A Recipe For Revenge.

He was her beginning, her middle and her end, though of course, she never imagined it would be so at the time.

There was never a flame. No spark to speak of. He penetrated her life at first, only as a number. The newest mandroid to roll off the end of a well-versed production line.

Oh, she primped and flattered, of course. Blushed when the occassion called for it, and flashed a thigh when she thought it would benefit. Her's was a well choreographed routine...she, the beholder of a golden agenda.

He knew what she was all about, and swaggered to the batting plate with a smirk and a hike of the pants. He knew the rules alright, but he never was one to play by them.

He caught her off-guard.

There was never a flame. No spark to speak of. But all at once, she found herself at the centre of a firestorm.

It raged around her; flooded every delicate blue vein until she herself was boiling with it. It put light behind her eyes...in fact, they danced with it. The embers felled her wooden sanctuary. They charred her cool facade of indifference; burnt away her sleeves...turned every trick to cinders.

In a fever, she emerged from the sinister ashes of her former self as would a phoenix.

The rebirth did not suit him.

Sincerity complicates things.

He was water in her hands...bit by bit he trickled through the gaps...clung to the creases in her palms and slipped away. She could not hold him. Down, down, down he fell, onto her black, patent leather shoes until her nimble feet became water-logged with the sheer weight of him.

Every step dragged...each one an effort. There was no escaping him, or at least, not at first. Her mind was still alight with him. She was entranced...encapsulated...pyromanic.

He succeeded in the end. Her wet feet soon became cold feet. They were ice cold...the kind that spreads like a lethal virus. It slipped into the bloodstream like coolant into anti-freeze and pumped with every heart-wrench, until the fire went out with a hiss that was really a sob, and a great deal of black smoke.

She became infected with it - with the very idea of him. Her every thought of him festered like a bullet wound...rotted her mind against him, and turned her heart gangrene. The bitterness was solvent...abundant...destructive.

He was carefree once more. He drove her to the alps of her own heartland and buried her in heavy snow. There was no escaping. There was never any escaping him.

She was trickless...loveless...heartless. She was hollow...a crisp, terracotta shell fresh from the kiln, and gutted from the inside...covetous of vengeance, and determined to wreak havoc.

There was never a flame. No spark to speak of. A cup of wan smiles and a bucketful of empty promises...a sprinkling of affections here and there, blood brought to boil, and a heart left to simmer till golden brown in the family frying pan. To marinate in it's own juices until bone dry, only to be sealed away in a bland packed stamped 'Will Freeze Well'. They were right about that.

It had all come to nothing.

Bittersweet symphonies.

Revenge is a waste of time. It's like a virus you can't shake.
It hooks your heart (or head, but generally not) and sticks.
Revenge painfully eats at you-
so why does it taste so good?

I am certainly no proficient when it comes to this almost lost artform,
but I am well aware of it, and I will admit I have whiled away many an hour plotting theoretical revenge attacks.
Most of which I never carry out.

I know that in reality, revenge gets you nowhere.
Revenge carried out more oft' than not leads to guilt
but
revenge not carried out oft' leads to regret.

It is so hard to win when it comes to the sticky intricacies of revenge.

Although there are some who carry it off with practiced ease. No remorse, no guilt- just a sense of righting wrongs and carrying on.
I don't really envy these people, I just wonder how they do it.

for your viewing/listening pleasure:
http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=4YJjuQc0BwA
Picture to Burn- Taylor Swift.

My Candlelight Novel.

jack kerouac- 'try never get drunk outside yr own house.'

candlelight. something special.

i will blow it out when i'm done.

paper. 'secretscribblednotebooks' equally as special.

no electricity. pure and just.

and

I live in the light, but I carry my dark with me.

I am in one at the moment.
someone short circuited, pulled the plug
pulled the wool over my eyes.

I did it to myself.
I should have studied.
I should have been harder on myself.
Hindsight is 20:20...and I haven't even taken the test yet.

'test'. nothing good ever comes of a word like that.
it's a word you have to spit out.
'exam' isn't much nicer. more formal, just as abhorrent.

here I am again. turning the lights out on myself.
i have an exam and i'm writing to you.
is this self-inflicted sabotage?

