This is a reflective jounal, I do not know wether it can be considered art or not, that is for you to decide, anyway here it is. Oh, and a foreword: I am not emo., thank you in advance. And yes, I know it is not completed. Furthermore, please note that I am not complaining about anything. Finally, when criticizing my work, please do not digress into trivial details that would not have any major effect in my literary developement. Thank you.
Have I put anyone off from criticizing my work? I would love someone to come and analyze this work; it is in desperation that I wish for anyone to analyse this. The prejudice are welcome. As a retraction from my earlier statement; please, come and post anything, not matter how trivial. Preferably Nataku_O. Please, I beg of you, dissipate my sinew to the bone, as if to destroy my every fibre, my very being, my benevolent creator.
It seems that my so desired change is not going to come about without its trials and tribulations. Cabin Fever, a feeling of claustrophobia that one suffers when encaged with others over a lengthy duration or time, is apparently my greatest mountain that I will have to overcome.
My family, if that is what you can call my inexorably critical mother, my overbearingly cynical twin brother, my ignorant philistine of a father, and my completely clueless younger brother, is anything but.
My journal, my invaluable collections of nostalgia and my only means of escapism from this intolerable coexistence, is all that barely constrains these conflagrative feelings of rage, keeping it from seeing daylight and consuming the lives that it so ravenously desires. Cabin Fever. Yet, this should be the logical result from the introversive characteristics that compose me. Barely allowing my skin to bask in beautiful rays of our gigantic star, or chilled by the icy winds of the desolately beautiful winter; this is me, this is who I am. Yet I have come to accept this, to cope with this.
Unbeknownst, I deeply posses feelings for a female, a fellow peer, whom of which I believe already has a companion. I capitulate to fact that I hardly know her, or that falling for someone while so blinded by such a veil of ignorance is, quite agreeably, idiotic but this does not change that fact that I still feel this way. Along with these seemingly spontaneous feelings of compassion, I have logically come to poetry. Dozens of poetry have I committed to memory. These are poems that I can recall at a moments notice to instill into myself feelings of warmth, or conversely, feelings of desolation.
At times of idle cognition, I can quite easily comprehend how Jesus loved so prejudicially, and so wholly. Then, as if reassuring me of my mere mortality, I recall instances where the all immersing fires have ebbed to the point of existence, where a preordained wave of shame and disgust then washes over me. This sensitivity, I believe, both of compassion, and its counterpart, animosity, exists as if to balance me out.
Before I stumbled upon the literary art of poetry, I never had such feelings of compassion or rage. Therefore, I assume that the devil on my right and the angel on my left first appeared along side the unveiling of this beautiful art. As to further support this assumption, these times of incontrollable anger are either preceded or succeeded by the absorbing feelings of desire.
Last edited by Subliminal; 11-03-2006 at 01:46 PM.
And all that's best of dark and bright, meets in her aspect, and her eyes.