Latest Posts by jolieflows - Page 2

—𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅. 𝑬𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. 𝑩𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚. 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.

Cinema is an other universe. It's in a class of its own. Every film watched, every moment shared... A lovely, peaceful recollection.

“𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.” My moonlight you are, my sensations you awaken...the thoughts I love.

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎? 𝙸𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎? 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕.

Unbearbeitete Liebe, unbearbeitete Gedanken ... und doch nicht genug. Forever, and ever, is a very long time...but forever isn't long when you share it. Whether Spring morning, Fall afternoon, or Winter Nights— it's forever and always a pleasure, an adoration, a love song, a sonnet, a stanza; a word. Flutter birds, fluttering hearts...

Such seldom occurrences—when I'm not really certain of my thinking. Deem it an anomaly to my own senses. Perhaps I'm foregoing ahead of the seasons. Like a used pencil, my intellect is dull. But it keeps going, just like that pencil.

Collectively, I'm almost cognisant thoughts. I'm also blissfully blind at the same time. I'm trying to navigate this unique life sphere. Limitless and tactless, entwined with skepticism, assurance, elation, and deliberation. I am both unaware and aware of everything, everywhere and on all seas.

Whatever might happen, whatever might be, I'll be alright.

hitsujiotoko_xx

Where do you start when you feel despondent? not the feeling about being alone. However, the only factor. nowhere to fit. being nothing in a world that is something.

When your voice falters, your heart beats in trembling clef rhythms; but, when you do feel stronger, why does it fade?

No depression. No isolation. a feeling of separation on the inside. How can you fight that sensation? There are no materials. no substances

My words are failing, and the pen is on the page. I'm eagerly awaiting the boomerang-like return of my hopes.

Where do I go now that I feel so alone?

Here. I came here. It was noted down.

From: Angie💋

To: Your self right now. It'll all be okay. 🖤

There is often too much to say and not enough time. Cliché. a complete fiasco. Truthfully... Why say anything at all?

My mental imagination is where I'd prefer spend each day. I would much rather be at ease with the knowledge that I can somewhat influence the depths of my thoughts.

Time therefore expires. This will happen. There it is. It will tick more quickly. Let it be.

...𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

It is tarmac, rather like coffee. Sprung like spring. Ventured on like a welcome mat, with both new and old seals.

It's there and opaque. Solo, besieged, vulnerable, and frequently on the verge of exploding. Perverse, facetious, and vague, but it's still there.

A memory recollection. An unofficial approach for formal subconscious.

Brazen, adjusted, and revisited thoughts. Blissfully naive. Gloriously dank and careless. Unfiltered like most waters, but continuously flowing

The consciousness, however timorous, is nevertheless nostalgic.

— Solo—

She felt most like herself between the break of dawn and the start of a new day. While passing her eyes quickly over the script in front of her, Angelina stuck the final sticky note in her journal. A strand of her platinum blonde hair was doodled and knotted by her free hand. Her schedule was as disorganized as her mind. Unorganized and unsure, but extremely feasible.

Angelina had never been happier as she planned the next few stages in her career. Her third person perspective story, was published in LIFE magazine last week. She had gained confidence in her acting abilities and was firmly established. But, the sheer satisfaction of being a writer, however, produced more dopamine than any Golden Globe, Oscar, or honor from an acting guild. Every action stunt the stunning actress ever performed was eclipsed by that sensation. She pushed her personal journal closer to herself while tugging at her bottom lip between her teeth.

She would have appeared insane to anyone who had been looking if they had. She may have been schizophrenic based on the way she gnawed on her lower lip when concentrating. As she recorded the racing ideas and epiphanies, her big eyes grew larger and more intense. Angelina's writing was inspired by the conviction that nothing in the outside world could ever equal to the apocalyptic feeling she experienced. She felt deeply theatrical in everything, and her writing technique reflected that.

What came next? The phrase "writers block" was never one Angelina like using. She really preferred to imagine her ideas as lightning strikes. Inconspicuous sparks and soft lightning. The third-person narrative of her article depicted the disasters that befell unfortunate people on the planet. Naturally, the general population believed Angelina was unaware of the world's calamities.

