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It is strange how ambiguously strength comes and all the forms it manifests itself in. Why do we finally find bravery, courage, when all we know or perhaps love is slipping away. Why do we finally manage to achieve what we have always strived for in a moment of tragedy. With the good comes the bad, yes this is true but I never quite understood the link, that miniscule line that can be crossed, distorted but never broken. I suppose it is also the connexion between good and evil. How despairing! That they should lead into each other, the two yoke-devils working side by side.
Like the Sun which, as it fall, drags the moon across the sky. How I love the moon. Lunar, latin. Lunatic, madness. I can see this. I can feel it in every ounce of my being, in every silent breath that escapes my lips. Lunacy; how it bubbles beneath the surface, as though being drawn out by the moon, sucking upon my skin, like a leach, though perhaps I am the parasite! The moon is simply reclaiming what I took, drawing it like poison...but it shall not leave me, no, it remains, bittering the skin and mind.
I will be the Moon. One day. I will be the creature of the night, far more beautiful in its lonliness than any orange giant, furious and searing. Loud, the great conquerer, a reminder of our own insignificance like how the Normans built the mighty castles to remind the towns folk that a new powerful force was now in rule. The moon however speaks of hope, it is eassy on the eyes, though exceptional in its beauty. It mesmerises, its light is so pale but it illuminates a thousend hopes and possibilities; a thousend places I will never go and a thousend faces that I will never meet. Yet it is weak in its solidarity. Its lonliness is a great sustainer but it also kills. This is why I wish to be the moon. So beautiful in its quiet aluuring grace, it has nothing and needs less still. Its elegance and delicate light is so fragile, so precious yet it is strong. An eternity as the moon would be wonderously cold.
I will be the moon.
 Victorian Bride · Tue Oct 23, 2007 @ 12:34am · 0 Comments |
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A vent of my own despair. Read and judge. |
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How can despair so minute be felt so vigorously? Ugliness is everywhere and I am its queen. The prisoner of it's baracades, the runaway who cannot escape it and the shepard who protects it so defiantly. Though to stand and fight it shall be ones unravelling and to purge it from the body shall be my undoing.
Indeed understanding simply means agree though to agree does not mean to accept nor to understand. Yes, it is a lost word, as lost as a dream that meets its climax just as the sufferer awakens. Lost.
"No rest for ther wicked." Strange considering the wicked are offered no fountain of fortune nor an intellectuals diary. A mind of empty thoughts, empty struggles, emptiness so that all that exhists is time passing one wave after another until the bewildering day of change, and destruction.
The world is painted black and no amount of opulence can paint it any other character. You threaten me with hell? Dare you remind me of my current situation for the Devil himself is my supervisor, of that I am convinced. And his talons grip me still. And yet, I still watch the rising sun of each day and then the almighty dictator, the moon. What a moon!
With every candle I blow out, with every void of sporadic happiness I wish to be the moon. Luminous, Eternal Beauty, Delicate; as the clouds surrounding it but far moer powerful in it's own enstrangement then all the stars in all the universe. Then I look to its face, its mourning face, I see in it a reflection of myself for it is also embittered in its lonliness. A lonliness that both sustains and kills, a lonliness that only the shift of a universe itself could ever cure-
And so it watches the wasteland below, a land that is a flowering meadow compared to the bitter despairing one of my own self.
Beauty is in the creators eye, not the beholders, not the inventers, though to re-invent would be a marvelous thing. To have a body of canvas to paint with the paints of all the world! Selectively, carefully. This is the true meaning of design, of the artist.
Yes, to be ones canvas is a much desired thing, a self made canvas regardless of who influences every waking day of the past or present and whats more, the future. If you do not care for me then why should I care for myself?
Signed in tears.
Victorian Bride · Thu Aug 30, 2007 @ 04:12pm · 0 Comments |
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The Beauty of the Common. |
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To create an honest and complete acount of these past few days shall be a tedious and perhaps exasperatingly dull task however these recent days are ones which are of greater importance than most that I have witnessed. Due to the length of my memoirs I shall dedicate three journal entries to the three momentous days. Sunday the 19th. My bags were ready and I would leave my home with my grandparents by my side. Firstly I should like to describe them as the unit they are.
