Infinite-Winter

She speaks in sighs melancholy dripping from her eyes to her lips, leaving salty trails on her pale cheeks She wanders through a whirling fog tormented by shadows of things never there things that will never come to break through the misty grey, to stop the whirling in her mind the flooding in her eyes She speaks in sighs muffled exhalations of evaporated hopes, whispering breaths of disintegrating dreams She walks hand in hand with Solitude the two so intertwined, there is no room in her heart for another; the cold so permeating warmth is simply kept away

 No matter how far or how fast she drove, it always caught up with her. In fact, it sometimes arrived where she was headed before she even got there; and every time it happened, she pressed the gas pedal a little bit more, pushing herself a little bit faster. She hurtled down freeways, weaving between car after car; she ran red lights, she nearly mowed down her own neighbors. But it always caught up to her. As she pushed herself more, she finally threw her caution out the driver's side window; the rules of the roads no longer applied to her. And one day, she drove her car straight into a wall, the cement divider between her old self and ins

Regrettably, those who happen to share my kingdom, phylum, class, order, family genus, and species cannot possibly understand the bond I've managed to foster with the one to whom I'm attached by the class, located just below the phylum. As chordata, we've both been blessed with a wonderfully flexible spine (except, it seems, when I sit, stand, or walk, and whenever he wakes up from an especially long nap) and as mammalia we've both been benevolently blanketed by a layer or five of fibers, and though mine are perhaps fewer in number, pigment, and blatancy, they're there all the same. Sharing a certain affinity with my alarm clock, he takes it

Wandering through a forest of memories, each tree a moment; feelings etched into the bark encasing the lifeblood, the flesh of those memories. The air is still, but leaves lose their grip and flutter to the ground as a moment of memory is forgotten, as a notion descends to join the damp depths of the lost. Only occasional rays of light penetrate the ceiling of leaves, filtering to the ground to highlight one buried memory, one hidden feeling, one lost painting of a moment.

 She was sitting on a bench that day, innocence shining in her green-grey eyes as she contemplated all things beautiful. Visions of the ocean breeze, of a butterfly's wings, of a flower's stretching petals flitted through her mind, superimposed over the broken streets that loomed about her. Where glass shards blanketed the sidewalk, she saw jewels; where debris lay rotting, she smelled perfume; her world was perfect. Through a ceiling of black-edged clouds broke her own sun, rays playing across her radiant face, filling her innocent eyes to the brim with laughter and love so she could no longer see what the world really was. But as she wait

Death haunted my mind today, though I thought I'd chased those thoughts away.

A throbbing in the eardrums, incessant bass and the voice of one too self-satisfied send pounding reverberations ricocheting through the room. The smell of bread left too long, flakes strewn across a haphazardly painted, age-old table, waft over heads. Laughter, eyes darting from face to face, meeting by chance and quickly flitting away from the other bright pair, a nervously contrived contribution to a conversation. A face buried in a book, concentration dwindling, a silent struggle against the sound, the throbbing. Red fills the eyes, the walls alive with color and layers of cartoons and names, alive with layers of memories.

The cold air stung his face, icy drops clinging to his hair and eyelashes as he scanned the horizon. The world was grey, he was enveloped in mist; the atmosphere had changed considerably since he had first arrived there. Salt and vapor filled his nostrils, overwhelming the senses. The waves, growing in intensity, roared in his ears; the echoing din of the violent ebb and flow were all he could hear. He continued to scan the horizon, unable to find what he was looking for, if he was looking for anything at all. A sense of horror welled up and overcame him, however, when the tips of black sails began to pierce through the mist… …he

From those eyes I see a reflection, two perfectly spherical mirrors of something not quite me and not quite him, but with a little bit of both; with pieces of ocean, chlorine scented synthesized sea sparkling in those eyes; a blue green iridescence unparalleled by anything save perhaps the shimmering scales of my miniature aquatic companion. I see a history of perfectionism, dappled by hints of perfection itself--though he doesn't know it, despite what I tell him. From them flow an aura, a radiating, endless series of waves of a bright steely blue, capped with white froth and a million rainbow spheres; and he has no idea they even exist. I se

Bipolar disorder: a neurological phenomenon that inhibits  the brain's ability to stabilize itself. A simple imbalance that chews, rips, burns holes through moods. Through sanity. Through families and friends and lovers, through the tenuous laces that once tied us together, now broken through one word, one manic, uncontrollable phase induced by the body's own defense mechanisms. A phenomenon that catalyzes a cycling, a never ending rollercoaster of ups and downs that has only one solution, the final solution that no one wants to resort to, but that so many do anyway. The mania, the depression; the peaks of alpi