“𝑊𝒉𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛... 𝐼𝑛 𝑤𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑐𝑦𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑡?”

Based on her humanitarian travels, Angelina had written it from a distance. Additionally, she had written that from a faint sense of self-awareness. She nevertheless encountered criticism from the public.

With the pen in her hand, writing, crossing out, scribbling, she penned her bold perspectives. Her mind was struggling mightily to keep up as her black ink doused across the lined paper. Would she make this public? There was no answer. Maybe she would be the only one to see this project. Maybe she would publish a book every six years. Or maybe, just maybe, in the future she'd make the move from actress to author slowly but surely.

Stuck at her kitchen table in the upright posture. Her mind, reeling from the furious ideas, eyes fixed on the paper, and mouth slightly parted. The blue-eyed beauty interrupted her limited amount of focus to look around the untidy table for a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette, taking a dainty puff of nicotine, and exhaled deeply.

Just the sprinkling of morning sunlight; no music, lights, or TV. Beautiful sunshine was pouring through her blinds, illuminating various rooms in her opulent house. Serenely lovely; unquestionably a source of inspiration and incentive for Angelina to keep writing.

The bottom of her page was coated with ashes as she scrawled the final words. The majority of this piece of work was incoherent. But it had the qualities of an excellent phenomenon. The actress murmured softly as she ran her hand through her hair.

Angelina wasn't motivated to write because she wanted to become a well-known novelist. Knowing that perhaps her writing might reach someone was an art. Someone who required the words: ‘𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧— 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥-𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.’

Of course, Angelina might have tried her hand at writing romantic, adventure, or film noir-style stories. But how tightly can the soul grasp that?

She believed that romance could begin from anything, in her warped and wicked mind. The intense desire to triumph over such catastrophes could be perceived as romantic and exciting. Standing up from the chair, she looked at the morning sun. Her scripts, notes, and camera were all scattered across the table. Each and every one of Angelina's exploding personalities.

𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐. 𝑰'𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐, 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒔𝒔.

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚. 𝑵𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔; 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔; 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔.

𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉'𝒔 𝒊𝒄𝒚, 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒘𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓. 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍.

I need to keep my joy in mind when I write or alter. I've let my thoughts to fool me.

I've let my imagination to make me into a frightening devil. How clichéd. How depressing of me.

My scowl widens as I pick up the pen. I'm disoriented inside of myself and yearn to meet someone great. I feel renewed when they hear me speak.

What...if no one answers the call? Am I destined to roam the earth by myself? No.

I'll take my own call. I'll turn off my thoughts so I may continue to be content. Because happiness is now a decision. My decision.

—Angie💋

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.

—Blondie—

(Life Or Something Like It Solo)

She was frightened by the comedy genre. She wasn't particularly amusing—clumsy? She was, indeed. Angelina had no experience with romantic comedies. It didn't appear that "Playing By Heart" counted. In fact, whenever her filmography was brought up, the movie never seemed to come up. So perhaps Angelina wasn't the best at comedy. However, this chance presented itself. The project "Life or Something Like It" seems to be enjoyable. It was a character that embodied everything the actress detested about people. Her co-stars made the set beautiful, and the screenplay was excellent. It nearly felt like she was on vacation with her favorite folks. One of the best benefits, too? Now, for just a little a while she could be a blonde hair chick again.

On the far side of the set, her trailer was located. As she read her script, Angelina was reclined against her desk. Despite how much she enjoyed reading, she was never able to focus on scripts on her own. When the trailer door opened, she stretched out her arm and got hold of her tea cup, ready to sip. The director, Stephen, leaned his body partially against the doorway as he stood there. His thin lips were playing out that cunning little smile. Angelina was no longer a childish actress. She earned her spot in Hollywood, which has always made her nervous. Realizing that she was now regarded as one of the best actors in Hollywood. It looked like Stephen was going to capitalize on it.

“Angie...?” Stephens voice raised in pitch—Angelina stop to stare at him. “I need you to sing.”

Sing? He needed Angelina to sing? First it was the outpouring of support, getting the woman to star in this comedy. Even though, Angelina was still convinced she possessed not one funny bone in her body. Now, there was singing involved?

