September

Gather round, one and all, brothers and sisters, friends and lovers, beloved all! For September is an auspicious month, of great excitement and boon. Of stress and elation, of panic and boxes.

I look down the road of my life and see September and think, yes, this is the time. That is the when, the when the where is decided, the location to be decided, already chosen, when two days of supreme boredome reign during the transition into October.

Ah, you are wondering why, and what on earth I am on about?

To put it simply friends, I. Am. Going. To. The. USA. In. SEPTEMBER.

No if buts or maybes, I AM going. And I am going to stay.

See, last year, around november, I got to thinking about the when. Gotta dodge holiday traffic, and it can't be in either extremes of the seasons, so neither winter nor summer, because it'd be too much of a shock to the system, the abrupt change in temperature. And well, now I have decided. September. Spring. Autumn. The midway seasons.

But first, since I found a ticket, one way, that costs $1500 odd, (that was the cheapest, TRUST ME) but lo and behold, you require a credit card to buy the sodding thing. So, first order of call, get a credit card and a passport.

Do you know what sort of hoops you have to jump through to get a flipping PASSPORT?! Egads. see, I don't have a drivers liscense, obviously, so I gotta get two pictures with two different people that are neither blood relations, but have known me for at least a year, get them to sign the back of the sodding pictures that have to be of a specific size, focused on a specific part of my head and shoulders, too close, too far away and it's kaput. Oh my GOD.

I -also- needa get some money bags. Why you ask? the little plastic thingies so I can deposit the shrapnel I have in my room. All $500 of it. Or there abouts, when I last counted. I've added coins since then. >_> Need my birth certificate, photocopied -and- the original. And a medicare card or centrelink card and and and and. Egads.

And -then- I gotta find some place to get a visa from.

Oh, and the ticket price? See, why I gotta deposit that shrapnel, is that with that amount -and- what's in my bank, ticket is in the purse. Capisce? So, I buy it NOW, then I pay off the credit bill, and can spend the nine odd months saving up for the shift over. And trying to figure out how the hell I'm gonna get all my shit over there. XD Probably by ship. Whoo, 3 months wiht nothing. XD Oh well.

All hyped and stuff, and uni starting soon and gotta get a second job and and and whew.

My year is gonna be busy, methinks.

~*ShaedowDancer*~

The Call; Prince Caspian.

Okay, I admit it. I am a squishy marshmellow, all soft and pathetic. Yet another movie has made me cry. Chronicals of Narnia; Prince Caspian to be exact.

The reason why? Peter and Susan don't get to return to Narnia, and Lucy had to say goodbye to Aslan. :( Sad sad sad parts! And to top it all off, when they were leaving, to go through the hole in the tree to return to London, this song was playing!



Lyrics:

It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word

And then that word grew louder and louder
'Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back
When you call me
No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never
Been this way before

All you can do is try to know
Who your friends are
As you head off to the war

Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye

Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and now one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget

Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Call by Regina Spektor. It made me cry! As such, it is now in my playlist. XD I think it's a lovely, wonderful song ...still made me cry though. *sniffles*

Anyways! Review of Prince Caspian.

It was good. I for one, while I have read the entirety of the Chronicals of Narnia, couldn't really get into them. I didn't really understand the hype, therefore, for me, the movies are better than the books. It's a year later, after the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, when Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy had returned to London.

Prince Caspian's uncles wife births a son, lo and behold, Uncle...thingy, I forget his name, plans to have Caspian the tenth assassinated. The old tutor, I forget his name too, helps Caspian escape into the woods and voila! The Narnians that were supposed to be extinct, aren't quite that wiped out, and uncle thingy's guards, the telmorians are beaten up by a dwarf and before another biffs caspian over the head he blows this ivory horn and poof! (not quite, but you get the idea) Susan, Peter, Edmund and Lucy are pulled back into Narnia. A thousand years after they left it, or something along those lines.

Ta da, they meet up with caspian and the narnians, fight an epic battle while not believing Lucy about seeing Aslan, then rely on Lucy FINDING Aslan to help them kick some badguy ass.

