Natalya's Flamebate Posts

A story for you, my friends.

Your story of love is beautiful, and while I personally have only known love and loss, you reminded me of something I wrote:

Smile, laugh, do a little dance, dance a little more, do a leap, hide yourself, spin wildly. Look all around you, the smiling faces, the laughing cheers, grit your teeth and keep going. Best not slow, best not stop, else it will all catch up with you and you’ll crash to a grinding halt—everyone will look at you, everyone will know your secret. Keep dancing. You do a spin, thinking not of someone, because there is no one to think about, and think instead whether or not this is all worth it, whether or not you will find someone who knows you, who knows the dance you do is of desperation, who knows the pain that you know as deeply as you do.

You turn, point your foot, balance for a second, trip lightly down the path with the others, gaily chattering, talking of this, of that, of nothing, of everything. You stay in step, keep going, keeping attention from focusing on you by focusing attention on those not in step. Only by focusing on those not in step can your own minute variations upon the theme being danced by all be ignored. You think back to the night when you’d told him that you couldn’t do it, that you weren’t ready for a serious relationship, and you remember his solemn expression as he uttered those fateful words: “A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of. You wouldn’t get this from any other guy.” If only you’d known how serious he was. If only you’d known what he would do.

Do a turn, a spin, a leap, and fall lightly to your feet, faster than light, lighter than air, not thinking, not doing anything but living at the moment, breathing, staying alive, doing the dance from desperation. Those around you twirl wildly, madly, flinging themselves in all directions, gracefully recovering, only to leap off again, jumping off ledges, hanging still in midair before slowly descending to the earth, only to regain balance and leap high into the air once more. You wish so desperately that you had hearkened to his words: “I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling — gotta make you understand.” Now it was too late. Dance madly, dance on, dance desperately, dance for life, dance to your death.

My Writing Clbum

i think it’s possible to just be sad and never know happiness except through the words of others.

that’s what was going through my head when i wrote this:

The girl seems hopelessly lost, standing alone and indecisively as streams of purposeful people scurry around and past her and are swallowed by the distant buildings awaiting them. She is thin, almost a waif, with a smudged face and a look in her eyes that testifies to her having seen more than one her age should have. She half-turns, indecisively peering around her, looking for something or someone, some sort of sign, yet all seem oblivious to her presence, striding past her without seeing her. A grey drizzle starts to fall, deadening the slate sky even more. She sighs and shakes her head in sorrow.

The girl looks up into the sepia-stained sky, seemingly noticing the weather for the first time. She pulls her sweatshirt in tighter around her narrow frame and shivers, a drop of water coursing down her face and dropping to the pavement, caught up in a stream of other drops, lost in the puddles. She, however, stands alone still, watching and waiting for . . . for what?

The drizzle increases, becoming a steady rain. The girl is soon soaked, even drenched, and the rain shows no signs of slacking. She, however, shows no signs of moving. It is becoming increasingly hard to see the girl thanks to the rain. She becomes ever more immaterial, her face growing whiter and her clothes darkening, the world starting to blend in with her. It is almost as if the polluted rain is purifying her, a sort of cleansing otherwise impossible.

The steady rain has now reached monsoon-like proportions. No one comes to help the girl, to ask her if she’s ok, to see if she needs something or someone. The torrential downpour wipes out all sight of the girl. A faint shadow can still be seen through the sheets of water, but even that seems to be growing fainter. Seconds, minutes, hours later, the rain starts to let up.

Soon, the girl can be seen again. More accurately, were the girl there, she could now be seen. The sky lightens to an almost blue, a shade never seen in this bleak world. Where the girl was now lies only the soaked sweatshirt she was wearing and nothing else—or, rather, nothing else obvious.

The sky is now clear of clouds for the first time in as long as memory stretches; the color is that of a baby blue known only in legends and myths as the true color of the sky. Oddly enough, the blue is the same shade as the girl’s eyes. People step out of the buildings that had earlier swallowed them, looks of wonderment on their faces. One walks to the spot where the girl was and where the sweatshirt remains and picks the sopping wet piece of clothing up off the ground. Something previously hidden within the folds of the sweatshirt drops to the earth.

