Mijn eerste vriend

He didn't know her and nor did she. The were aged something and worldly blind. He had grown his first muscle and she prayed for the same. Day by day they could see each other change, but that didn't necessarily mean they did. His window was an easy two feat above her's and her breasts were beginning to blush. Since he could remember, they were the closest of friends and then middle school started. The start of occurred, the start of impatience, the start of who cares besides everyone. Had his parents told him everyone was in the same predicament as he, things might have ended out different, instead they didn't and things turned out how they did. He would watch with his friends and she would model with hers. Every day after Math was the same. Her skirt would hike their eyes would turn. He would quietly heckle and her skirt would ride. As her skin became more pale he would go blind and the bell would ring. As the drowning sound of that bell faded He and Her would be left to dare. She always broke first. He would patently await down the hall of her locked cubby. This was her area, a spot he longed to be. To have a picture, to have purpose, to be welcomed. What might everything he longed for become if he opened to her on how he felt.. She was more than he could imagine, and she, all he could. The day that would disrupt their sinless dance was coming and it would be sudden. She longed for him to approach, he longed to worthy. His figure, his demeanor, his ability. He was a dream and the possibility to be true was something that could be found. Dreams die with the bat of an eye, and this dream would now leave. She was to move and what could come from here? Besides a new address for her a new dream would never come. This was her parents fault and they did this to her. They did this to Him. It was before the AM when all 16 wheels arrived, he waited down the block she in her window, Box by box two hearts sank. With every piece of furniture they grew more discomfort. Life was working opposite and continually. She as did he wanted a common ground, a no mans land to meet, a spot where two could possibly recognize their bond. The last she saw from him was trough a moving window pane. Pain was what would be until she forgot. He would be different, until he gave up. She never did.

rundt om i verden, før vi faldt i kærlighed

Well this is it my friend. The road we have come to know has finally run out. The dust is settled and horizon clear. Never in my wildest dreams did I think we would come to this. After all that has come up and finally out we can fall back on the single notion that life has brought us here. The dinner parties, late night talks, freezing cold showers, and lets not forget the wind storms. The caravans, the self guided tours, over priced museums, terrible coffee, cheep hash, bad prunes, month long hotel stays, nudest resorts, burnt toast, screaming children, winding train rides, sun sets on the beach, toes in the sand. Wind in our hair, dust in our eyes, fire in our hearts, absinthe in our blood, joy in our soul. Rugby matches, camel races, snake charmers, fish eyes, bruised and battered, and too much salt. A blur it has all become and how fun it all was. Lets not forget the Lions, Giraffes, Hippos, Ostriches, Roaches, Whales, Penguins, Bears, Deer, Oxen, Birds, Birds, and more Birds. And some where in there I think we rode upon a couple of Elephants. From ocean to ocean and basin to summit. Our feet carried us the entire way except that month in the East where exhaustion led to bed rest. The meditation, the hours of prayer, the fasts, the feasts, the continental breakfasts. Motor scooters, bicycles, trains, planes, boats, canoes, rickshaws, and automobiles. Bartering prices, running form the law, missing all forms of tea time, being detained, soccer riots, political protests, airport security, customs, drunk tanks, opera tickets, balcony seats, valet parking, missing items, dirty hostels, language barriers, late nights, early mornings, cotton mouth, chapped lips, loose stool, goose bumps, head aches, nausea, bottles of aspirin, and lets not forget the, smiles, frowns, tears, sweat, blood, laughs, cries, stutters, gasps, and most of all silence. Its been a fun one but I must admit, along this winding and ever-wandering road I would have never thought "our" arrest would be for late fee's on rented videos. The west was tough, but not as much as the east. How fun it was to dodge the law based on the silly billy notion of having a Lawyer. Shame on life, that a monthly premium can buy you a friend. Whoever they are I hope they fight for us; and well, after what they can filter through, I hope they remember the idea of a soul-unity making way through what is deemed life. The sun will set after we forget. Just kidding I love you more than "so much". See you for a drink on Tuesday. If not; the following Tuesday would be great.