Suffice to say it works, the Narnians get back their kindom with Caspian as king, but P, L, S, E have to go back to London. :( It's all sad, Peter gives Caspian his sword.

And then when they're all saying goodbye, be good, stay happy, you've learnt all you can and so on, the call starts playing and I start crying. Lucy didn't even get to hug Aslan goodbye! :( So yes, it made me cry.

Another that I watched, All Dogs Go to Heaven, made me cry at the end too. Even though it was a happy ending, kinda. Sorta. Charlie got to go back to heaven, and Anne-Marie got a family but still.... it made me cry. :( I am such a marshmellow! *sigh* good movie though, even though it was a kids cartoon movie. :) I recommend it for watchings.

Potential novel; Prologue

The oak-wood brush ran down the shining burgundy curls, smoothing out non-existent tangles in the candle-light, the soft, shushing sound of dry hair as it is cared for, almost painstakingly brushed into a shining glory, capturing the soft candle-glow and turning it into dark red highlights in the dark strands. The illusion of lit from within is lost as paler than new snow hands divide the hair into three, and braid it, the thick sections of hair weaving back and forth over, under and around each other, to form a neat, but thick rope of hair, reaching down to midback. This is where the story starts, with a braid of burgundy hair, cared for and prepared in the soft golden glow of candle-light.

The braid whips through the air, the end weighted, and cracks into a face, causing a howl of pain from a broken jaw, another howl and the wet splatter of blood on the wall, a hiss of dying air, and the sobbing moan of the wounded.

“Where are they.”

Only a moan, a pitiful thing, is the response.

“Where. Are. They.”

Another moan, escalating into a shriek as the broken jaw is grabbed and wrenched so that the wounded’s face is turned to his interrogator. He whimpers and points down the alley, curling up into a ball around his pain. A disgusted snort, and the owner of the burgundy braid steps over that piece of human refuse in the direction indicated.

A few metres down, and there is a scungy wooden door. A scan of the surroundings, the braid shifting slightly, heavily, against the owners back, lamplight catching the glean of the almost red strands. “I need to speak to Dmitri.” Is the greeting to the guard, who folds his arms, muscles bulging against the black muscle shirt.

“Who’s askin’?”

“No one of your concern.” Whiter than new snow, the hands and arms they are attached to move, and the guard finds breathing to be much more interesting than questioning the stranger, who walks in the door, the solid clump of a boot against the wooden floor. Another guard approaches, burlying up, muscles flexing, arms folding, eyeballing the intruder. “Who’re you?”

“I am here to speak to Dmitri. Where is he?”

“Aint no one seein’ Dmitri until we clear it.” The tall, bald bouncer looks rather smug at this.

A glance from eyes mostly hidden by shadows, on a paler than pale face, a snap of a wrist and there is a white hand around the bouncers throat, bringing him down to the newcomers height, “Where. Is. He.” A flex of the hand prompts the bouncer to betray his training and his boss, he points to the stairs.

“Of course.” Released, the bouncer stares at the intruders retreating back, the burgundy braid swinging slightly with the flexing of the body as they climb the stairs. First door on the left, a couple being less than discreet, first on the right is the same situation, albeit two pair, and not a one heterosexual. Down to the end of the dark hall, a blue door, two bouncers on either side, each eyeballing the stranger. No word had been sent up to expect anyone.

“Name, purpose?”

“My name is my own and will stay that way, I need to speak to Dmitri.”

The guards exchange a glance, before grunting “Aint been cleared. Gotta know who you are, before we let you in, an’ even then is chancy.” A slight smile curves what is visible of the lips of the stranger, before they move, a dark blur edged with snow white, the white of alabaster, and both guards are curled up on the floor, groaning and holding tender parts of anatomy, kidneys, throat. The door is opened, and the intruder steps in, idly flexing snow white hands.

“Kair. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Where are they, Dmitri?”

The chair behind the ebony desk turns and the seated male is visible, a small smile curving his lips beneath his moustache. “Where are who?”