My Grandad, a man of labour though his nature is that of a country gentleman. His interests and expansive knowledge is that of history, all things military, antiques and weaponary. He lived in India for a short period of his early life, where his true Father is thought to have lived and died. The man in who's shadow he grew never gave any indication of my grandads lack of legitimacy nor did his mother until her death day. My grandad always swore that the man whom he both idolised and called parent was in fact his father however you need only look upon him to see his Indian roots.
A small fishing town is where he has lived ever since that momentous voyage across three oceans. When he was old enough he worked at a pottery, making collectable pieces of ceramics. The fumes where poisonous and with little protection from it he has suffered severe health complications and has not been well for decades. He remains as vigilant as ever not to compromise his quality of life and to continue to live as he always has done though it is not how he intended. He is both wise and kind and takes great joy in singing verses to himself, silly songs, many of his own creation.
Grandma is not of my blood though she is as good as. She is one of the most jolly characters I have ever met, and she truly is a character. Her humour is as infectious as her laugh and in her company you cannot help but to smile. Her life is one of a simple store owner, there are many luxuries niether can afford but want, they do not. Grandma's background is a strange one, it is hard to contemplate her younger self as I cannot believe her to be so grounded and humble at earlier stages of her life. Her residence was a large mansion in a very sought after piece of park land in England. Her days were full of steam boat rides and satin dresses. A very wealthy family and they seamed happy though when of age she left for boarding schools only to see her parents on brief occasions when she would return home in the holidays and they were not persuing their own interests.
I do not know the complications that lead her to a small town where she met my grandad, divorced from my Mothers Mother. A happier people you could not hope to find though neither have found justice in this life. Perhaps finding each other is compensation enough?
From the way I write you may imagine that I have not known them, I have seen them sicne my birth but they were always pleasent strangers. This has changed.
My Mother has been and is in India, helping a charity for the homeless railway children and my Father has not the time for me. So I was to stay with my Grandparents until the time came when I had to return home to recieve my GCSE results. The journey was of restrained conversation and finding ones footing. They both spoke in a manner and that was quite alien to me, asking me if I was ok and what I wished to do tomorrow. This invitation to express my wishes and feelings was quite strange to me. I soon accepted the tone and found I enjoyed the informal ways of conversation. Once I was shown to my room and made quite completely comfortable we made our way to the local tavern, loud with the husky voices of the locals. Many were rather crude but all very friendly and I had a rather wonderful time. I think I was an oddity to them and they had not met many of my class. They were very gentle with what they said around me but then, despite myself, I found myself laughing at rather rude and crude songs and jokes and they accepted me. It was strange, as though I really did truly belong, not accetance due to my money or parentage but for being me! Such a thing that is!
We retuned to the house later, and sat in front of the television among the smoke pollution and noise pollution from grandads machine. His health means he needs a constant supply of oxegen and so he has a machine which recycles air from the room and filteres it contains a higher amount of oxegen. It is a great invention though the process is a noisy one and the puffs of smoke was to such an intensity that all around you was obscured. When I had settled in bed that night Grandma, thinking I was asleep entered my room and whispered, "poor child, poor little mite," before bending down and kissing my cheek. I remained in my farce of being unconscious though I still do not understand her words. Perhaps it is an understanding that comes of age, but I cannot help thinking they were said out of pitty though I do not see why. I slept well that evening with dreams full of rough rugged strangers like the ones in the bar and of the howling unconstricted laugher that I have never heard in my world.
Victorian Bride · Wed Aug 22, 2007 @ 09:36pm · 0 Comments |
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Sapphire bone ribbing at my waist, a waterfall of fabric billowing to the floor and feet delicately placed into regal slippers. My reflection gazed back at me, dark hair running with gravity and eyes painted peacock blue. A girl such as I were not meant to appear such a way; delicate, graceful and for the first moment in my existence I felt beautiful. There, behind my reflection stood my Mother, her face strangely serene. I turned, looked to her for an opinion, that I valued, that I had always valued among any. Rare have I ever caused her joy and never have I made her proud but I felt perhaps that had changed this evening. Only one sentence she said before she turned and backed out the room, “So much effort, though nobody shall be looking at you anyway.” I cannot pretend her words did not cut through me but I did not allow myself to dwell upon this.
