Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

Her mind was reeling, in a state of retropulsion, as though stepping - no, leaping  back would save her from dwelling on the implications of what just happened. The enemy - so-called -             called for truce,      even friendship. She has known him these past three years and not once has he made any indication of backing down. His sense of pride, like a wall, didn't allow the very idea to enter through the gates. And yet now, when she chances upon him in the streets, all she sees on his face is bewilderment,              even confusion. When he chances upon her,                        his eyes fill with anger - but does she see a hint of embarrassment, dancing in the corners? Her curiosity is getting the better of her -                     she demands him, upon...

Its implications, heavy as a royal decree,             foreboding in stance. Determined was the young man                          to stand unwavering     from where he stood. He would not allow poison                                  to sicken his character,               malleable enough as it is. The calligraphy written in his heart         could be found as lifeless as dry bones before he             comes to notice. Rather than burn, he severed               the bridge of baleful influence.             He was only as good as the company he kept. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "calligraphy". Hope you enjoyed it! Cheers!

I am looking at the phone accessory you gave to me the day you decided to wander down the campus that wasn't even yours on a few festive days. I'm wondering why I'm bothering to put it back on the phone when it's been so long since we've talked - been so long since love seemed lost. It's seems so superfluous to bother to think about it. Maybe I just want to think back and remember the good times? Maybe I'm finally moving on while still holding on to what has been left behind, lying around my apartment, hidden like memories? Pockets of laughter, bright flashes of a smile, echoes of a touch - that's what I remember. But maybe I'm moving on and this is the best I can do. It's the best I can do to thank you for more than what's left. Maybe that's the best that can be said. ~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "superfluous". Thanks for reading! Cheers!

I am losing it - my thoughts are in a state of hypertrophy: explosions of whimsical scenarios playing out second after second. I can't keep up, I'm slowing down. I'm stumbling, stumbling, stumbling, trembling over this thought and that. I am seriously losing my mind to the disease of these romance-laced thoughts. I need to stop. I need to breathe. I can't keep thinking of these things, when it seems too inconvenient to bother. I want to be better - I've still got a life to keep sober. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "hypertrophy". I was planning to replace it with "cancer" but I figured it'd be better this way. Cheers!

Nonchalant, imagines a moment where she's got her guns blazing,                           facing down illusory enemies                    that come at her every which way. She's high-tailing it to nowhere, door after endless door -                               open and close, open and close. She's burning through memory faster than a chain-smoker does cigarettes.              It's not until she stops to take a breath that she notices the young man sitting on the bench only a few feet away from where she's standing. Hesitation: dead weight holding her from considering a new way out of nowhere.                                    One step towards him and... ~~~~~~...

The wind blows, shaking him 'til he wonders if he'll be able to stand. He wraps his scarf tighter around the collar of his coat, a mask against the biting air. The city streets are not any kinder, pedestrians pushing past him just so they can get away from the kerfuffle that blossomed behind them, flames and smoke and roaring dragons included. He brandishes a blade, like a sliver of the very firmaments - he's done this before. He knows what he'll be doing, as he passes through like salmon up a roaring stream. The dragons roar louder, like a display of smoke and mirrors high-tailing their way to his side of the street, exponentially increasing confusion 'til it meets him at his feet. And all he does is wipe the dust off his shoulders. Time is irrelevant, as he sends the essence of the stars into their hearts, a supernova come to life, letting it all purify the putrid light emitted by the dragons' flight. It is never an easy thing to figh...

He prepared the best dish one could think of: pasta. Had it all worked out in his mind, like Holmes on his last stand, desperately making every effort to keep himself from making even a single mistake to the one thing that could seal potential passionate, burning love. The sauce, rendered to near-perfection; the pasta, soft enough to placate the critical mind; the venue, shady enough to keep the sun off their line of sight. It's all set. There they are, in the shades of trees, almost caressing them to  a near-sleeping state. He can't wait to let what he created speak for itself. And speak it did, as the sauce mixed with the pasta, the very smell beginning to discombobulate her into comatose lust - for the sauce-drenched pasta. Before they know it, she has finished the meal, once-starved and now thoroughly satiated. He is surprised as well, all things considered. Did he really make a meal this well delivered? ~~~~~~~~~~~...

         He opens his eyes, hiding from the ray of light that determine to drag him                         out of sleep.        But he lifts the blanket                            over his head,                 the warmth still holding                      him to the bed.            A few more minutes               to forget what it's like to be...                He doesn't feel a thing                     as he eats his meals                        throughout the day -     ...

Remnants of the rain touch the tip of her shoulders as she enters the teahouse, lowering her umbrella, ready to let it shake off the gloom that accumulated             on its blouse. She walks in, pensive, thoughts running marathons in her mind as she mechanically           heads to the counter.         She makes an order, the woman at the counter nodding,                      knows her, knows the pattern. Lightly she sits at a table far enough away                                                    from the door and everyone else                                                     ...

                 "Du bist meine Freude und mein Schmerz", like passion fettered by foolishness,                        uttered he. Oh could it be that what hurts is not the restraint but the emotion          beating against the railing, like a raging phoenix, smoldering                               in its own flames. It isn't the right time, it isn't the right time -         so he chimes over and over,                        feeling slightly better that                           he lets himself hold back what could have been a euphoric                           ...

