Stylistic Dream

October 30, 2011
By writersheart DIAMOND, B., California
writersheart DIAMOND, B., California
50 articles 0 photos 7 comments

your susceptibility to be the focus of
adolescent love-notes, and the catalyst of
dopamine secretions, really isn’t that remarkable when
one takes into account - well, - your appearance.
you’ve got a proclivity for hair-flips, my dear, for it’s
not often that you are inattentive to the potency of
expressions in your dark eyes, nor unmindful of the
streaks of gold in your hair, because you’ve got the
whole package, sweetheart. and you know it.
my transparent blue eyes seem often to pierce through to your underlying anxiety
at the prospect that the admiration in them, in all the pairs of irises filled with exaltation,
originated in your undeniably tantalizing silhouette, and not
the disposition behind the irresistible smile.
my inability to concentrate in your proximity doesn’t come from your
incredulously streamlined, skin-tight t-shirts
(though your torso is ridiculously impressive)
but from your concentration of charisma, because you’ve got
my kind of a combination of character traits.
occasionally - if you won’t hold it against me - you might infer that you are
the manifestation of my stylistic dream, because the
cadence of your propensity for eccentricities
matches the rhythm of my heart’s affection
for the endeavor towards perfection, or my love of
chai tea lattes from cafes in districts most commonly referred to as
“converting the american-indians to christianity”
(ironic, considering your hipster-like dismissal of columbus.)
cause my liberalist predilection is diluted by
the nose-piercings, the head-shavings, the insurmountable amounts of
uninformed brochures, and a soft spot for
academics in argyle, but you, my dear,
can pull off a suit like
superman can a cape -
simply by sheer force of personality.
any conversation that basically surmounts to a frenzied
giggle-fest is boycotted by myself because
how consequential is
the golden-ratio of some boy’s countenance if you can’t even
hold a minute’s tête-à-tête with him?
for i was enthralled by your extraordinary knowledge of the
crimson symbols of western oppression (who before knew that but
me?) and the occasional conversation that had me
rolling in hysterics in the grass, and your adorably adorable character flaws
in your recognizably similar tendency for self-destruction just
to gauge if anyone around was going to take care of you and
my desire to, just once, scream unreservedly back -
for i would adore a vociferous fight with you, an opponent who has
enough cogency to fight back and enough logic to
admit that you’re wrong (even when you’re not).
for i find myself missing you when i lack
a coffee companion, or someone to converse with on
philosophical imaginings or international diplomacy or when
i’m driving down the street and no one points out a seemingly innocuous edifice
and how it happens to epitomize a certain historical reference or an
unfortunate societal tendency, or even someone who just lets me talk without
making me dampen my lighting-fast brain-synapses or
challenges my thinking. i’ll watch my lipids spin
around and around in a microwave and marvel at how my dietary
and safety habits are unobserved by everyone, and i’ll remember how they were
once observed with punctilious intensity - by you.
and even to these qualities i find myself
unfortunately unimpressed
and often i wonder what is wrong with me that
not only can i not adore the physiognomy of some abercrombie model
but i find myself hopelessly un-infatuated with
the very manifestation of my stylistic dream.
so i guess we must surmise that love is a remarkably irrational thing
if i find myself most definitely out of it with my rational manifestation of it.
so perhaps you shouldn’t worry about those adolescent love notes
nor the current situation of your heart’s desire, because, i’m fairly certain, -
no matter what you do, -
it won’t work out.
(at least not the way you expected it to.)

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on Jan. 21 2013 at 11:54 pm
Not a day escapes without regret, and a bucket of very cold, wet and sad hope Regret at not beign I should have been at the right time to say goodbye or hello again, I do not know but i was not there Not a day happens without indelible memories hovering around all my thoughts  each one brought out with any shade of existing and evoking the simple nectar of joy telling me stories of buses, and coffee, and white swans, and of all the words used to describe everything, and visual conversations which say so much and past dreams of future glory, which have not come to pass memories that get more vivid and detailed as time passes  and to which i assign a million different endings in huge mosaics of thoughts and possibilities but memories are before, not now and do remember i have been banished, exiled- even worse: condemned to convey only silence and abandon it is not my choice, but my given condition its justice only the future will tell so I await in riveting calm in anticipation of an emancipation proclamation, and of peace and forgiveness for my actions, and therefore it is hereby resolved until independence grants true autonomy and emancipation is conveyed by the passage of time my banishment must continue on my behalf but I anxiously wait for the September second  in which I can thaw out my hope of talking to my dearest friend to convey my sincere apologies and to share the happiness of life    

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