Angelina was ultimately ready to deliver the script to someone else if she had been acting in her right mind. And perhaps change her mind about playing the lead in the movie. She was not a singer. Stephen hadn't seen any of her recent movies, had he? She was able to swim, swing from ropes, fire weapons, and throw punches. However singing? Was he attempting to transform her into the Hollywood clown, or what? Angelina had to restrain herself from letting a barrage of expletives escape her mouth. She started to speak and gave a slight head shake.

“No... No, I can't sing.” She finally spoke, trying to gather her composure.

Stephen let out a squeal of laughter, “I’m not asking for Opera or a Madison Square Garden performance.” He paused with a slight tilt of his head. “Just some old school rock singing.”

Angelina still wasn't understanding where he was going with this. Now, standing from her chest she rested one hand on her hip. “Rock singing? What're we talking...?”

It was widely known that Angelina cherished music. She couldn't carry a simple tune, yet every time she went on vacation, she ended up in a record shop. When she was alone, Angelina would use music to lighten her home, possibly upsetting the peace outside due to her excitement when listening to specific songs. And that was okay; it was groovy and enjoyable. To do it on camera, though? Have it filmed, edited, and made a significant contribution to the movie? That idea made Angelina's heart shiver. She and Stephen exchanged a brief look. His weight changed from his left foot to his right. Angelina shook her head "no," biting the corner of her mouth.

“Trust me on this. This will be fun, you'll look amazing and it'll be amazing.” Stephen nodded on and off, as to add reassurance to his statement. As he made his way out the door of her trailer, he called out another “trust me” before closing the door.

𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎? 𝑮𝒐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇? 𝑺𝒖𝒓𝒆.

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Sylvia touched Angelina's nose with the cosmetic brush. A week had passed since Stephen had asked Angelina to sing. And her response? She wasn't sure yet, but she was leaning strongly against saying yes. By choosing to film the other events instead of the singing scene, she was able to avoid it. The set was entertaining. Angelina found that the more she disliked her character, the more she liked the movie. However, Stephen was determined to shoot the singing sequence today after spotting her diversion strategy.

“It’s part of the film. Have fun with it.” Sylvia spoke, teasing Angelina's platinum blonde hair.

A glance at her reflection in the mirror was cast by the blue-eyed actress. Each day, two to four hours were needed for hair and makeup. Angelina occasionally had trouble identifying herself. Her dark hair was completely gone, the tattoos were covered up; she had changed significantly. However, she enjoyed something about the acting industry. Playing dress up and temporarily assuming another identity could be thrilling a way of escapism at times. Sylvia shifted to the side while talking, attempting to tame a few flyaways.

“Aren’t you always going on about taking risk?” Sylvia took a beat, grabbing the curling iron. “This is a risk. A fun risk.” Her heavy Russian accent made Angelina giggle a bit, whenever she said ‘risk.’

Taking risk? Yeah. Angelina was the number one German-American risk taker. Jumping into pools at award shows, kissing fans, bungee jumping while on LSD. So what the hell was so scary about shooting a 5-10 minute singing scene?

If Angelina's father were present, he would undoubtedly rant about how she shouldn't constantly be terrified. Additionally, he would probably provide a long-winded narrative about his time spent on sets and filming projects that he didn't particularly enjoy. If Angelina's mother had visited the set this week, she would have given her a big hug, sing her a tender song, and tell her to stretch her wings and fly. And that would all be beneficial. But there was just one problem: Angelina was getting in her own way.

“Warum bin ich so ein kleiner Angsthase?” Angelina mumbled as Sylvia finished up her hair.

Sylvia narrowed her squinty brown eyes at the pretty actress, “You forget I know German too.”

Amusingly, Angelina stood from the chair. “Ja? What did I just say then?”

The two women were to begin in a heated battle of Russian and German talk, before the five minute warning knock erupted on the trailer door. That was Angelina's cue to get out there.

Her attire of choice was appropriate for the setting. Her idea to add a hat to the costume was to make it appear more relaxed. Angelina followed the security onto the set while keeping one hand in her pocket. Along the walkway, extras, regular people, and paid fans lined up in an attempt to get a glimpse of the action. Stephen appeared to be deeply engaged in a discussion with his assistant director. Angelina pursed her pouty lips, mentally going over each word of the scene while she tried to control her heart rate so she wouldn't pass out before the filming even began.