A woman scurries to the spot where the object dropped, examines it closely, and drops to her knees, keening in grief. The others gather around her, whispering to themselves, puzzled by her actions, awaiting an explanation. She hiccups herself to a gradual stop and says, with tears streaming down her face, “We’ve done it again.” Puzzled, the others look closely at what she cradles close to her, cupped safely in the palms of her hands, and as they recognize the object for what it is, comprehend that again one has sacrificed all to save their world.

The second coming occurred—and no one left.

im cofnused an wnodering

Summergirl_94 Posted:

I like to look nice, that’s why I don’t type like a retard? I want people to like me!

it’s a shame that you want people to like you when no one does.

im cofnused an wnodering

Canadian Kitten Posted:

I don’t get it. What’s wrong with making guys happy? If all it takes is a couple pictures then go for it.

if anything, you are hampering men by this. as Camille Paglia says, “A woman simply is, but a man must become. Masculinity is risky and elusive. It is achieved by a revolt from woman, and it is confirmed only by other men. Manhood coerced into sensitivity is no manhood at all.”

im cofnused an wnodering

Escher Posted:

i don no, i meen iev ben redin tihs book by camlie pagilia Log in to see images!

Escher, i tell you this as i’ve told you before — it’s as Camille Paglia says: “Beauty is our weapon against nature; by it we make objects, giving them limit, symmetry, proportion. Beauty halts and freezes the melting flux of nature.” your looks should never be used for any purpose other than as you see fit. that’s not to say you shouldn’t use them — Paglia again states that “Pursuit and seduction are the essence of sexuality. it’s part of the sizzle.” what that does mean, though, is that, again according to Paglia, “Woman is the dominant sex. Men have to do all sorts of stuff to prove that they are worthy of woman’s attention.”

you shouldn’t be doing anything for the men. they should be doing things for you.

(view post)

My Writing Clbum

i’m bumuming that others, too, have writing clbumes; i’m just trying to get through mine without being sent to the school psychiatrist yet again. still, i can only write what i know. i thought i would share this week’s work with you all here since i felt that i could rely upon my audience truly understanding me.

It’s quick, the cut. The most unkindest cut of all, even. The blade slices roughly through the skin, drawing the two sides apart like parchment torn raggedly in two. A moment of breathing, a moment of stillness and then, inevitably, seeping up through the torn flesh, blood comes, a visceral red, bringing to mind all that has come before and all that is yet to come. The blood pools, starts to congeal, and then, gathering too much mbum and too much force, drips with an excruciating slowness, revolving in seeming slow motion only to smash suddenly into the floor and shatter into a thousand points reflected back on the tip of the moonsilver blade.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out, sighs reflected by the welling of the blood and the sound of a heart beating, seemingly endless, yet unwilling.  The blood starts to slow, to clot, only to be reinvigorated with the tainted agony of the edge scraping ceaselessly over the ragged flesh grown inured to the pain.  Inside pain finds outside loci, with the inner screaming continuing without cessation mirrored by the slow pulsation of blood to the surface as the quicksilver sheen of the razor slices thrice more, drawing deeper and deeper emotions and strengths to the surface.  A glance at the face of the girl shows nothing more than a taut and drawn expression peering anxiously at the inner force that proves her existence.

Slicing deeper and deeper through layers of skin, the quest for truth seems nothing so much as a revelation about existence.  No matter how exquisite the pain, the agony, the truth, the ability to deny pain mirrors the ability to deny the truth, the relentless battering of life and reality against barriers set up to protect the shattered reality that is so painfully inhabited by one so desperate to escape it.  The more sharp and pressing the pain grows, the further away the girl distances herself, drawing her arm closer to her side and watching emotionlessly as the blood inches its way out of her arm, creating Rorschach images of countless nightmares and dreams on the tile at her feet.  Glancing at the images is not enough and can never be enough as countless images become evident within the world opened up by the lifeblood coursing out of her body, a world more nightmarish and yet more true and fantastic than any other.

SRSLY: A Contest To Reward RP with BP: WEEK #1

also, to bumuage any worries, you can compete whether you’re klanned or un-klanned.

Want all your problems to go away?

the sadness bullets are piercing my heart as is.