I'm naming this out of optimism and intention. I do in fact have plans to write more stories, more insightful tellings of how I am continuing to challenge the universe.

Story one: Bliss is omnipresent, though bliss may not be the word most would choose to describe it all. I am often irritable, melancholy, anxious. I am more often than not one of these things, if not all at once. At yet, all is undertaken with the most capable of mediators. Faith, love and peace are now constant hands along my shoulders and hips and belly - a happy belly full of laughs and sighs and soft smiles that had to have begun somewhere, where've they been hiding all this time? If ever I was a creature of dualities (always have been) now they are my bread, and my butter.

Though I prefer toast.

Story two: I am dripping in diamond and sweets and delicious sin. I am a creaturous Queen of discarded fear and unharnessed lust. I am amidst a court of my loyalist friends, all a variation on myself. We look out across fruitful harvests and moving pieces, playing chess with our dainty fingers and the rest of the world as an opponent. We live, breathe and dream in power plays and battle for sovereignty. We are the collective, and I am all, but I remain the queen.

More importantly, I am naked. The others bring me gowns and furs one by one, but I wear nothing but a grin and a crooked finger. I am beckoning to the world, to the opponent who would challenge me. Who here, out there, around would wait amongst all the chaos that is my mind, my soul and my cage of a body?

Story Three: Sometimes, I get really quite upset. One might even call me grumpy. Unpleasant to be around. Full of rain?

It rains a lot. Long grey clouds full of sleet and icy rain slide slowly across our little valley. It surrounds us, chases our glee, swallows our minds and creates distaste. I bask in this. I excel.

On Metaphors: Life metaphors are highly overrated. I see very little to compare to chocolate, for example. I just don't see it. However, it is the very first thought of any validity that I have to offer you this evening. It isn't even a very graceful metaphor. In fact, it's downright unfortunate.

My life, as of now, is a puzzle without a guide. You know those pictures that come printed across puzzle boxes, clearly showing you your goal (for example, Johnny Depp's face) or the general idea of a texture or color present in the actual puzzle? My existence on this watery little planet didn't come with one of those. Life does in a way give you a rough idea of it's puzzle-box-top, but it's a rather loose interpretation, and still all the major details are left for you to flip over and somehow eventually sort out.

Also, to beat this metaphorical metaphor horse to death: concentration and focus. You really can't focus on many different aspects of a poem at once. You have to sit down and focus on the yellow bits for a while, or really pay attention to Johnny Depp's nose. This is true of almost every puzzle ever, except for the edges. You establish the edges first, which in life most of us have indeed done. The frame of my life was pieced together slowly with my childhood hopes and conceptions, my morals and my memories. The problem of filling it all in is now in my present and future.

Now. As this ridiculous metaphor relates to you?

On how this ridiculous metaphor relates to anything at all, really. Or, for now, to my "Art": The pieces are all there, and I've separated the pieces I've flipped over and thought about to any extent based on color, tone and really everything. Basically, I HAVE SOME FUCKING PIECES I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH. THE BOX (them) SAYS THEY'RE REALLY ALL SUPPOSED TO FIT TOGETHER BUT I really don't know if I believe them, you know? Anyway.

Art. The writing pieces are currently the most important ones. Because hell, I can theoretically almost kind of see how they fit together in my future. These are the pieces, some of them connected to other very important pieces, that comprise the Love Poems Vs. Solitaire portion of my existence. Really. I might as well be high.

Fuck it. I'm taking a shower. Have a poem. Go away.

( Quiet Gods )


P.S.I know the indents don't work. Meh.

P.P.S. Also, life is grand. Just an FYI, TMI, PDA kind of thing.

P.P.P.S. Don't even ask.

Lame. Writing is lame, today. Writing is lame.

Am sitting on a couch-bed like it's a couch. I'm lame. Am typing poorly and abusing the english language - super lame. I am the epitome of lame, or would be if that couldn't maybe be construed as a good thing, which would of course be a lot less lame.

Lame.

But no worries, I am surely well set to come out of my lame plateau-ish like kind of valley of emotions thing. Wow. Lamest sentence ever. Ever. But I will! And soon! Tonight I shall snuggle up and be happy, and maybe wake up happy, as happy as I get when I'm.... you know, waking up. Maybe things will just keep fucking working out in my favor. Maybe I'll keep progressing in getting back into Epee. Maybe someday, somehow, I'll actually have some friends, or someone.... to hold me... at night.

Oh wait. I'm feeling super (lamely) sarcastic this evening. Whoopsie.

Even in the swing, in the dipiest part of this fucking dip, I'm somehow content. The things I question in my anxiety-driven angst fests are somehow quite plebian. Even as I question myself, I am somehow.... emotionally secure.

Holy fucking shit. This shit is intense. This shit is too fucking out there, man. Whoa.

So there I'll end it. Lame.

-Katie (fucking sign that shit. yeah)