Breaking from the conversation, Stephen approached her. “How ya feeling Blondie?”

“I feel like Marilyn Monroe!”

“Really?” Stephen asked excitedly.

“No. No. I—I was being sarcastic.” Angelina playfully rolled her eyes.

Stephen pulled Angelina aside, off to a mildly secluded area. Stephen Herek, was a fairly unknown director who wasn't the largest in Hollywood. But he worked hard at his craft. He respected the input and effort of his actors. With seriousness and sympathy in his gaze, he gently touched Angelina's shoulder.

“This entire movie is about living in the moment. It's about doing things, you'd probably never do. Your character is realizing that.” He stopped, his lips twitching with a smile as he continued. “You’re the raddest chick in Hollywood right now. Be that way, for this scene.”

This was the pep talk? Angelina could be considered the boldest woman in Hollywood. Of course she was— who else would get a tapped in tattoo tiger on her lower back and flaunt it, for all to see? No one. No one but her. A gleaming smile spread across her lips, and Angelina gave a thorough nod in agreement.

“Alright! Alright... Let's film this fucking thing!”

Maybe it was the character, the writing, Stephen's motivational speech, or maybe just the fact that Angelina was working on a movie that allowed her to have a little fun. Whatever it was, the scene was filmed in a single take. She enjoyed herself and rocked out in front of a large crowd. Angelina even succeeded in living out a rock star fantasy by being able to crowd surf! Production would take close to six months, delaying the release of the film. Still, she enjoyed herself. Angelina had truly begun to enjoy her career as an actor.

To the imagination, the soul, and the mind that never seems at rest. Oh...wide eyed girl...so pretty.

𝐸𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠, 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝒉𝑒𝑠.

𝐻𝑖𝑔𝒉 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒.

𝐻𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑠𝒉𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

𝒉𝑖𝑔𝒉 𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑐𝒉. 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑠 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝒉.

𝐿𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑔𝒉𝑡𝑠.

𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒.

Where I wanna be. Where I oughta be. Where I will be. ♥️

in & above instagram

To be a rose. To be a rose. To be.

Auroras glow above Jupiter and moon, 1981

Ron Miller

- Mahmoud Darwish from 'Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut c. 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)

—Solo—

VII

It was peculiar. More sophisticated but still possessing an odd charm. Only a one-hour special with Barbara Walters was all that Angelina had consented to. What happened to make it a three-episode event? Because of the ping-pong-style questions about her father and their rocky relationship. Her romantic life, her tattoos, and finally, what mattered most— Angelina's new life course. Her life had undergone a very significant transformation. In some ways, she appeared to have found her niche. There would be no more ricocheting between high and low emotions, no more craving for a spark-igniting sensation. Angelina felt at ease being who she was. She genuinely enjoyed being alive.

Barbara moved about in her chair, her eyes seeping right into Angelina's. “Before we start, I have to ask— have you done something different?”

“...Different? You mean like dieting?” Angelina's eyebrow lifted softly; she was confused about the question.

“The last time I interviewed you, you seemed...”

“Unhinged?” Angelina laughed softly but boastfully. She didn't have an issue with calling herself unhinged. Because it was true. There were heavy moments in her life, that didn't add up. If they so happened to— it was due to other outside influences. Which never seemed genuine.

While the cameras were rolling, the ladies' hair and cosmetic artists patted their cheekbones and nostrils with subtle glitter. To check her watch, Angelina slightly craned her neck and narrowed her eyes. This was consistently the part of Hollywood that appeared to drag on. Interviews never appeared to have a single subject. Angelina never felt especially skilled at them, though. In an effort to divert the conversation and draw attention to crucial concerns, she would do so. However, trivial issues like hair, makeup, attire, and dating rumors kept coming up. That was always Angelina's favorite. She seemed to be dating every prominent person. It was amusing to her when they pinned her to Ethan Hawke the previous week.