Zwitserse horloge maker

It was 8:45 am when I heard the knock. I thought to myself who in the hell could that be. That thought immediately left my head when that front door opened. Almost like I should have known, there he was. All six feet of him with hands clasped. His eyes were worn as if in defeat. I wasted no time at all to invite him in. This was the last of the many mistakes I made with him. I took his coat and he began to talk. It would be several hours until he stopped, for some reason I wish he would have never. He started with a heartfelt apology, which had probably been rehearsed on several cocktail napkins. His words smelled of bourbon and I could taste the salt in his tears. But once again I took him in. "Woman I have wronged you too many times" he sullenly squealed. His cowboy chatter would begin to pour even more. Working in my practice I have seen countless people at the end of their rope however the man before me was long dead. Time had been all but kind to him. His demons had all caught up and the noose he adorned as a neck tie looked unbearably tight. Besides the freezing cold stare he had I will never forget those hands and they clasped mine. They used to fit so perfect only now it was obvious who's hands had worn through. As I tried to pull my hands from his he only grasped tighter and fell to his knees. He crumpled before me and wept like a child. His snot and tears were uncomfortably warm on my thighs. He coughed and cried and like a summer storm it was suddenly over. He sharply stood up before me and removed from his waist the pocket watch I gave him and the hand gun I left him over. His eyes shimmered a hint of rage and then back to that cold stare. His hands knotted around my hair as he yanked my head back. The feel of that barrel on my temple was all too familiar. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to get away. He effortlessly tossed me aside and stormed out the front door. I laid on the coarse carpet and will never forget that lonely POP. I don't know what pushed me to look out that front door. Maybe it was the idea that he was at peace now and I could be as well. My father was dead at 59. How he loved that watch.

totdat we elkaar weer ontmoeten

When asked if I would come and speak I originally said to my self no. It was for the most selfish reasons I could possibly think of. I couldn't face the fact of time. That time had run out and the last we spoke was exactly that, the last. We met when we were children and that first afternoon we spent together I knew we would some day be very much in love. As they say the rest is history, and in a very shameful remorse I have no choice but to agree. The years were too kind for us, however we were not kind in return. How do you celebrate a life that no one could possibly understand. The layered complexity of issues disguised by one of the brightest smiles the world has ever seen. What happened between us that afternoon I will never exactly understand, but one thing is true and that is, the love I have for that afternoon will forever carry me to sleep. When we have to face the passing of a loved one we grieve and search for any form of solace, and it is with in this we must find the true love that brought us together. To be completely honest I wrote this on the flight here, and as I began to miss her more and more all I wanted was to hold her once again. The feeling of compassion and bliss, are all but forgotten, however are now too distant. With in this I ask Why? Why must we push away from what we owe every bit of happiness to? I can honestly say, this will be me no more. Every inch of me wishes I could have truly been there that afternoon. I ask you all to join me in the remembrance of a Mother, Daughter, Sister, and most of all a great friend. As I lay you into the ground I will forever find you in the clouds. You can only have one first love and I am forever thankful it was you. I will correct myself on what was just said, I cannot use the word "was". You are my only love, you are already missed. Until the next time we align. Let us all celebrate this wonderful woman. Thank you.

pijn in plezier

It was 4:30 am when Ruth awoke. Rain consumed her ear drums, the roof was leaking like ants marching one-by-one. Solitude and loneliness were the first friends to greet her. Each morning seemed harder than the first. He had been dead for 6 years, 3 months, 24 days, 18 hours, and 41 minutes. He was not coming back. She slipped out of bed and into his robe. Yesterday was the last time she wore the robe. Today she promised would be the last. The creeks of the floor boards acknowledged her sad shuffle. Like the day before, the kitchen was 15 steps, 15 steps to the first feelings of being alive. This was the hardest part of her solemn mornings. The daily battle between when her eyes open and the next time they would close. As she grasped he coffee cup it was understood she would never come to. Tears began to well, the darkness of the kitchen blurred. As her back collapsed into the wall the tears fell. Her body convulsed and once again like the days, weeks, and years before, she would find her naked body concealed by his robe alone on the dusty kitchen floor. This morning was different, the pain was like nothing she had ever felt. Was this what her life was to be? Ravened and destroyed were her innards. The ulcers hugged her daily. He was never coming back. Who would find her. Would it be eventually or would it be sudden. No children no family. The only thing that stood between her and the gates was that Jade plant. The one thing that stopped her every day. Starring from the floor to the dark rainy windowsill she could make out the silhouette of her Jade. His Jade, their Jade. Pulling her self to the window she starred into her asylum. The soft green attitude calmed her racing heart. The tears still fell, but she wasn't as manic. This Jade took her edge off. But it would never truly save her. She could see him in the windowpane, his face was so soft, how she ached to feel that skin. Hold his warmth. To have passion. Her widowed hands squeezed that bright orange pot. She was found, he was lost. It would be several hours until this, but she knew it was coming. The dusty floorboards creaked in encouragement. Pushing her and that Jade further and further. She sat on the edge of their bed with the plant in lap. Fumbling through the drawer in the rainy darkness she found what she was looking for. Out of the six gadgets it possessed she had chosen her sanctuary long ago. A light flick of her calloused fingers her decision glistened in the dreary moon light. As she began to selfishly prune the tears stopped. The cool trickle of life was found with in. She had lunch with Rita today, Rita had a key. She was found. As the last bit of pruning was coming to a close so did her eyes. She laid back into their bed and awaited the gates. Rita would later call to cancel their lunch plans. Ruth would not be found for days. The rain never stopped.

