I am counted among the wee folk in stature,
And was birthed in the land of the sun.
My soul is old, but my body is young.
My hair is akin to the lungs of the Earth,
Its shade common, but none less than others in worth.
Hearken to the voice that whispers as sand over a stone,
For upon this wisdom is divulged, though few may ever know.
Behind my ribs pulses the heart of a writer,
For the scritching of the pen is that which makes the night brighter.
My body is stocky, strong, and stable, but exaggerated in feminine kind:
Too old for my age, but too young for my mind.
My eyes are weak, but my intuition is keen:
I see all, yet am unsee
Clack of buttons,
flash of indignant red hair
Heart hammering
Humiliation, no voice
Body shuddering, then
the coolness of the stone wall
at my side
A gentle hand upon my back
Babble of strangers' voices,
"Get the nurse,"
Groaning of the wheelchair
Thoughts racing like atoms
Tears and mucus gliding over plastic
Help me.
Chills, piercing wind
Cabin rocking as a ship
upon the sea
Waves of metal behemoths
Crackling bass
Sun hidden behind a darkened window
Faint wave of a hand
Pinprick of joy
and gone within a second
Pay no mind
I'm sorry.
Body rigid
Pain and nausea
Fingers shaking,
heart quaking
Chest cavity resonating,
with the sound of chains clanking
Iron, rust
Minuscule flakes fluttering,
choking, muttering
Silent
Temples throbbing
Shame, despair
Never enough, never enough
Time
Every day the same thing: comings and goings, migraines, fixedly regarding the back of his head as he turns away to resume his routine without you. Frustration and anxiety settling in your gut, the percussion in your head dying away with each step he makes.
It is a daily and Herculean effort to resist the urge to chase after him; to take a running leap and throw your arms around him in an iron, unconditional grip, as Janet captured Tam Lin, in order to lose yourself in the deafening crescendo of the drumming his presence arouses between your ears. It is his boundless energy that is the cause of everything, and you know this well, for rarely
Butterfly on a Wheel
For the love of Otonyus, it had been hours! Dagmar snorted and slammed shut the ancient text she had busied herself with in the attempt to drown out the irritating rambling of her cousin on the far side of the library. The older woman had been going on for what felt like eternity about the history of Ìndalwiin, describing every Gods forsaken nook and cranny as she flitted almost anxiously about the room, occasionally making strange, quick gestures, stabbing her finger Heavenward or fluttering her hands about in the air as though it helped to further prove her point.
Every once in a while her voice, youthful despit
I am counted among the wee folk in stature,
And was birthed in the land of the sun.
My soul is old, but my body is young.
My hair is akin to the lungs of the Earth,
Its shade common, but none less than others in worth.
Hearken to the voice that whispers as sand over a stone,
For upon this wisdom is divulged, though few may ever know.
Behind my ribs pulses the heart of a writer,
For the scritching of the pen is that which makes the night brighter.
My body is stocky, strong, and stable, but exaggerated in feminine kind:
Too old for my age, but too young for my mind.
My eyes are weak, but my intuition is keen:
I see all, yet am unsee
Clack of buttons,
flash of indignant red hair
Heart hammering
Humiliation, no voice
Body shuddering, then
the coolness of the stone wall
at my side
A gentle hand upon my back
Babble of strangers' voices,
"Get the nurse,"
Groaning of the wheelchair
Thoughts racing like atoms
Tears and mucus gliding over plastic
Help me.
Chills, piercing wind
Cabin rocking as a ship
upon the sea
Waves of metal behemoths
Crackling bass
Sun hidden behind a darkened window
Faint wave of a hand
Pinprick of joy
and gone within a second
Pay no mind
I'm sorry.
Body rigid
Pain and nausea
Fingers shaking,
heart quaking
Chest cavity resonating,
with the sound of chains clanking
Iron, rust
Minuscule flakes fluttering,
choking, muttering
Silent
Temples throbbing
Shame, despair
Never enough, never enough
Time
Every day the same thing: comings and goings, migraines, fixedly regarding the back of his head as he turns away to resume his routine without you. Frustration and anxiety settling in your gut, the percussion in your head dying away with each step he makes.
It is a daily and Herculean effort to resist the urge to chase after him; to take a running leap and throw your arms around him in an iron, unconditional grip, as Janet captured Tam Lin, in order to lose yourself in the deafening crescendo of the drumming his presence arouses between your ears. It is his boundless energy that is the cause of everything, and you know this well, for rarely
Butterfly on a Wheel
For the love of Otonyus, it had been hours! Dagmar snorted and slammed shut the ancient text she had busied herself with in the attempt to drown out the irritating rambling of her cousin on the far side of the library. The older woman had been going on for what felt like eternity about the history of Ìndalwiin, describing every Gods forsaken nook and cranny as she flitted almost anxiously about the room, occasionally making strange, quick gestures, stabbing her finger Heavenward or fluttering her hands about in the air as though it helped to further prove her point.
Every once in a while her voice, youthful despit
So I finally go to Brasov, and I get to see the infamous Bran Castle, home of Vlad Dracula. My group arrives at the castle gates at 4:05 pm. It's dark, it's cold, it's raining sideways, and the wind is so strong I have to hold on to my umbrella with two hands. The guard tells us that the castle closes at 4, and we'll have to come back tomorrow. Do not mess with me guard. I have been waiting for four months for this. Do. Not. Mess. With. Me. Of course, my skills in persuasion finally make him cave in.
And by skills in persuasion, I mean I start crying hysterically.
So first off, Vlad made it pretty impossible to get to the castle, even witho