Clementine

Not very good, but i really wanted to write something..
***********************************************************************************
She lay on the floor, barefoot. her hair crawled forgotten around her back, her nails were longer than she liked them to be, her head rested against the cold wooden floor. If it weren't for her blinking every once in a while you could have believed she was no longer alive, oh and there was the sound too. you could notice she was alive because when you listened very carefully you could notice a sound escaping from her closed lips, it was humming, barely audibly she hummed the tune to "Darling Clementine". She knew it well; it was one of the old memories that hadn't wisped away with her childhood. If she concentrated very much she could still remember the women, outside her window, the long skirts scrambling around the wind, their hair in tight buns as they hung the white sheets around the garden, singing all day long. She remembered the singing so vividly, the passionate songs were a part of those women, their voices singing loudly let the words mingle and make the sad tunes almost heartbreaking. At some point the music had became a part of them, the songs were like breathing, each note like the very breath they took. And still, years later, there she sat humming the story of Clementine on and on, time after time.
The room where she lay in was very dark; it was only lighted by a small window. The old window was never opened and it was covered by a yellowed, molded curtain. only the few specks of light that managed to struggle through the holes in the curtains came into the room and lighted the pale face in the floor.
The room, now old and crumbling to pieces, had once been a part of a home. People had once danced, and laughed, and smiled on the very floor where she sat. if you looked carefully in the corner of the room a child had scribbled initials on the floor, inside the fireplace still lay the ashes of the last fire that had been made, a fire that had warmed the old house and the people in it.

Paris

I guess there is something else that i haven't yet mentioned, maybe i avoided it for so long, because i have spoken so much of it i might keep it from my writing, i guess i have kept it enough. I am leaving in august, if you are a human being and have as much as looked at me, i probably already told you all about my trip. I am going to a boarding school in France, quite near Paris,really, and i don't think i have ever been this exited about anything. I know it is a learning opportunity and it is expanding my borders and making me independant and all that crap i keep repeating, but the true reason why i'm going is that i need to run away. Run away from everyone i ever met, i ever knew, i ever even spoke to... it has come to a point where i hate ever inch of the person i have become, and i have tried to stay distant from those who make me feel so terrible and i guess it has reached a point that only phisical distance will suffice. I know this post is terribly emo.. i guess every blog needs one to be a tad emotional, let this be mine..

I am not quite sure why i began this... Most obviously it was an inspirational thing, seeing my friends have such litarary insights right before my eyes. maybe it is because my maid absolutly hates to keep all the hundreds of sheets of paper i have used to "spill my heart out". i have to admit that in attempts of having such a literary insight i have bought more notebooks than my sad allowance could afford, i have resuscitated my fathers old typewriter only to find it much harder to use than a simple computer, i have even appealed to napkins in random restaurants when i was caught in a wave of boredom... maybe eletronically i may succeed. most probably, i wont do anything worth reading. but in between the typo's and run on sentances and terrible choice of pictures i have decided to put i might in some way do the "spilling of the heart" i so desperatly attempt to do.
if you are at home reading this i can only beg you to leave, and entertain yourself with the works that have once compelled me, please grab a decent novel, a cup of coffee and find yourself a comfortable chair; i personally would recomend a nice Louisa May Alcott, she always helps my boredom, maybe a Fitzgerald to make you envy the 20's or even some silly old book that makes you feel that nice feeling only a good book gives you.
Ok, i have just notices the accuracy of the websites name, i have already begun the psychotic rambling i am so usually caught up in, but i refuse to erase it. some day maybe when i am famous, and a world known author of some sort people might read this and compare it to the days when Einstein failed phisics or bethoven was kicked of music school.. or maybe, some random zé is reading it right now and realising how foolish i am for comparing myself to such people.
This is all i have to say for now, i guess..
bisous