A step forward from the stranger, that is all, but the threat looms larger than the slight stature. “Where. Are. They.” A low growl fills the strangers voice. A warning all on it’s own.

“I no longer have them. And neither will you get the name of who does.” Brave or foolhardy, two hours later, the guards outside the door, having recovered from their earlier interaction, and a subsequent rapid retreat when they attempted to defend their employer, hear a final shriek and a sharp crack of bone snapping. The stranger opens the door and steps out, a white kerchief in hand, wiping off blood before dropping it to the floor, stalking down the hall like a frustrated feline, and that braid of hair flicks like the tail of the irritated cat. A glance over the shoulder, the light catching and giving colour to the brilliant green eyes, so green as to have some yellow in the centre around the pupil. “Remind Dmitri’s boss that I do not bluff.” And the intruder leaves, as the phone starts to ring.

The guards peek into the room, one answers the phone, the other finds what is left of Dmitri Kobanlov. “Uh, I’m sorry but I can’t put Mr Kobanlov on the phone.....why not? ....uh because sir, he’s dead.” The phone is briefly taken away from the ear “Yes sir, that’s right. Dead sir. ...I don’t know sir. He said to let you know that he didn’t bluff, sir. ....I suppose so sir? .....sir?...” click, the beep beep beep that signals that the other line is dead, and the bemused guards look towards the remains of their former employer, blood soaking into and staining the carpet and thought, what could do such a thing?

A cup of sugar with a bit of salt thrown in

Is apparently what I am, according to a workmates stepfather. Relayed from him to her to me. That's alot of relaying. Is that a good thing...or a bad one?

Also, CHRISTMAS is just TWO weeks away! Not this thursday, but the next!! It's hard to believe, isn't it? Got most of my christmas shopping done, apart from two people. One is because it is being shipped from the US and will be here in 20 days. -_- and the other because I have NO IDEA what to get her. The aforementioned workmate is the her.

Also, seven week old kitten = not much sleep. -_-

Mother's boyfriend brought it home, and she's fixated on me, since they kept her in what was my room, sleeping on my quilt, on old pj's...of mine. So when I dropped by for the weekend (and had to housesit because of little darlings) she took a whole five minutes to say 'hi', and now i have a furry slipper shadow. That tends to be hyper when it's sleep time. And doesn't want anyone else. *sigh*

Oh well.

I squiiiiii!

Because I have a wiiiiii!

Seriously. I'd been saving up my extra notes since august pretty much, and when I was getting into the high triple digits I priced a wii. Around $390 was what I'd found. So I went back to my saved up spare cash, hmm. $300 odd, I need $400 for the wii, plus around $50 for a game ...make it about $100 to be safe, and get the upper end of the games as well.

No problems. I work, I sleep, life goes on as expected, with ten, twenty, the occasional fifty going into my wii savings. I go on holidays for two weeks up at my dads (that was AWESOME, so relaxing and I was sleeping at NIGHT again!) come back home, give the landlord $420 for the rent, two weeks holiday plus this weeks.... and lo and behold, I am broke and have no food. Hmm. well, I expect to have no food.

Surprisingly, my vegetables that I bought about a month ago were still edible. So I tossed up a pasta dish, spaghetti bolognaise, ran out of pot (The thing you cook it in silly) before I'd added everything I'd intended too, cooked up about a packet and a half of spaghetti and voila! We has fud for the next week and a half. XD

I also discovered -why- I was/am broke, I didn't get paid over my holidays. -_- HEADS WILL ROLL. I don't blame Joondalup KFC for not paying me, since I've quit, but I -do- blame midland. So, on saturday if I haven't gotten paid before then, I will seriously go off my tree at them. And demand 28 hours of pay. Upfront. (that's how many hours of holidays I got >_>)

Also, today was hyper productive. I went to no less than seven places and put in a resume, and the only one that replied with a 'perhaps' that -wasn't- into next year, was a bar. XD Oh well. Also applied at myers, david jones, eb games, jb hifi, and a bank. Oh, that's only six. My bad.

