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Post by genevieve on Feb 22, 2012 19:30:58 GMT -5
[atrb=width,450,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:250px; background-color:#EFEFEF; overflow:auto; height:100px; padding:25px; vertical-align:middle;] stuck inside these walls , I'm in here, can anybody see me? Can anybody help? I'm in here, a prisoner of history, Can anybody help? Can't you hear my call? Are you coming to get me now? I've been waiting for, You to come rescue me, I need you to hold, All of the sadness I can not, Living inside of me. | [atrb=style,background-color:#EFEFEF;] | [atrb=style,width:250px; background-color:#F7F7F7; overflow:auto; height:300px; padding:25px; vertical-align:top; text-align:justify; font-size:8px; font-family:arial; line-height:12px;] I can be doing so many better things today. The very fact that I am sitting on a park bench, nibbling a pretzel, seems to burn in my mind more than shoving my hand on a burning stove. I should be memorizing Moonlight Sonata, and the dance routine that went along with it. Along with that, I should be studying more contemporary ballet, as my coach had said just days before. She said she wanted to see me stretching my horizon, because dancing to more expressive, angrier things like pop music and rap was supposed to help my posture and emotion throughout original performances. She said I could even try dancing to MC Solaar, a french rapper I enjoyed sometimes, even though I thought, personally, it would be difficult to truly dance to his music.
I tear off a piece of pretzel and put it in my mouth. I should get up, go home, get my duffel bag, and go dance. My mother wants it, and if she didn't... she wouldn't have payed for my lessons all throughout my childhood. Maybe I'll do it after my pretzel... I tear another piece off and eat it, slowly mulling over everything. The Saturday sun is warm against my back, one more reason I don't want to remove myself from this bench, and the weather is finally warm, a nice retreat from the cold Winter that's finally passed. I finished the pretzel and stand to toss the paper in the trash, before walking lightly away, down the sidewalk that winds through Gilles Park. The park is relatively empty this morning, considering it's only eleven, except for a few people in the distance. I can't help imagining what it'd be like to dance outside in the park, on a glossy temporary stage in the beautiful sunlight. Turning gracefully to a small orchestra, who sound as perfect as I ebb and sway to their sound. I don't realize when I turn down the sidewalk to an attaching walk, and walk straight into another person. I jolt from my daydream and look up to meet the person's face, smiling sheepishly. "Pardon moi, sil-vous plait." I say quickly, not even remembering that I'm in America.
| [atrb=style,width:140px; background-color:#EFEFEF; vertical-align:top; padding:5px; font-family:arial narrow; text-align:center;] WORDS YOU SEE 0380
SONG YOU HEAR I'M IN HERE SIA
PLAYING THIS FOR ANYONE
ANYTHING ELSE?
TABLE BY TEQUILA! |
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Post by christi on Feb 22, 2012 23:04:13 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background-image:url(http://i51.tinypic.com/2nbr3oi.jpg) ] c h r i s t i but i will hold on hope || and i won't let you choke || on the noose around your neck - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Perhaps it is chattering of the people around me. Or perhaps it's the gentle breeze that blew across my face. Whatever it is, I feel safe here. Safe from the nightmares, safe from the engulfing darkness, safe from the urgent, hushed whispers that constantly fill my mind in remembrance of the others who hadn't been as lucky as me. Who hadn't gotten released. Who had been shunned from the rest of the world, locked up because they were trapped, trapped inside their minds of terror and frantic tragedy. Okay... maybe that was an exaggeration. But the asylum, even though it had been many years ago, lingers in the back of my mind, always there, ready to create nightmares as soon as I close my eyes. So, I'm keeping them open. Keeping them open in the park, which, I have to admit, is very nice.
I've been walking around for about... an hour or so. But the sun is out, and it's gentle. It feels more like a warm blanket than hot, beating rays. Which is always nice. That has to be the best thing about Saturdays: they are all mine. I can do whatever I want. And,for some reason, I chose walking around in Gilles Park licking an icecream cone, which just happens to be melting. What am I, eight? I know I shouldn't be eating icecream, but... screw dieting, I want to eat this treat. Well, that's what I had been thinking when I bought it. But the cool desert felt cool to the touch, and it was nice to be able to actually eat one, while as during the winter, icecream might as well have been banned.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk on the path, staring off blankly into space. Any time now, I'm gonna trip and fall. But I can't help letting my mind wander, just a bit. Just wonder about random things that pop into my head. I was just about to turn around, however, when someone bumps into my shoulder. I can't help but get slightly annoyed and slightly embarrassed; this was a big trail, was it really that hard to stay out of someone's way? But at the same time, she had been daydreaming. Not a smart move while walking on a sidewalk. I turned to face the offender, but barely get a glimpse of her as I hear what is obviously French. Err... She looked at the younger woman in the eye, a shadow of a smile on her lips, "Sorry, I don't speak French... but it sounds like you're saying 'Pardon me'? Don't worry about it, I shouldn't have been distracted." I say quickly, hoping that 1. she can speak English and 2. She won't mind my Aussie accent. Most people I talk to end up getting confused and not understanding; hopefully, though, this wouldn't be one of those times. |
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Post by genevieve on Feb 24, 2012 16:21:44 GMT -5
[atrb=width,450,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:250px; background-color:#EFEFEF; overflow:auto; height:100px; padding:25px; vertical-align:middle;] stuck inside these walls , I'm in here, can anybody see me? Can anybody help? I'm in here, a prisoner of history, Can anybody help? Can't you hear my call? Are you coming to get me now? I've been waiting for, You to come rescue me, I need you to hold, All of the sadness I can not, Living inside of me. | [atrb=style,background-color:#EFEFEF;] | [atrb=style,width:250px; background-color:#F7F7F7; overflow:auto; height:300px; padding:25px; vertical-align:top; text-align:justify; font-size:8px; font-family:arial; line-height:12px;] I meet the eyes of the woman I ran into, my face heating up a little. It's then I remember where I am, and I quickly mutter another apology, in English, before she speaks. My mind is immediately stumbling to catch up as her words flow effortlessly in a thick Australian accent. I'm taken aback, trying to decode the vernacular, as I stare at her for a moment. It only takes a few seconds, but it is long enough to surely make me seem vapid. "O-Oh, right. I shouldn't have been distracted.. either." I say, slowly, the majority of that sentence being copied from what she said. The words feel choppy and awkward, smothered in that French accent, yet I am sure they're coherent. No one has had too much of a problem since I came to the United States, unless they're caught off guard and I'm forced to repeat what I said. I hope this isn't one of those times. Somehow I gain confidence to try more of my English.
"You are.. not from America too?" I smile kindly, happy to finally find someone who might share my problems. Well, at least a piece of them, such as being a foreigner. I glance down to see her ice cream and find her gaze again, smiling. "En France, we.. we buy crepes." I say, motioning to her ice cream, then realize she may take that oddly. Of course we buy crepes in France. We buy crepes in America. I am sure crepes are available around the globe for purchase. I quickly add on, "on the street. Like a...." I try and remember what the thing I had just eaten is called in English. It is close to the French word, bretzel, but how close escapes me. "Bretzel." I finally blurt out, fed up with trying to remember. Maybe she can figure out the differentiating character.
| [atrb=style,width:140px; background-color:#EFEFEF; vertical-align:top; padding:5px; font-family:arial narrow; text-align:center;] WORDS YOU SEE 0323
SONG YOU HEAR I'M IN HERE SIA
PLAYING THIS FOR CHRISTI
ANYTHING ELSE? Wearing This. Random Genevieve is fun.
TABLE BY TEQUILA! |
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