Drops of vodka leave his lips, careless and suicidal 'chuters aiming straight for wooden floors. He shakes vehemently, beating back the bitterness that creeps onto the surface of his tongue - rough as earth. The near-empty pub shines, like warm lanterns onto the streets, covered in sheets of unwelcoming snow. He likes it here, despite the lack of company: how the bartender laughs with all he has, body, beard, and everything; how the young lass passing the drinks and victuals actually gives the time of day, at this time of night to the lonely souls huddling towards the fire light; how the tavern fellows, huddled over their half-finished meals, sip at their alcohol-filled mugs, speaking of grand imaginings of a better world. It is not much, but it is alive with love, warm and not entirely induced without vodka. The lass passes by, picks a plate, and places it down in front of him, giving a kind smile - yes, this warmth is something like vodka. A deep red meets ...

She was never good at keeping herself from meddling. How she loved to meddle - every time he was around, she poked her nose into his affairs: wondering why he did one thing                   and how does this thing work and why couldn't he just do it her way?                              It frustrated him to no end           that she felt it her rightful duty,     her holy   purpose to   mess with his affairs. The more he worked, the more she interfered. Soon, he was lost in a sea of "thou shalt nots" that he couldn't get away from, even if he held a restraining order on her, even if                    all he wanted was to break it off. Antidisestablishmentarianism, damn you!         It'd have been better if they were frie...

It is a deep, dark forest,                   hiding secrets          like no one's business, where he lets the bow              run across its surface. He lets it run once more, twice,             just to ease his mind. He checks the strings, like he's ready to rain sonic havoc to absolutely no one                              but himself.                     He double-checks by letting his bow run - again with the running! -                across the strings,                           and they ring                      with the sound of fifths. He's in tune...

So let me get this straight: You want me to talk about how society has always been sick, but is now more like a cancer patient                           than a child with a cold?       How society beats itself up, preys on good and innocent things, essentially lobotomizing itself                to oblivion? You want me  to talk about society?                You're joking, right? What have you been watching?                        "Bee-do"            Oh.                That explains everything. You despicable little...            never mind. Agh, what have I got myself into this time..? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "bee-do". Yeah, I couldn't ...

The scritch-scratch of his pen as he wonders what to say next to capture love on lasting ink drives the thought out the door. Tries too hard, shady thieves                  under his eyes steal sleep;       considers caffeine to stay the hands of good-intentioned knights.           He doodles caricatures of fast-food burgers and milkshakes, accessory to good moments he recalls with the lovely girl. But what he tries to capture - the essence -                         he can't seem to do.                It's the same old sort of tune so why does he try so hard? Watch as he writes, then crumples, then sends half-shapen thoughts away.                   He won't let up, day after day. Love, is it? Or madness?           ...

She could not stop reading the letter. For pages it went on and on about how his love has burned                       to the ground:                   the Babel of romance breaking down in fire and confusion. He reasons that he has his reasons but no matter the logic behind the words, she could not make heads or tails                          of the true meaning                         of his letter.                 Does he hate her? Did she do something wrong? Was the moment of "forever"                   just a blip of time erased by a single word she wished                               ...

It was always a matter of taste, but if you were to ask him, taste had nothing to do with it. He favored the flavor of vanilla in his tea: made creamy by generous outpourings of milk and honey. It was a day-in, day-out preference that never occurred to him would change when he felt himself adventurous this one particular day. He wondered, "why not try chocolate?" and thusly decided to do so. It didn't take long for him to realize that his preference started shifting, as he continued to take the same flavor he decided to change that one autumn day. One week, and he found himself using a term he thought he would never use for anything as trivial as this: infidelity. Weeks, months, years, he's spent only tea filled with vanilla and honey. One slight moment in time rendered previous experience unnecessary. He has given in to the charms of tea, chocolate and warm. He has changed. He's not sure if this is a good thing. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~...

He starts, stops, stutters. His fingers tap-tap-tap the book in his hands, the one he kept to while away time in a corner of the cafe he frequents every day. Gets up, sits down, fidgets. He wonders if he was found out, the espionage mission gone wrong due to a slight cough he emits on an off-kilter supposition that no one will notice. Looks up, looks down, frantically blinks. He nearly panics at the thought that all one needs to know about him is laid out on his sleeves, on his torso for all to read. Deep breaths: inhale, exhale. He starts a slow march forward to a table for two, seated by one whom he's seen come in day after day like a stake-out for her prey. Too many thoughts, one thought, none. His expression, grave, as he emits a voice he never thought was his own. She looks up, he looks down, contact. One question, "Yes? I didn't hear quite correctly". He clears his throat, apologizes then says "What's your name?" She ...

Fade to light, slight chatter in the eaves of a thought not quite formed but definitely forming. The focus, still blurred, soon starts to shout sharp details aimed at lacerating the muddled-ness of early morning. Little mutters of "What of it?" and "Don't bother" coalesce into a final "I got it, I'm going"; the pitter-patter steps inside turn to the clip-clap of a fine leather, crisp Berluti march. The warm sun crawls and places a hand on the shoulders, the air nipping at the cheeks, barely keeping the eyes open to see. By now the thought seems to stick out like a sore thumb intent on being seen and heard and battered about - a surrealist pony-figure breaking at the seams in a splash of genius on one fine morning. ~~~~~~~~~~ Had a friend give me one word to use for a poem. The word was "stick". Hahaha, this was a perfect creativity experiment. Thanks for the help! Cheers!