So! I have stuff all food, but I have a wii, 3 games for it, credit on my phone, my smart rider (for public transport) topped up and a possible second job for christmas. Life. She be goooooood. :D

(who needs to eat anyways?)

Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem is usually misquoted in first person, 'I will not go quietly into the night, I will not give up the fight'

But very inspiring regardless.

~ShaedowDancer~

A bit of trivia...

The Sidhe (pronounced shee) are the 'elite' of the faerie world, the aristocracy so to speak. The sidhe are also known as the (un)seelie, elves, and so on, depending on the 'nightmarish' quality to them, those that are bloodthirsty, sadistic, 'terrifying' are unseelie, and those that are 'nice', and the good guys, are seelie. Like how 'elves' are the good guys, dark elves are the bad, and drows are a race on their own, considered to be 'evil', and worse. This is also could relate to the Wild Hunt, or the sluagh... All fall under the classification of 'sidhe' though..apart from the latter two, they are generally ostracised from the previous four.

One of the main classifications of a sidhe is them having tricoloured eyes. Say, white, blue, black in rings around the pupil, starburst gold into green and blue and so on. The pointed ears are a tag of a 'crossbreed' and an individual that is not 'pure sidhe'.

Now, on the offchance that you meet me, (I forget if I'd mentioned this before...) but pay attention to my eyes. The first you'll notice is two obvious colours, light blue and a navy blue ring around the iris. So yeah, no big deal, I have blue eyes. If you were to look closer without freaking me out, or by simply asking, you might notice that in a starburst out from my pupils is green. This can vary from the light shade of new leaves to the darker green of oak leaves, and it blends with a blue that varies from sky, to electric, to steel. Always present around these two is a couple mm wide strip of navy blue colour.

Three colours.

My dad is the same. He has blue with the navy ring, but his centre colour is grey, from his mother. I got my green from -my- mother.

Makes you think, doesn't it? Tricoloured eyes. Not exactly common in the general population. Think how rare hazel eyes are, let alone when there are nearly perfectly defined rings of colour.

Maybe all the 'faerie tales' weren't quite so .... fake and mythological. Perhaps they are actually real, magic exists, and it is lying dormant under the earth while mankind blunders about with science...

Naaah. I mean come on, magic? Telekinesis, telepathy, shapeshifting, elves? Who'm I kidding.

I'm just nuts.

Right?

Princess of Hell

As I stand on my balcony, looking out over the scenery -- Hell doesn't have to be all fire and brimstone you know, some parts are actually -nice-. Course, there's no light beyond the fires, as the sun doesn't shine here, so it's bleak compared to what humans are used to, but it has it's own beauty -- I realise that there is -alot- of hype over my mother and father.

I mean sure, fair enough, Satan and Lilith, the evil pair in the major lexicon of the mortal realms, but it's mildly irritating. Satan is one of the Lords of Hell, sure, he's got a bit more oomph than say, Lucifer, who is a asshole to say the least, who was rather stomping around in your great grandfathers day, or earlier -- time is a little confusing to me, or rather, the passing of it is irrelevant, who in turn is higher up than Beezlebub. Now -that- is a male you don't want to be alone with, not in the sense that he used to be the king of Hell, but in the sense that he is ...oily. Sleezy. A ...not pleasant male. Sure, Satan is slick and oily himself, but he does it with -class- you know?

Oh, who am I? I'm Dzeintra, or Xanthia, whichever tickles your fancy, youngest of the seven princesses of hell. I think. They might've gotten busy in the millenia or two I've been ...shall we say ... less than family orientated? I'mthe prodigal child, the black sheep of the family so to speak. And -considering- said family, it's not that hard to figure out -why-. See, I'm a seer. Not one of those white billowing robed things that are utterly irritating in their holier-than-thou attitude where you have to do impossible tasks to get an answer to your question, but ultimately they're on the Light side. That's the uh, 'good guys' for you mortals. Not that it's terribly accurate, but you go with the flow. See, I'm Dark, mother is Dark, we live in the shadows and revel in the destruction of things. It's rather fun actually. On the Light side, you have the celestials, the christian/catholic God -- arrogant asswipe as he is -- technically the Arcana, they're all about rules and whatnot, Gaeans, you know, Gaea, the green goddess of fertility, mother earth? Yeah, them.

