I can't explain why my heart yearns after dreams I can't possess. Why that even as I sit and hear my mouth firmly denouncing marriage within the next ten years, I wonder what it would feel like to hold my child, all fragile and grasping in a small person of creation with my eyes and someone else's hair. Why I want to feel tiny hands flailing against my own as I trace the contours of a unmarked cheek as easily bruised as a pale rose petal.

Can you touch music? Does it flow out in smooth ripples like the touch of a finger against glassy water? Can you really see heat shimmering up and down broken concrete and into the woven chain-link fences? If pearled clouds unfurl from the dawn of the horizon, why don't trees bow gracefully to the majesty of approaching splendor?

If I went on a quest, I would start off at the cusp of winding roads silken with grass that smelled of fresh earth, my hair neatly braided in coils of golden grain. I would feel warm wind slip between my outstretched fingers and lift up loose folds of clothing like wings. I would sit and eat crusty bread with floury hearts, drinking in a chilly handful of tasteless spring water as if I were feeding on a nectar from the gods. Starlit nights in the damp haystacks wouldn't lose their charm.

It's now that the path blurs and I can't see beyond. I'm not gifted with such sight to let my eyes wander down my road and see it-- truly see it. I don't glimpse tiny flashes of the future before it occurs. No, I can only see the end. A small old woman, her white hair hanging around her shoulders as she squints into the myopic distance and the soft, continual caresses of the waves. A broken piece of wood takes refuge on her shore, and she sits, her gnarled hands falling into a pile of heather yarn as she wonders if she should call someone to take it away, but she doesn't. The planks of the docks are worn smooth now by years of harsh sanding. There will be lovely treasures strewn in her rusted boxes, but she won't bother with them. The hips hurt, you know, after such a time. She just struggles from moment to moment like a baby reaching up for a mother, falling occasionally, and it's so hard to get up when you've reached the bottom of the hill alone.

The sunsets are beautiful on the ocean.

For the past two days I've snapped the lights on brightly at five a.m. so a glass of orange juice can burn its way down my throat and I can swallow a few nervous mouthfuls of dry toast. Then I sit nervously in hardback chairs-- strange how I never noticed how uncomfortable they were before-- and try to fill in small circles with the rich colours that stream from my pencil. Wondering if this is right, what rubric they'll use for these essays, knowing-- and yet not knowing that it is and isn't life hanging on the black and white printed slip that has a single number next to the subject. Then our teachers call us back like nervous mothers watching a child's first step and feed us enormous cookies and juice in hopes we'll tell them what's on the AP tests for next year. Anxious smiles and sudden, involuntary friendships appear as we discuss what our thesis statements were, and we each demur when asked if we pass, but we secretly know in our hearts how we did before the grade report appears in the mail. Outside, the sky threatens grey over the lace of the trees, but we're too busy keeping a dreading eye for the hour to be up. I lay the plastic seals out neatly as if I'm packing for a trip, smoothing the wrap in an effort to keep my information under control.

But at least the AP History and English tests are over, and I have the leisure to play with my blogger and watch fluffy romantic movies with Ashley Judd and Hugh Jackman. I'll keep a lazy eye out for AP Psychology, but I'm practically done. It feels strange to be able to breathe without feeling stress cramping your body. At least I'll be prepared for finals in college. My new blog, love (quiz) medley is a page taken from Chelsey's book and just the results all the lovely tests I'm addicted to, so my poor innocent blog won't be cramped with it. And I have time to write. . . so, until tomorrow, my friends!

The shadows of the leaves cast delicate pattens on the smooth ripple of grass, and the gentle sway of the trees hint at the cold masses of wind we've been getting in the past few days. I feel . . .impatient, edgy. My body is poised to fly, but I've nowhere to go. Some of us were born with clipped wings, some of us take away our own ability to fly, and others of us simply soar on cue. I wonder which I am.

I wrote some fairly bad poetry the other day that is all feeling, no substance, and of course I'll inflict it on the hapless readers of this blog. I can write good poetry when the spirit entwines itself with my soul and my mind decides to cooperate, though. I haven't had the urge to take a scratch of ink to flower-scented stationary lately (or, more prosaically, nimble fingers to keyboard). But I was listening to Sarah McLachlan last night (her Surfacing album, to be exact) and got the inspiration to scribble down a few poor verses. Well, here they are:

Seeking Paths

Caught between the weight
Of living well and dying strong,
I catch my breath and stand still.
Search my soul for directions
On a map I can’t read.

Under my feet lies shaky ground,
The hell the earth created.
Raise my eyes to the sky,
To the heaven poets created.
Which one is real and everlasting?

I sort of like the first line. It's the crucial difference between heroism and happiness. Do you live simply and uneventfully, or do you die for a cause? Can you live for a cause?

Silence

Spiced wine and honeyed words
Mingle with the smell of burning wood.

And I, I cannot breathe
With all the fear and hope.

I want to fall gracelessly,
Dizzy and intoxicated into your embrace,
Like a struggle towards a ledge
That hangs between living and existing.

You enchant me with your touch,
You betray me with your words.

But that doesn’t really matter.

The purifying flame
That we call passion
Doesn’t care much for words--
After all.

I was watching a dark crimson sunset strewn with flutters of gold while flames licked at twisted branches in my neighbor's yard when I wrote that, and I felt my heart whisper promises of longing if I'd just do what it wanted.

I had a nice, cheery entry all ready for the posting on Friday. . . and then blogger went and ate it all. Dreadful behavior, really.

At any rate, I've been losing all semblence of sanity over these horrific AP tests. What sort of lunatic willingly takes classes-- and tests-- that are of a difficulty normal for a sophmore/junior in college? (The answer to that, of course, is evident) As soon as AP History is done and over with, I'll only have to buckle down to my dear AP Psychology and then . . I'll be free to indulge my fanfic cravings.

I did give into a whim the other day and rented several videos, Sense and Sensibility being among them. That movie is not very faithful to the book, but I don't mind. Austen's early writing was a little lacking in polish, and there are some problems in the book that Emma Thompson (brilliant woman that she is) remedies. The film possesses the delicate charm of a climbing rose on a spring afternoon, all sweet romance with just a few thorns of wit. I also picked up Chocolat, which I have yet to watch, and Princess Mononoke, mostly for my little brother. I love movies. . . not much TV, which is the answer to the question posed by my darling Karita. I'm very pleased to see the advent of The Importance of Being Earnest on May 17, the day after my beloved Star Wars is due. (My, but I'm possessive today)

I'm awfully stressed but in a very Jane Austen-esque mood, which is soothing to the nerves. I miss all of you, though. Ciao until the end of *swallow* AP!