i don't believe many people know how difficult it is to turn tragedy into poetry ... how difficult it is to turn an ugly reality into an innocuous dream (about desire).

Imagine walking all day with a forced smile when your eyes are watering from the anxiety rolling around like a piece of onyx tumbling in your stomach --

djames

He (slept and) lived through life with his eyes wide shut to the possibility he may (not) die alone.

There was only one woman who ever dared to reach out and grab him hollering,screaming, and kicking, (while she nursed his dreams)

and years later she matured into one of the most exotic and beautiful creatures produced by the afterthought of this universe; (but she still loved him, even walking away, so he could grow up, and mature without her)

and he soon realized one of the greatest blunders of his life (if he had stayed with her that night, and not gone to the airport ... (s)he would have been "you and me," or simply, "we.")

She said that night she was telling him (by kissing him, pulling him close, playing soft music, showing off her skin) that it was there time (now or never), but he was so elated about another girl, he completely misread her. He thought it was over (them as lovers), he respected her, but that other girl was promising, until that girl erupted, capsized, and changed him completely,

and then she was married with children, and it was too late for (s)he to reli(e)ve their past,

and each night he prayed for her and her family, and she continued encouraging him to keep persevering for (even though they both knew:

she was the greatest, and)

his catharsis.

I fell asleep sometime last week, and the dream thus far has been as expected.

(Fill in your own gaps.)

Yeah ... so anyway... jus' gonna keep writtin' ... and doin' what I do ... life is what you make it... unless it's already made for you .. take it as is.

djames.

Imagine if the sound wasn't quite furious, and Quentin didn't step on his shadow.

Ponder Septimus talking to his spouse before taking a grand leap into slumber.

(and what if Mrs. Woolf hadn't walked into the river to wash away all of her burdens).

There is a lot I would like to write down and vent, but this would be foolish, especially since, no one cares.

So I will simply state that I'm incredibly disappointed, disheartened and disenchanted (and I'm also extremely jaded).

For Anon will be the most honest love story ever written.

djames

And the occasion will arrive when he accepts that he cannot get the girl that he is after, so he will falter, calling a familiar friend (his young lover),

and he will call her, pulling her from her activity a thousand miles away.

(I need you.)

and she will consider him, briefly plotting, how to arrive without giving him the satisfaction of satiating his lust -- she was not his comfort woman,

and he will meet her in a nondescript bed and breakfast outside Holland, he will order Stella Artois, while she enjoys her Pinot Gris,

(I love you, and thank you for being here. I needed a friend.)

and she will dismiss his coyness, teasing him, and flirting, touching him, and petting,

and when they retire to their loft like newly weds dressed in white terry cotton, she will kiss his cheek, hug him tight (and close the door behind her).

If you are reading this right now, you must know that I am enamored by you, and I should assume you are enamored by me, so why don't we put aside our coyness, and just be, how about it:

you and me (as we).

djames