grootvader

Brown eyes, Blue eyes, Green one's too. The too is for also, and you are certainly included. All in one shuffle, the walking path is corroded. No longer is the summit in view. Clouds shift, rain falls, plans change. This open air tastes stale. The sheep have wandered further than the reaches of any Sheppard or rapist. To come back is to reach the summit. Were to turn around? Where to park? Where to stop searching? Answers fallow in suit with questions, sentences combine to make paragraphs. Paragraphs flow to the drain. Examination is used to discover, upon this we are clogged. Consume, Digest, Clog. The flush is for the flow of continuance. Our sensory/social perspective and influence is under constant attack, this is our body wars. Bombardment like the bombing of London. The children have left and the parents are dead. This promotion is for the both of us. But mostly for your father. Boy is he proud of his force fed graduate. Raised on the grass of society. Clock in Punch out. Another crowded food court falls victim. The Uzi has a Bachelors Degree, and loves the music of the Eagles. Now no more and neither is Stacy. It took one stray bullet and now, two orphans. One can sing the other is a mute. Raised on grief and habitual hugs. Foster and leave. Adopted for the absence of children, a dream never to be lived, now a facade of children waiting to run. But to where? The summit is clouded. What wind must we create to actualize and clear our summits? The answer is not clearly defined nor should it be. This interstate is forever ours, the most important is not to get lost. Stray as you must but arm your self. Knowledge, patience, and music. The up most essentials for any straying tour. Duty if we must but only through obligation. The obligation to obscurity soon to be mainstream. Awake to occupy; the mind, heart,and lies. Shuffling to play bridge with tarot cards. Dearest Kate, I am writing you because Stacy is dead, and it is time we reconnect. We used to pray that we would never meet. Remembrance of us will for ever be happy, brushing your hair as you sat beneath me, only once did every strand align, and that night grandfather died. We should have never met, nor loved. You make me ashamed and for this I love you more. Do not call, do not write, the key is under the front mat. Please, let yourself out.

Take Home Entertainment

I sit here in the great debate. The debate of what is what, who is who, and why exists as why. What is the constant search of understanding that flows through our bones day by day. In life we occupy ourselves with means of expression and release, a sum up as an outlet. If this is our means of release why in the common sense must it be a source of power. Is it for the input of energy, focus, and dedication as a combining concoction of feel good, our release creates our drive? Is this drive the motion for which we breath and our heart beats. We all dream and desire on a daily basis and for too many, they are never set into this rhythmic motion of desire and dedication. The effort is lost, the love is broken and replaced with the new medium of mental flirtation. It is within the actIon and decision to realize and actualize the momentum and power that resides in each and every one of us. There is never a wrong decision as long as ONE is made. There are wrong motives and outcomes, but there is never anything more severe that to sever from your drive and settLe for anything less that what you are capable. Does physical exertion feel good for the stress it releases, the mental ramifications it carries, or the energy it creates? If you have the power within to create energy than this must be in some form the power behind your dreams and desires. I revel in the understanding that nothing shall be truly handed to anyone. in some way, shape, and form, an exchange of energy must occur. An exchange if you will, a hand to hand, brain to brain, computer to computer intersection. For it is with in this realm that our consciousness is opened and closed, and the path On which our drive takes us comes into sight. This path, this decision, this enlightenment is ours and ours alone and the results, good and bad are all obstacles for the steering. The action taken to do something out of the norm comes with a consequence and a new direction. Is this break of norm a true severance from the path that has been exchanged and chosen through your thoughts and actions; or is it a detour among the chosen path of fate and temptation. The Banket of comfort we weaVe is a shield for the distractions and jabs of life, the common understanding of SHIT. Is our blanket a disguise or a cloak. We all have walls and barriErs for the world, its what these walls protect that is our stock pile of fuel for the fire that drives our desires. To fulfill your desires the love for your own self must be of relevance and priority. If we all push for our greatest out come in life, what could possiblY measure the importance and significance of our achievements. Simply put, the measurement for every comparison in life is the excitement for the chance to out do the last experience. All in all, What is What, Who is Who, and Why is Why, is all piled into Our addictive natures. We are all addicts of our observer, our conscious/unconscious view and interpreted understanding of the life we live, dream, and create. May the best day of yoUr past be the worst day of your future. All in ALL this is Take Home Entertainment.