My Journal
- 3 years ago
- 29
- 0
Her Journal free porn video
He asked me to write something real. To write what I know. He said there is talent in my writing. I have to laugh, thinking maybe even he can’t see through the bullshit I write…but then again maybe he can. So this I write, what I know…what is me…as painful as it is going to be…
I look at the journal before me, the latest of many I have hidden in a chest. Only this one unlike all the others is empty of words, with the exception of pretty phrases cut out of magazines and pictures of places I have yet to travel, haunts I have yet seen. It holds nothing of me. I fear my words from the prying eyes, and myself even. For my story is as sad as it is monotonous, I can’t bare to think of it myself some days for I have retold the story in my mind a million times over there.
A child who’s days of youth were stolen from her. A child who was forced to grow up to early, to see things most never see. To be told not to cry, for that makes you weak, those words alone made her weep even more as a child-woman. To watch with wild eyes those around her loosing precious moments of their lives, to waste them away, to drown their pains, wasting away at a dangerously slow pace. To see those live each day, day after day in shadows of what they know. To tired to change, to change their journey, take the risk on another road. They live what they know, and there I am … the perfect example I see…I live what I know.
I woman not unlike most with the hopes and dreams, to find the one person she could connect with, knowing that she was a strong person and that her life would fall into its place easily, not that one needs another to have any life, she just never doubted any other area… The woman had a passion for life, a romantic spirit. Who dreams in colors the human eye has never seen before. Who sees more then the average person , the dimensions that life has to offer. The stories hidden inside paintings, the shades it casts upon every soul, and the shadows that dance there.
I wonder how she became so weak. I imagine, like those before her, pure tiredness. She gave up a little, not all at once, a little here, a little there. It became easier to not argue, to not put up a fight. Because when she did, it only brought on more heartache to herself.
The child, the woman, she, her… all being me. Sweet Jesus I wonder when I stopped caring. Why did I give up my fight? I wonder why I can’t see the light that is suppose to shine at the end of every tunnel? How did a woman so young in years grow to feel to empty and old? Jaded.
I hide myself from friends for days on end, fearing they will see what I see when I look in the mirror. I shun my family for giving me the memories that have formed me into the person that I have become. I wonder what happened to the woman that use to be vivacious. She is a rare visitor, or maybe I just imagined her. Maybe she only exists in my mind. Because the only person I see theses is world-weary and raw. I don’t care for her much.
Even now as I write, I beg myself to stop, because if I don’t, I am forced to think of all I am loosing, all the precious time I have already lost. All the pain that I have kept safely harbored inside my heart. I can feel it swelling up inside me now wanting to push past the barriers I have built up, I can’t bare to feel the storms waves crashing over me.
Every moment of my days, every breath I breathe is consumed of what I don’t possess. I don’t desire fancy cars, a huge bank account, the perfect home, but then I guess I am no different from the next. I simple want what I do not have. I want love. I want to be cherished. People marry to be together, to have someone to come home to … where ever that home may be, it should be with the other. Nothing else should really matter.
I want, to look across a crowded room, into his eyes, and feel a connection. When I look up and find his eyes on me, his gaze twisting around mine, tripping over me, landing on the placed I love to be touched most. What I have when I look across that crowded room is someone who glances at me briefly, then looks away as if I am someone who has just crossed past a corner in his life. I hold no true importance. Easily dismissible.
Someone once asked me what I thought was worst, A) to live your life once know passion, but to have lost it, or B) to live your life never knowing passion at all. I of course, very predictable, chose A. For I have once lived my life with passion, whether it was showered upon me or it simple poured from thee self.
My sentences are jumbled…my thoughts are lost to me … all I know is I don’t recognize myself these days. I try to find my solace in nature. In the summer I can be found swimming at midnight under the stars. And when the weather grows cold and rainy I am not far from its falling touch. I will take my seat under the covered porch to listen to the rain, I inhaled its scent, It takes all my restraints to not walk out there…to stand under neither the falling rain, to feel its caressing touch, its heart beat on mine, god how I loved the rain and the effect it had on me.
I have lost count, of the number of days it has been since I have been touched. I am not talking sexually either, because that has been even longer. I mean the simple touch of another’s, a gentle touch on the arm, reaching out to hold my hand, a sweet caresses across my cheek. They say people actually age faster without human contact, at this rate, I fear my age.
I wonder while all this is, I am not a uncaring person, I have my days just like anyone else, but I am compassionate, tender, loving, I have a wonderful sense of humor, I easily laugh at my own faults and mistakes, people use to tell me I had such a beautiful smile, I don’t imagine I have been flashing it off too much these last few years. Jeez … there was a time that I use to walk around smiling all the time, giddy even, just happy. I want those days back.
Why can’t I reached out and grab them? It’s always easier for people to ask me this. Things are always easier said then done. And it is not that I do not want a change of my own, it is simple like I said before … I can not make out the light at the end of my own tunnel.
I miss having someone look at me when I say or do something silly, you know that look, their expression and smile just says it all … How they love how crazy you are, how I cry during movies. No matter how busy I am … since I was two years of age, I will stop what I am doing to watch a commercial. Why is it that the person I have chosen to live my life with cannot find these things about me adorable, enduring even?
I almost rubbed fenders with another car the other day watching a couple kiss and embrace the other day on the sidewalk. My eyes welled up with tears. I can’t remember the last times I was kissed. I miss kissing more then anything.
It’s the unknowing, the hunger for another, yet for a hunger you’ve never tasted. A meeting of the souls. Alerting all five senses. That first air, when lips touch briefly, lips barely parted, no tongue, just plump skin against skin. There’s an art to kissing … not to be confused with blind zealous. And you know at this point, this very beginning point of this kiss, that if you don’t take it any further you will just die. Explode, your life will never be the same. And so the lips part a little more, there’s a moistness between the lips, its slick, the plump skin holds on a little tighter to the other, pulling and holding onto the others upon release. And then it happens, it doesn’t matter who starts it, yet it happens. One persons tongue breaks out, past the shaky barriers and slides over the others lips, exploring the textures there, sliding across upper teeth, just the under side, the inside, where usually your own tongue can reach. There’s the interest in discovering the new territory, and then, yes, there is the second tongue, the two meet and the most amazing thing happens. I am pretty sure I can not do it justices, how
can one describe the meetings of two, when they meet .. and the passion they find between them? How can one describe the most intense kiss that leaves ones head reeling, there heart skipping, breath humming and a river of moistness between their legs? How could I ever begin to describe that? In truth … I can’t find the words to describe the knowing … But only the wanting… of the feeling of another’s mouth, lips skimming across the jaw down the slopes and groves of my neck … I shouldn’t be torturing myself so.
Haven’t you ever been somewhere, a book store perhaps, standing there in a aisle, reading the back cover of a book, and have this over coming urge to look up … only to find your self staring into the eyes of another? One of you looks away, and then eyes meeting again for a moment that holds no measure in time. Eventually, one of you walks away, and there you are, walking around for the next 24 hours with images of this stranger imbedded in your mind.
Perhaps it is only me. Maybe I am slowly loosing it. My grasp of reality. The touch of life.
My journal is still empty, with the exception of a few new quotes and distant photographs, but at least I left my thoughts somewhere. Here in the realms, no matter how much they might be scrutinized.
Avriella
- 12.03.2020
- 25
- 0