On the Dark side, there's us, the demonic, (I'm actually of a different sort, Daemon), the vampires, and so on, all the nasty 'ghoulies' that haunt your nightmares. What was I saying? Oh, right, seer.

Okay, general run down, there are different power levels, as it would be pretty redundant to have an imp (essentially a paper shuffler) on equal power with say, cerberus'. It just wouldn't work, you know? Now a seer is someone (or thing) that can see into the future. Essentially speaking, they are Neutral. Dealing with the grey areas. But alas, the Neutral is divided just like the rest of things into Light and Dark. I, obviously, and a Dark sided seer, one of the rarer breed, Light sided are more common, as they find it ...shall we say... -easier- to align with the Light to get the path they want followed initiated. Some can only see the beginning of this path, others spot the middle, some eye the far end, and so on. Depending on the strength of the seer depends on how far, and how accurately they can see.

Take for example a spiderweb. At first, you wouldn't see it at all would you? But if the light hits it right, or if it was a cold morning and dew clings to the strands, you can see it clearly. A really strong seer can see -all- of the spiderweb, all the possible paths, those that are yet to be made and those that already -have- been made. This type of seer is called an Oracle. All-knowing, in theory. (Trust me, it's not that great). The weaker types will see say, the path they want, and one or two branches off of that path, but not much beyond it. That path generally tends to lead to the continuation of life as it is existing, if they are Light sided.

Remember how I mentioned I was Dark? Yeah, that's not the path I want. Oh don't look at me like that! Death is as much a part of the cycle as the sun setting every evening. The path -I- want (And the one, incidentally, that leads to the -least- tangles and issues later on, which is always a good thing) is one that has a major overhaul of things. Like, end of the world overhaul. Which would be seen as B.A.D by some folk.

But, out from the ashes rise the next generation, and it is towards -this- generation that I guide things. Yes, guide. Think of the Fates, in ancient mythology, where they measured, wove, and cut the thread of mortal life? I do that job, sort of. So, now you know about me, lets get back to Hell hmm?

It honestly isn't that bad! Sure, there is screaming, and fire, and hurting, and in some places snow -- yes, it -does- snow in hell, it's for those that didn't share warmth or something, they have to walk about in the cold without comfort -- water and so on. The only thing that is constantly absent from Hell is light. Sunlight that is, that's the province of Light, obviously, and we are not called Dark for no reason. Oh, and you recall how myths describe demons and such with glowing eyes? Nightvision baby, tenfold. But then....my eyes really -do- glow, they cast their own light.

So, there I am, musing over my balcony, idly toying with some of the flames, making them flare and whatnot, considering things, like how the fear of Satan, the dislike of Lilith, but above all, how much of a -large- part they play. Don't mention the Beasts name, for to say his name is to call his attention to you. Funny, how it takes only -one- person to say daddy dearests name for him to pay attention, but it takes at -least- seven and several hours worth of effort for humans to get the vague interest of Him Upstairs. Show you how much of an asswipe he is, huh?

Mother dearest walks in, my tail swishes slightly (yes, I have a tail, horns, hooves, the whole kit) before she speaks, informing me of a guest. I sigh, turn, bow, and make like a dutiful daughter to greet said guest. Did I mention that mother and I don't get along? Sure, we might both be succubi, but that doesn't mean I go for the whole 'sex 24/7' that she does...although it doens't have to be sex, in retrospect... Anyways, surprise surprise, my guest is actually one of her playthings. One that is mine as well, the gaean prince, so to speak. Next in line to take the throne from Gaea when that overhaul happens -- remember me mentioning it? Several reasons why it's necessary -- evidently just out of a session with mother dearest, judging by the bleeding and marks. Another sigh, and I grip the back of his neck, shadowstepping back to his glade so that he can heal -- side stepping the minotaur or two. You'd think these things'd learn, I mean, I've been tripping in and out frequently enough that the dryads have given me a gaean name. Ugh. But still, he's still their lord, and I'm just the adviser. Think grand vizier, -not- the going to kill him evil Jafar-esque thing, but the same powers.

