Emilea

Emilea Feb 2016

too

Your mouth is too full of the words you're about to say to swallow what I'm telling you. Your ears are too blocked with the sounds of what you think you're hearing to listen to my desperate cry for help. Your eyes are too clouded by what you want to see to be able to perceive what you've done. You're oblivious; can't you see you're killing me? I love you.

Dec 2015

Carson Stephani

Melancholia

I have done the one thing that God forbade man to do.
Even now the juices of that fruit still dries on my chin.
From my curiosity, I now see the world in ways that others can not.
But how do they not see?
Look up, look down, look around!
Don’t you see it?
Everything!
This world is filled with tastes, textures , odors, sights and sounds that inspire pain and joy.
And from those sensations produces ecstasy that is like no other.
But with those sensations comes confusion.
How does one make sense of the world filled with so much?
How does one make sense of a world that when you open your eyes, is filled with only chaos.
And when you open your eyes you see that order is as frail as the babe born yesterday.
And when you open your eyes, you find that people are as ignorant as that babe.
Why do they not question there place in a world like this?
How can they wake up every day and never ask themselves why?
When you open your eyes you see that the world we live in makes as much sense as the archer shooting arrows towards the sky.
And when you try to make sense of it, by asking those around you.
They only look at you with confusion and contempt.
They ask you why you ask these questions.
They ask you why the answers of gods and monsters isn't satisfactory for you.
Why do they not want the world to be rational?
Why are they content with watching the shadow of the sun when the real sun is outside the cave they dwell in?
That cave is comfort to all, but it is not life.
Life is what happens once you see the world.
Once you’ve seen all the marvelous facets that the world has to offer.
But how do you explain the joy of having the grass under your feet to a person who only knows the touch of stone?
How do you explain the cool touch of water to a man who has only been given water sparingly on the tongue?
How to you explain the warmth of fire to he who only has has the chill of solitude to console him?
To explain the taste of that fruit which is logic is to explain life to a man content with shadows.
And now I see why God on high forbade man to take of that fruit.
For all it brings is melancholy.

Just how I'm feeling recently living with family.

#melancholy

Emilea Dec 2015

rubble

I've always loved you, even before I knew you. I dreamed of you, faceless; your blurred eyes staring back at mine. Sometimes we go out at night just because it seems the world is ours when everyone else is asleep. What does God think when someone sins? Maybe he feels half the heartbreak I did when you said goodbye. It was just a crack in the wall, but you hit it again and the house caved in. As you choked on the rubble, you wondered why any of this was real. I constantly challenge myself to think of problems with impossible solutions. They keep my mind off of you. Your friends still ask about you; I can never answer them. You're more of a mystery to me than God is to any of us. Does the moon weep over how recessive she is to the sun? I can't stand words like "betrayal" or "alone". They pull the strings that make me vulnerable. When you said you'd wait, did you mean it? Or will I come running to you just to see your eyes on someone else, your lips on theirs?

Emilea Dec 2015

incense

I remember the way you laughed while you played the piano. Your dark brown eyes followed your hands, gliding across the keys. They were just broken chords, but you made it sound like a cadenced sonata. I look at old pictures and fall in love with the people my parents used to be: free-willed, adventurous, happy. I wonder who convinced them they'd fall miserable if they didn't change. I burn these musty incense in an effort to get a smell different than that of sadness. But all they do is turn it to smoke and send it drifting through my head. You don't get high because you get scared; I get scared either way. Everyone is enchanted by the sunset; but once it's gone, they leave the moon to be alone. I want to feel what I felt when I laughed and you stared and mustered a "wow' in awe. You've become everything I've wanted, and further proscribed.

Emilea Dec 2015

perfume

The sky is the color you see when you close your eyes. Not quite black, just dark. It was nice, the way you looked at me when I was calm. How your smile caressed your eyes, your shoulders seemed to relax. The flowers I planted never grew; they must've been too weak, consumed by the earth. I watch happy people and realize how shallow they are. They space out and talk about their favorite tv shows and worry about stains on their shirts. My fingers are strangely shaped: they curve in and out, thinner than normal. But somehow they fit perfectly with yours, straight and perfect, always oil-stained and callused. I remember when I draped my arm across your chest and felt the scars on your shoulder. How they were arranged in such a familiar pattern. I traced them so carefully and read the word 'fear'. I wish I didn't write about you. I wish I didn't write at all. I know the smell of my mother's perfume. It reminds me of the times she came home and I ran to her after hours of waiting restlessly. Now it chokes me and creates a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes. No one's voice could ever fade in the background yet be heard so clearly except yours; a piano ballade in a distant room. We spend so much time trying not to take things for granted that we end up taking things for granted, for granted. "I ruined the flower you gave me. I didn't mean to," you said to me. You do that a lot.

— The End —