was healthy and not really caring. She felt better, though no problems had been solved. At least she knew where she was with the cookies.
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"shifting focus and the real-surreal, art and science of perspective" [Apr. 19th, 2009|11:24 am]
Lingual Diversity

A different scene. A girl, lying on a couch. Burgundy leather, stuffed. Her head is propped up on a pillow on the couch arm, eyes gazing out the window of his study.

He is Dr. X. Mystical degrees from places she's never heard of decorate his walls. The University of Foostreat, in Dularmrask, Eurtrovenia? And a painting of a girl wearing just a nightgown, standing in a meadow, looking at the moon.

The painting girl has boyish-girlish features. Her hair is short and hanging how it wants. Her breasts and butt halves just small mounds in the soft white nightgown, thin as curtain sheers that barely curtain off her skin.

more ...Collapse )
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Diving down for air [Apr. 17th, 2009|09:15 pm]
Lingual Diversity


Everyone keeps asking for the truth, demanding it, wanting to know it. She had realised that the truth was a terrible thing to demand, in some situations. There are some questions where the truth is wanted but is not needed. Need to know basis and want to know basis are two very good principles.

She didn't know what to write, wanted to give a proper answer, but her head was too full of another conversation, one that cropped up every time she looked at a different boy. She wondered if she was being unfaithful to either one, wondered if it mattered. Literature often says that lovers are the bad ones, they have a choice, but words are words, and holding hands is something else.


Swimming far up for pressureCollapse )
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