she returns.

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i am back. hello. actually, i returned from the east coast at the beginning of the week, but i've been so fucking busy that i haven't been able to update. anyway, i've been so caught up in myself these days. i feel selfish.

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highlights of my trip included getting teary-eyed at princeton, getting hit on by a thirty-something white guy and then a couple of twenty-something black guys, chain smoking on the sidewalk with black coffee and an issue of i-D, making eyes at the tour guide, who was actually only 27, and the cute italian waiter that i bummed a cigarette from. i also made conversation with a man that looks almost like this one sexy canadian actor that i know. i also bummed a cigarette from him when i was at the pier in new york. he had nice jeans and a very black jacket. i spent a lot of time sitting on random benches, sketching people. ny wasn't as fun as it could have been if it was just me and my friends there; not that its ever really all that much fun to me in the first place--i like la better. more music, better fashion, more personality. folks get it right. anyway, i thought of going to woosters or misshapes, but with woosters it was too far from where the group was supposed to meet back, and i didn't want to risk being late with the subway, and with misshapes, the tour guide offered to take me later when every one else was at the hotel, but transportation was a problem since we were in jersey for the nights. cars suck, sleep sucks, kaboom. he and i did have some nice half korean half english conversations in the hotel lobbies, though. it was all very cold and rainy and wonderful. i smoked too much and only slept two nights out of six. i thought about my friends and the day i spent with lily. i moped over the fact that i've wasted so much time. it runs like rain on the sidewalk. it runs like rain on the sidewalk.
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i also turned sixteen this past monday. but i'm celebrating this saturday at le diplomate. should be fun, and lily i'm so sad that you can't be there :[
my mother got me the 10th anniversary limited collector's edition of the bbc pride and prejudice series, my father gave me flowers (yellow roses and white tuips), my sister a pinkish robe made out of terry, and neha gave me her gift early--the movie script from moulin rouge, in all of its rawness and wonder :]
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after spring break i didn't go to school for a couple of days. i got really fucking sick during my trippo. it was only a little cold then, but when i got back i had a fever. i just spent a lot of time in bed and thought a lot. i think i've disappointed so many people. it makes me wonder if one day everyone will lose faith in me, and if people have too much faith in me from the start, or i'm just really that bad.
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i wrote this last summer. i know i've been posting a lot of my older work, but my these days, i've been having difficulty writing. i've kind of moved away from trying to articulate my emotions, and i can feel it-- too much head, not enough heart and blood and guts.

They made love outside, mid-sundown, in the warm and luxurious evening air. The sky looked as if a goddess had wrenched her insides—her soul—around, looking for something as beautiful as her reflection, and having found something that came close, spilled it out into the atmosphere. Everything seemed satisfied, and relieved, lacking tension or unanswered questions. The hazy mustard light struck the grass and their slicked skin, casting them in bronze, and hiding their flaws. Rays of the setting sun slipped through the space between their faces and the slivers of emptiness in their hair; their kisses made shadows that didn’t appear to be cold, or even dark. Things moved slow, without fear and with so much joy—not so much as to be described as languid, but slow enough to deceive one into thinking that time might be aware of its prisoners. Nothing was rushed, and the sounds were only of murmurs, happy sighs, and birds… The moments seemed so mercifully slow…
But honestly, it doesn’t take long to make love, and the sun must set, as it always does, presenting us to night, and wishing us luck. Questions then return, accompanied by remorse and second thoughts. Love loses its calm, smiling frivolity, and so does joy; stone is brought in to replace it. The grass seems sharp with shame and uncertainty, and the noises they make seem louder, more obtrusive. Perspiration no longer has a sweet aroma; it is only a mold of vulnerability—every slight breeze brushes cold onto their bodies in thick, mocking strokes. They were not safe from themselves anymore, and the deepened shadows are like entirely separate, unknown worlds of amorphous and dark movement. It is harder for them to look at each other in the eye; pupils tremor with new knowledge and new distance. There is discord. The ivory of the moon reminds them of their bones, which suddenly seem more susceptible to aches, and when they shift uncomfortably, his touch seems so foreign to her, and hers is all too familiar to him. They realize that the love they made was of a weak brand, and this is disillusioning, for there was such poetry before; such completeness and warmth. And they feel like strangers who must start all over again, who, in order to find purpose, must begin from scratch with each other. But both of them find that it is easier to move along and live without reason, for the loss of love hurts and they now doubt whether or not they have strength enough to endure such pain.
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and also..

You were wearing a rainbow,
pouring those colors straight into me
with sighs and caresses
of my lower back and hips.
And I, made of dust,
blew history into your mouth,
mixing into the moisture, a proof
of my fall of Rome
and your Renaissance.
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