Incredulously my Mother was wrong upon this occasion, I did attract attention, perhaps more then I wished. However, were the stares cast at me over a plate of tomato soup, mushroom risotto and white chocolate tort be of compliment, surprised amusement or mockery? Reminiscing beforehand I had dreamt that it would be me who was offered a gentleman’s blazer or held whilst the fireworks exploded overhead, would be kissed delicately after dancing. I was ignorant, stupid, for it was not my night, but hers. It was she who accepted his blazer, she was held whilst the fireworks blazed above and it was her neck that was brushed with his gentle lips. My Mother, like always, was quite correct. I am a fool however, to condemn myself to loneliness purely because I cannot take the sport of the chase when there is no prize only a loss. It seams that the condemned is also the condemner, and the looser is only such because nothing can be compromised on either side.
Victorian Bride · Wed Jul 04, 2007 @ 03:24pm · 1 Comments |
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Rage; Anger; not a "mardy," and do not dare denote it to a teenage strop, for when is a stereotype capable of assuming the position of contributing factors or an excuse? A hairstyle done this day takes second seat, a lifestyle, a skill lowered and replaced with a brief credibility, and features readily shipped off ad held false beside another’s. Find me competitive? Think me competitive! For it is only the angst of the fleeting years full of false comparison. An apology merely for distain? Is it possibly to seek forgiveness when you do not understand can not contemplate and do not know what faculty has been committed? May a distracted eye be the result of a "childish strop" or perhaps speak of shyness? Neither for such a thing suppresses anger and hatred yet such restraint be mocked and penalized! How the acknowledgeable become the acknowledged and the sharp, bleeding truth fade to ash in the entirety of its averted presence? All that lies in ignorance and forgiving is a desolate wasteland where only the blinded may survive. A choice to an innocent collection where the hand that gestures direction burns eternally due to the acidity of its own sweat. Is existence only for those with the luxury of ignorance to dictate? And magic only for the dead, where compromise only speaks of the lowest common denominators.
Victorian Bride · Mon Jun 25, 2007 @ 09:59am · 0 Comments |
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We live on borrowed time. Life is a loan, not a guarantee, we will be claimed back regardless of what we do, however much we take, however much we return.
Victorian Bride · Sun May 27, 2007 @ 09:08pm · 0 Comments |
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Beauty in Destruction, The Epitome of Death |
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I am aware that I sometimes read to much into miniscule events, put to much feeling into them and analyse, maybe to such an extent that it is not good for my well-being. This is such an occasion. I walk my dog everyday two miles to the common and back. I resume a seat on the same bench near a large pond so my dog can swim. There is a road running by. A butterfly fluttered into veiw, I watched it dance upon the wind, it neared the road, a car came and then I lost sight of it. I sat thinking for a while. Is that not just the epitome of life? Beauty, lasts so little time, we loose it so often without even realising it. Ironic that nature was destroyed by technology, technology being created by nature, us. Is this a path of self-destruction we walk? Loosing beauty for convinience, power and modern days ugliness. When I crossed the road I looked upon its corpse, it's wing closed, the black underneath was only veiwable and the wind lifting it and dropping it slowly, it was the perfect vision of death. I could continue but I feel this is sufficiant to remind me of present feelings.
Victorian Bride
 I would be delighted to obtain any comments on my profile. Victorian Bride · Fri May 25, 2007 @ 09:28pm · 0 Comments |
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Life continues like death,
Does either ever start,
Wishing for my last breath,
I am the girl with no heart.
The wind floods this empty street,
Almost as empty as my chest,
I no longer hear my heart beat,
It's dead inside my breast.
I was not always this way,
It's something that has grown,
The nightmare I live every day,
Has turned this heart to stone.
I hold wisdom beyond my years,
You may not think me old,
I have put away childish fears,
And let my heart grow cold.
I hold a silver blade,
I pulled it from its sash,
I am no longer affraid,
For my heart is turned to ash.
The dagger, sharp and thin,
I destroy my Sunday best,
As I plunge it through my skin,
And drag it along my chest.
Awaiting death to start,
I glance down at my wound and stare
For I see my beating heart,
It was always there.
Victorian Bride · Wed May 23, 2007 @ 08:47pm · 1 Comments |
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