So yes, I shadowstep back 'home'. I'm not comfortable around green things, it makes me want to burn them -- which is kinda frowned upon there -- and return to oh so patiently waiting for the time to pass. Things have a schedual you know, and at the moment, things are running on track for the overhaul, so I've got very little to do.

Oh, besides turn the enterprising invader back from the past, but those walkways are another story.

The Doll House

There was this village, out in the middle of nowhere in England. Rolling green pastures, a lake glimmers in the distance under the brilliance of the sun, and beyond it was a lush forest. It was a sleepy sort of village, the kind where you could walk into it in the middle of the day and there wouldn't be a soul to be seen, not in the creepy or frightening way of an abandoned derelict building, no, but in the homey, snoozy type of way, the way a cat napping on the windowsill feels.

Freshly moved into this sleepy, lazy, warm little town, was a couple. Brand new, off the honeymoon and first-home-for-raising-the-children-in phaze, where they vigorously and enthusiastically took part of the necessary 'baby-making'. But alas! The years roll by and still no pitter-patter of baby feet stomp down hallways in the wee hours of the morning, indeed, she doesn't even swell with the promise of those feet. A doctor is seen, and devestating news, both are infertile. The wife tearfully cries "I can't be! I've been pregnant before! I miscarried!" The doctor just shakes his head and shows them the result, decrying that both are unable to bring life into the world....but he cannot explain why.

It were almost as though he was tempted to say they were born barren, but alas...there is the miscarriage.

Distraught, melancholy and mournful, they return home, to their dainty little cottage at the end of the street, homey and warm, just like the rest of the town. More years pass, and the wife developes a passion for making dolls. China dolls, porcaline, the fine art collectors edition of every type, every race and breed, from the baby-kin, eyes screwed shut and toothless mouths open in eternal silent cries, to the toddler-esque, three feet high, bright eyed and curious. The husband doesn't really understand it, until one night the wife shows him a particularly pretty doll, somewhere between walking and not, sucking on a fragile porcaline lollipop, the colours smearing from her efforts, and whispers to him "Look honey, this is the baby we would have had." He blinks at her in confusion "These are our children, the ones we can't give life to, they are our darling ones...right?" A strange ripple at the nape of his neck, the hairs rising, prompt him to nod in agreement "Of course dear, come, have something to eat."

More years pass, and the number of dolls accumulate, their blankeyed stare filling the rooms, more dolls than furniture, all lovingly handcrafted, a dedication of the wife to each of her 'children'.

Twenty years on, from that mortifying news that they were infertile, and the husband dies. Or rather, is found dead by the cleaning lady one weekend, the wife was at a friends place, buying fabrics for her 'children'. There was a shattered doll beside him, what could be seen it was a younger one, perhaps two or three, eyes screwed up, tears down its little cheeks, and the shattered end of its arm imbedded in the husbands through, imbedded with such force that it came out the other side, the porcaline streaked with blood.

The cleaning lady screams and runs out of the house, calling the police, who upon arrival, before the wife returned home, found strangely, no shattered doll, no arm pushed through the husbands throat -- just a hole where it was, and a pool of drying blood.

The wife, with a few grey hairs now, is thrown into a fit of depression at the news of her husbands death, feverishly turning to her now, only solace -- her children.

Production of the unique dolls comes out as never before, a new one every week, and soon, she can't move for risk of knocking one of the life-sized, realistic creations over and risk shattering them. Two months later, she dies of a heart attack, an unfinished doll in her hands, older looking than any of the others, a girl of around eight, only half of her curling blonde hair was attatched, her face painted to hold infinite sadness, melancholy in her green eyes, and her dress half-sewn yet pulled on, tattered edges showing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years after the unfortunate couple's death, the doll house still stands, complete with the fortune of now antique dolls, a silent guard, balefully glaring at any who dare try to enter, the door unable to open for the dolls shoved up against it, wedged tight so as to not shatter under a hard shove. Yet strangely, in one room, sitting at one window, is a single doll, half-finished, as though she had been set aside briefly, to be finished at a later date, alone in this one room, watching the comers, watching them leave, alone in the study.

