—Ostern'; Hasentag—
—Ostern'; Hasentag—
“Large conflicts make the world feel unmanageable and intangible to us. Nonetheless, there is a brilliant or dim light at the end of the tunnel. The mental tenacity that defines luminosity. If burned too brightly, it will burn out.”
Stepping onto her balcony was Angelina. Unaware that it had been some time since she last visited this specific plain. Also unfamiliar to her but ingrained in her consciousness. She let her delicate hands smooth away any potential rust by rubbing them against the shiny metal of the balcony railing. Standing, existing, and breathing in the air that around her felt almost strange. How brief life is, how it might be, yet how hospitable all the changes have been and will be.
Her blue eyes soaked up the sun's radiance, allowing the light to wash her. The brunette took off her silk top and leaned over the railing to get closer to the sun. Today was Easter, or rather, what Angelina jokingly mistook for "Bunny Day." As the gentle wind chilled her bones, the sun's heat seemed like dancing love coals on her face. What is there to do on a "Easter Sunday" that hasn't previously been done? It's safe to say that the stunning actress had penned a large number of poems, saved her work for her travels, and...had grown more aware of what she had missed. Missed in the absence sense. Her lips twisted into a half-smile as she thought back on the previous days.
“Ich bin verliebt in diese Saison … in das, was ich bin.” The German words, flowed freely from her mouth as she spoke to no one; just herself.
It was true. Angelina had developed a sense of who she was. Including all the complexities of existing, breathing, and loving. She was no longer just an actress. Much more, and it frequently made her afraid. She was now a writer for publications like TIMES, the Wall Street Journal, Global Traveler Inc., etc. But, she was now even closer to the love of her life, which made her giddy with happiness. Yet, Angelina had a strong urge to change with the season today.
Angelina found herself in the flower-filled garden before she knew what had happened. She had taken off her floral skirt and was now barefoot, only wearing her matching silk bra and underwear. Her skin blended with that earthy sensation and the alluring aroma of flowers, soil, and honeysuckle. The actress danced on the uncut, untrimmed grass and weeds, letting her hair blow in the wind. The exquisite flowers, with their open petals appearing to welcome her, gave her skin a slight tingle. The woman tipped her head back and giggled lowly, possibly in delirium, but with genuine ecstasy. It meant so much to her to stop, drop, and roll in this magnificent garden.
Throughout the house, Angelina had left her countless cameras, both used and unused. She looked up at the tempting sun with her legs crossed and her back close to the grass. Its rays are making her more endearing, complimenting her, and in Angelina's thinking, warming and praising her. Because there was no longer the mental pain of a conflict. Naturally, the pouty lip actress was aware that there would still be times when she would barely hang on and the need to lie in the garden would seem like an insurmountable obstacle. Not right now, though. Just her—no camera, no writing instruments. She, the flowers, the Planet, her thoughts, and this Easter Sunday's springtime.
Angelina would remain there, safe in the company of dandelion, rose, tulip, and other wild flowers—a garden of euphoric delight. Her hair was strewn across the grass, her eyes were innocently staring into the sun, and she was thinking only beautiful things. She would lie there on Easter Sunday and perhaps the following "Bunny Day" as well.
“...And if it burns out, it can always be re-lit. Be reignited, reconstructed by all and anything. No stipulation on time, no chain on creativity—and no stain on progress. Life is, in all ways, conflict and strife...but just enough love to make it a life.”
More Posts from Jolieflows and Others
I am tired. Every part of me is tired. I am so thankful daily for the brightest blessings. But I have had enough thinking.
It is a space that I have created so that I can express myself and feel the way I want to. How to quiet my thoughts.. how to turn off this waterfall? All I want to do is not think anymore.
It is not that I am sad. I am not in the cloud of overindulged over-exasperated mixed emotions. It is simply that I am tired. I simply want peace and quiet. I want to smile and not over think it.
𝐷𝑒𝑛𝑛 𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑖𝑏𝑡 𝑆𝑐𝒉𝑜̈𝑛𝒉𝑒𝑖𝑡... 𝑢̈𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙.
Unkempt. morning relaxation I wake up in the sunrise with a new lease on life. That was borrowed language. Life is only temporary.
Life isn't just about big things; it's also about small things. “Life is fleeting...” Gestohlenes Zitat.
There is beauty within and around us, yet—what does the human mind focus on? the haze. the night. the gloom. However, grey has been painted as a distasteful color. It's extremely lovely. It's almost perfect; it's refreshing enough.
And when I write, I encounter little comprehension. No maps of my route exist, I am aware of this. My brain is spinning. Where have I come from? What should I do? Where should I start? Oh yes. Beautiful art exists. Art is beauty. I'll write this down in my journal. I'll take a picture of it and draw it. I'll stamp a postcard to seal it after that.
“Jhst thinking...how nothing last.”
Sad and true. Yet, there's a small call of realism...and the ache of memories to always be saved. Until then...💋
The hug became a cure. Not only a hug, but medicine. Not just medical treatment, but healing. More than healing, but needed. They never let go. Even when they are apart.
“When— Where can I find that?” She asked.
“Find what?”
“That.” She extended her arm pointing to the two people embracing.
“It’ll find you.” It answered.
Her arm sank back to her side. Her eyes were clouded with envious tears; maybe not so much envious tears as sadness. 'When will it find me?'
She hadn't asked out loud, but it heard her. “Be patient.” It answered.
The real world is no stranger to us, nor is yesterday's hurt any deeper. Unlike yesterday, we can look forward to a better tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, is a classic repeat?
We were prepared for failure. We hoped for destruction. We were on the cusp of disassembly. These hopes now will not plague us tomorrow. Tomorrow is the only one we have.The future is what's right.
There are parts of me that are broken, tangled together, hurtful, and joyful. I've talked about this before, but that ravished part of me doesn't care. I am still learning. Learning how to... To put on paper how I really feel. It goes well beyond the creepy, spooky, and unsettling feelings that I will harbor within me. No fancy talk, no cover-up, just how to...
The high effects of life's ecstasy warn me off. Dull eyes, zombie dragged and drugged, I am a personality bubbled and bright, but only in the dark crooks of my mind. No mask. Uncovered and here to stay. I can be two, three, four, or six people at the same time! I don't want to be trapped in the bug house. I don't want a circus. I'm just letting loose this sticky muse.
There will be another muse like this. This personality will regain its strength and trust me, I'll be here to capture it. I am not someone who locks it up and pretends to be a housewife. Fuck it. Captured it and I'm happy. This is an anxious capture.
To: Angie.
From: Angelina.
𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒.
10/2—
I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.
No longer mindful of how I come across to others.
I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.
My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.
How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?
Cannot reproduce these feelings.
—;
So there's this whine and soft pitch of a dissociative type. The persistent incapabilities to secure, the nature of the soul, are everywhere.
Cosmic encounters between various realms. Destruction of what isn't and what will be inexplicably. The happy results of traveling blindly, without knowing anything, yet possessing something.
This poetry is rambling, disorganized, and vibrant.
Writing repeatedly to stir the soul. This is poetry, gloomy reflections, monotonous writing, and a lasting smile.
Christian Wiman, from Once in the West; "Music Maybe"
[Text ID: one wants in the end just once to be friend / one's own loneliness, // to make of the ache of inwardness— // something, // music maybe,]
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