gwensarah and johanny
Vaka
22:36 & 22 April 2003

Hushed expectancy, breath caught in her throat, nerves tingling with anticipation, feeling the slight tearing of her eyes at that first note. Haunting, it eats it's way through her soul, leaving beauty and a quiet desperation in it's wake. She closes her eyes against the flood of emotion. Hope, fear, sorrow, joy, love, passion, despair..everything and nothing at once. Worlds are created and destroyed in each stroke of a bow against string. Dawn turns to night turns to dawn again, that which sleeps under winter's cold touch will be born again in the time of green and laughter only to die as the golden crown of autumn rules the land..ever repeating, ever lasting.
And worlds are created and destroyed in the span of a bow against string.

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Sitting on damp grass, wind in my hair, clouds circling moon, music in my ears and soaring through my heart, glass of some odd wonder creation involving milk, squeezable coffee syrup, and a bit of vodka, trees are a canopy as green as my eyes, pensive. Whispered I love yous, whispered goodbyes, close my eyes against both, wanting to feel nothing except a slight breeze caressing my face in absence of someone to lean against. Wanting to sleep, wanting to cry, wanting to laugh, wanting to go. Wanting to be held, wanting to be alone, needing both. And still I hear him singing.

Plaintively, mournfully, fiercely..and my soul cries out in answer, in joining with the call no words can express, for there are places words can't ever touch.

It was never a dream of mine, that porch, that sundrenched grass. Never a dream for the future but instead a memory, one that is as imprinted as the colour of my eyes or the curve of my cheek. It was more sensation than a picture frozen in time. Of love, of laughter, of safety.

It was knowing that in some other time, some other place, I was who I was meant to be.

I am not beautiful, no one trembles at the sight of me or at the mention of my name, I will never be compared to the light of stars or the wonder of the sun, murmurs of there walks beauty will never be in my name..all I have are these words which paint like distant memories of elusive rightness.

Words which are not enough, never enough...because I was beautiful once.

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