Ah well...I will survive (ooooh as looong as i know how to love...)the same way I got through exams many moons ago:" If I don't know it by now, I never will"

Atleast I can sleep easy in blackouts.

Censorship.

The lights have gone out. With a whirr, the electricity surged and cut out with a definitive and inexplicable 'slurp!', taunting me as if finishing the last strand of spaghetti, and with just as much selfishness.

Blackouts are a queer thing. I step outside, and want to laugh as a dozen neighbors stare back at me from their own dilapidated porches, each of them with a hand to the forehead...protecting their digitised eyes from the cold light of day. Stepping out of the technological haze that is life in the 21st century. Life in the fast lane.

We are all thinking the same thing. What to do now?

I once read an article about blackouts. Nine months following a large blackout in Sweden, the number of babies born tripled. I find it almost comforting that when in doubt, the human species will inevitably revert back to one-on-one entertainment. The kind they had before iPods and Playstations...even before television and computers. There is something illustrious in thoughts of flesh against flesh in the dark. Something soothing.

I have no such option. It is twilight, and I am alone. I was not counting on being alone.

A family visit minus the family. Alone in a house that was once my home - if not in sentiment, certainly in name. I often feel I am in a family all by myself. A tumultuous ideal. A family without bitter words, complications or hatchetts - neither buried nor sharpened. One that is also devoid of any sort of warmth - and I am cold, as I knew I must be eventually.

It makes me wish that I was a different person...one who they thought was funny or interesting. Likeable. Lovable. I hate them for making me think it, because I like being myself. And anyway, everyone else is taken.

The Tulips Are Too Excitable.

I just know that I am going to be one of those overbearingly proud mothers. The kind that takes a picture at every coo, smile and burst of flatulence...who soldiers on in the rain at the sidelines of a soccer field while simultaneously yelling obscenities at the children on the other team.

You know the type [A].

I know this, because at present, in my kitchen, I have been growing three small tulips. I purchased these tulips in March, when they were in full bloom. I bought potted flowers, because I just can't stand the idea of cut flowers. Flowers are - and you'll allow me to be cliched for just a moment - a thing of considerable aesthietic pleasure in this world. For me, they encompass what is beutiful, what is living, and what is reborn. Now, I do understand how a majority of the human race would find showcasing such an artefact to be a pleasureable experience. But I myself - and for the same reason that I could never own a caged bird - detest the thought of severing something so pretty, for the pure selfishness of exploiting it, only to have to watch it die in the end. And while wild flowers do die, they germinate and they grow again the next spring.

So in summation of my horribly philosophical spiel, I would hate to take an ill person cut flowers...I'd want to encourage them to think of rejuvination of life, and not of the inevitability of death.

But back to the tulips. They wilted, as one might expect, on the approach of winter. I was sad because they were red, and I love red tulips, but more importantly, because the only thing I had to look at was a pot full of dirt. So I locked the pot away in a cupboard for six months. No, really. I couldn't bear to look at it.

Last week I remembered the pot, and took it back out with the hope that the bulbs would rejuvinate for spring. I watered it every day, and a few days ago, I noticed tiny green shoots poking through the topsoil.

I was thrilled.

Every day since (and you'll think I am mad), I have watered my tulip buds. I check them obsessively - just to try and gauge whether or not they have grown at all. I open my kitchen window for them, I move them from shade to sunlight and back again, and I empty the dirty plant water. Worse still, I talk to them. Yes indeed.

"Just look at you girls! You'll be flowering within the month!" or "That's the way, tulip dears".

I am as proud as punch of my three little tulip buds. When they flower and wilt, I am sure I will care a great deal more than I did when they were simply store-bought. I'm not quite sure what this all says about commitment, but I am sure it must be something.

Commit.

If only I could.





The concept is one I cannot fully comprehend.


The word itself is foreign. Too rolling a word to wrap my mouth around, let alone my mind.





half-hearted commitment has become my specialty.


But what is commitment really?





It's finishing an assignment the week you get it.

It's holding back someone's hair while they regurgitate their mistakes.

It's replying to random texts at 3 a.m in the morning.


It's something I do not have.
commitment. bites.