“Okay, last time we spoke, we talked of your enormous success. Your ground breaking roles. Your amazing achievement— and the films that helped you do it.” Barbara took a pause, her thin lips pursing softly, then she continued. “Now, you've signed on to do Tomb Raider 2, A movie with Ethan Hawke, and you've become a member of the UN Special Envoy Council for Refugees. A writer for TIME magazine. You've certainly changed course, yes?”

Angelina crossed her legs at her ankles. A nervous flutter hit her stomach, “Yeah—yeah, things have really changed.”

“Is there a reason you've changed? Is there someone who's pushed you into this change?”

“I wanted to change. I wanted to...well, I needed to see life from a different perspective.”

Barba had leaned forward now, her eyes fixing right on the actress across from her. “Was it your interest in foreign affairs that made you want to join the UN?”

Joining the UN wasn't just a result of Angelina's interest in one particular area of international affairs. She was aided by her inner and exterior curiosity. The difficulty of taking on significant responsibilities, which required some background knowledge, was another obstacle. And like many other things in Angelina's life, when she felt drawn to a particular topic and truly felt a sense of delight from learning about life, she had to be all in. She began to describe how she got involved in setting up for the UN Special Envoy group with a nod of her head. Babra continued to lift her eyebrows slightly, as if she were too shocked to believe it.

“I had received the script three years earlier and I wasn't sure I could do that particular role...” With a pause, the dark-haired actress gave a small laugh. “You get older, and things look different, you start to challenge yourself and I know for myself, I want to do more. Be more, help others through different ways.”

Barba smiled softly, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve certainly made an impact on others. Just last week you put out several TIME magazine articles. Is that a goal for you too? To become a writer?”

The middle and index fingers of Angelina were placed under her chin. She hadn't planned on that happening and hadn't given it much thought either. It was a release to write. She found that writing poems helped her maintain a healthy perspective on reality. She had strong opinions regarding the articles she had written for TIME magazine. Angelina understood that in order to be a writer, she would need to hold a lot of very strong opinions. Maybe. She might reveal her secrets at some point in the future, and she might even compose a couple scripts or more.

There were three sets of five minute breaks. In between those, hair and makeup bustled in and out of the room. They were rolling again, and Barbara was back to the personal questions again.

“You’ve expressed your life in many ways. You've also been candid about your relationships with woman.”

“Yeah,”

Barba chose her words carefully, “Is that something you're still interested in?”

Angelina absent-mindedly licked her bottom lip before answering. “I don't see it becoming something that I'll turn into a hobby. It isn't a hobby— I just found that I had a great time expressing myself in a relationship and that person happen to be a woman.” A few seconds of a pause came, and the actress nodded to continue. “I don't think it's a big deal or something that needs any further explanation.”

“Though, right now— are you in a relationship with a woman?”

“No.”

How long had Barbara been wanting to ask that? It was like she was nearly ready to explode if she couldn't ask Angelina, that question.

Barba continued by inquiring about secret marriages, which Angelina denied. She had two marriages in her life. Eight months were spent in each marriage. Eight months of total enjoyment spent together. Barbara gestured at Angelina's left arm as she was seated with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap. Angelina had a tattoo in lovely cryptic writing. Barbara and the camera could see that as well as the tiny roman numeral tattoo on her wrist.

“Is it true that you had a shoulder tattoo added and a tattoo on your back removed?”

“Mmhm. I uh, had to get that removed and then, I wanted something else.” Her laugh was sweet— Angelina's eyes widening from excitement.

“Something else? You've reported that you already have about thirty tattoos so far.”

With a goofy laugh, Angelina shrugged. “Yeah! What's the harm?”

Barba laughed too and like sly person she was, and slipped in a question. “Are you in love?”

Angelina slowly tensed up as her gaze focused on Barbara. She moved a hand to her head, tucking some hair behind her ear, and her facial gestures might have suggested a confused expression. “I am.”

“Have you changed because you're in love?”

“Doesn’t love or isn't love... suppose to bring change? Obviously in ways that are good?”

“You’ve been married twice, divorced...” Barbara, let out a trite chuckle maneuvering in her chair. “Do you think being in relationships changes you?”

Angelina let out a dejected sigh; Barbara choose this subject to talk about out of all that was possible. In the unlikely event that Angelina ever wanted to discuss her personal life in this way, she didn't want it to stem from the past. “I don't know, I can only be myself. But I know that I've changed, I've grown up. I've stopped being so inwardly intense with myself. I've been through darker times, and I'm finally happy being myself.”