Some say, that lone doll seems mournful when the visitors get turned away, her sad, sad eyes seem to weep real tears when people flee before the glares of the other dolls, all perfect, pristine, finished works of art, crying the innocence of childhood, yet how they glare! It's as though they blame everyone for their mothers death....but that can't be true.

They're just dolls, after all. Attatching emotions to the inanimate is a foolish human trait.


Right?

Sleep

Sleep is a funny thing lately.

It is elusive, and demanding at the same time.

It is like trying to catch a moonbeam blinding your right eye, with a butterfly net. The moment you go for it, a cloud passes over the face of the moon and that silvery beam of irritating light is gone, and the need is no longer present.

So you relax, pack away your butterfly net, and consider carving a log. You get to the middle of that log, where it is starting to take the shape you see in your imagination, when the cloud passes and that moonbeam is back in your eye, -demanding- that you try and catch it with your butterfly net. You try, and try, but the silver keeps on slipping free, but demanding your attention, until another cloud comes, and you are no longer half-blind from the silken light.

That is about how ....easily...I sleep lately. I meditate, I count sheep, I turn about on my bed as though I was a compass that couldn't find north and still, I do not sleep. Or if I do, it is a doze that lasts a few hours, and I am irritatingly awake again, with that blasted moonbeam -daring- me to try and capture it.

Funny, today....erm, yesterday now, looking at the time, (It's 4.28am), I passed out from exhaustion at say, 10.30am. I had woken the day before at 11.30am. Now, I sprawl out on my bed, dead to the world, well...mostly. The whole daylight thing, and other people being around. I wake up at 1pm, and then at 2.30pm, or there abouts. And funnily enough, that was the best -rest- I have gotten for a very long time. It was lovely.

I get drowsy again at eight, get up, make dinner. Oh dear, no longer drowsy! I get sleepy again at about 10.30pm, I push to 11pm, doing last minute before bed things, like showering, and.....

Lay in bed.

I roll over.

I roll back.

Onto my belly.

Onto my left hand side.

Onto my right hand side.

Onto my back.

I look at the window, and shift so that my head is pointing to it (across the bed), knocking some clothes off in the process.

I roll over.

I roll back.

I doze. Yay, sleep!

Onto my belly.

Onto my back.

I shift so that my -feet- are pointing to the window.

Rinse, wash and repeate. You get the idea.

Five hours later, I give up. Or there abouts. It is exceedingly frustrating. Do you know how -long- it takes for those hours to pass while you stare at the back of your eyelids, the headboard of the bed, the wall, the ceiling, your eyelids some more...

I have reached the conclusion that sleep is highly overrated. Who needs a bedtime anyways? Who -wants- one? We all manage to get some approximation of sleep at around 3am, and wake up again at nine thirty, right? No? Wow, man, you are so -weird-, you should get that checked out ay? Might be serious.

Imagine.

Regularly sleeping every night. My mind boggles!

Oh, and the few moments when I -do- get to sleep (Apart from earlier yesterday when I hit unconsiousness in the middle of the day) I dream. And they're really, really animated and energetic dreams.

People say you dream in black and white. Right. Then why did I dream I had a pet snake, that had a jet black head, and a blood-crimson body? A snake, mind you, that doesn't seem to exist. If anyone knows of a snake with those colourings, be a dear and let me know? I wan't to know what the devil it is.

*sigh* I'm thinking about getting over the counter sleeping pills, since I have a sneaking suspicion that I sleep too much to get prescription tablets, to be declared an insomniac. Who needs to sleep anyways? You can sleep when you're dead!

Funny, this seems to be a recurring topic/occurance with me. Either I sleep too much, (14 hours plus) or, I don't sleep at all. Hmm. Maybe there's something wrong with me.

~ShaedowDancer~