Behind Barbara, one of the onsite directors help his hand— signaling that they had five minutes. Tomorrow, part three would be filmed and that'd be it. Angelina was sure, it'd be awhile before she agree to do anything like this, again.

“You wear leather,”

“Right.”

“You ride motorcycles,”

“Mhmm.”

“You write poetry, you love photography, you travel for charities— are you still a bad girl? A wild girl?” Barbara finally asked.

There were brief bursts of eagerness among the unnaturally quiet sounds in the room. Angelina nervously grinned while fidgeting with the bracelet on her left wrist. That was a substantial and slightly challenging question. Her gaze swept over Barbara's stern countenance, taking note of the interesting way with which she asked the question.

“I am. I'm still a bad girl, I still have a wild side.”

“Do you? ...Where has it been? You've done a good job at hiding it.”

“I don't hide it, it just has it's place now.” Angelina answered honestly. “It’s saved for my relationship, my experiences, my adventures— for my passions. Friendships. I just know where it is.”

The segment's final wrap-ups got underway. Regarding the next projects, scripts, and premieres that Angelina would be undertaking, Barbara made some remarks. Surprisingly, Barbara requested Angelina autograph a TIME magazine for her. Given that Angelina was convinced Barbara had not read it, it seemed surreal.

Angelina was worn out after three hours of carefree emotional self-exposure in front of the camera. Speaking of oneself might always feel like an out-of-body experience. Or perhaps she didn't feel the need to defend herself in front of others. She was appreciative of anyone who supported her and liked her. She had no use for anything or anyone that was negative.

8-1

New month, new reason: the beginning of a new rhythm for all the seasons. To the tune of nothing and everything. Will it bring more than a small amount.

Little, little, and little to none. The sweetness of the past will diminish but never be swindled since it roots the world in which we live.

More will follow. There is still much to learn and questions to be resolved.

Angel.

Sanfte Klänge, Traurigkeit, Lächeln—

Something may only be granted, taken away, and permanently situated in the breeze.

Thoughts never come to an end outside of the mind.

We just keep track of what is still happening, what is on the way, and what hasn't happened yet at the beginning.

A smile only feels like an embrace when there is a breeze. When life is beautiful, painful, or uncertain, only then is it genuinely good. genuinely significant.

(𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑐𝒉𝑜)

It is never boring or garish. It's unseemly in every way—leaves the body with a soft shutter. A repeat.

How cunning of it. What perfect timing. How awful it may be if the echo persisted. to have such a sound stand you and mark you. Artistically picturesque—but blindly in tune.

characterized by sound, guided by sight, and adored by touch. That echoes That distant cacophony is audible. Stay and then go. Neither drab nor very bright.

A monarch butterfly (Wonders of Life - BBC)

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.

𝐈𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧—

Lonely thoughts of yesterday— will come back to haunt you. Memories of the future, will creep in. Isolation, desolation —captivation. These shall be of things that you can be proud of. You may not be alone, but you are still alone.

And where does the soul reside? Where do you think it lives? What kind of environment do you think it thrives in? Would you say it thrives in solitude? Or perhaps when we're abandoned? That doesn’t sound like a very satisfying answer. But what about when we're completely isolated? We've become so lonely. We've become so disconnected from ourselves. Do we need this much silence? We lose sight of the beauty around us— the beauty in us. And what happens when there isn't enough of ourselves around to remind us? When there aren't any voices left to tell us otherwise?

In solitude; alone, then you may feel like your loneliness is overwhelming. Or does it us the strength to face loneliness and still be happy? To exist is hard. You need energy, a soul—find it, in isolation.

—𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐞.

Day 1: I'm amazed at the beauty of it. Culture seems to be a living thing. To exist here, right now. Am I... on the line?

Day 2: He is the muse I find in perfect harmony. How can a man be as captivating as himself? He will never grow tired of photography.

Day 3: For my part, I intend to see what has never been seen before. I hope my life continues on this path. So I write this. A hymn? Perhaps.

𝑇𝐵𝐶~