Raphaêl - Les Petits Bateaux

Lundi 9 novembre 2009 à 12:28

Allons bon !

Je ne sais pas si cela vous fait ça, mais lorsque je suis heureuse, tout simplement,
J'ai du mal à écrire quelque chose qui me satisfasse.

Je ne vais pas m'en plaindre, loin de là !
Mais ce que j'écris quand je suis bien manque de profondeur, d'essence...
Ce ne sont, à mes yeux, que des mots ordinaires que n'importe qui pourrait aligner, sans réel sens.

Alors quoi, existent-ils encore de ces "poètes maudits" qui ne trouvent l'inspiration que dans la noirceur du monde, et leurs propres Ténèbres ?
Dans la solitude, la douleur, les pleurs, la souffrance ?

Encore que je préfère écrire des choses dont je peux être fière...
Mais si je dois payer de mon bonheur ce qui n'est que fierté éphémère, autant me passer d'écrire jusqu'à ce que je sache à nouveau quoi dire.

Un article pas très fourni,
je le conçois.
Mais ça me permet de m'exercer, c'est toujours ça de pris !

Have a Nice Day (ou ce qu'il en reste.)

Des cours, éparpillés sur la moquette,
Le pc allumé sur le site de la Fac,
Des fiches, une réserve de cartouches et un taille-crayon.
Ca, c'est le côté classique de la chose.

A côté, des coussins.
Deux, trois, quatre...
Musique d'ambiance :
Le tonnerre gronde par devers moi.
Près de la fenêtre, de l'encens.
Un bâton qui se consume,
Puis deux.
Ca fait aquarium dans ma chambre,.
Mais je n'ai ni mal de tête,
Ni rien.
Je continue de lire.
C'est tout.

Sauf qu'aujourd'hui,
On passe aux choses sérieuses :
Trois heures de littérature anglaise.
Après, je suis attendue au vernissage d'une expo-photo.

J'aime la vie d'étudiante.
Parce que dorénavant, je suis grande.

Voici une vidéo vraiment EXTRA !
Je suis
OBLIGEE de vous la faire partager ici !
Elle est vraiment superbe..

Mise en ligne par : Sannex7

Voici l'histoire rédigée par Sannex7 :
I met her when she was only fourteen. I was nineteen. It was at a party – she was self-confident, unstoppable, radiant, lively, witty, sexy… so much, that I estimated her to be two years my junior. When she flirted with me, I flirted back. I was later astonished to discover that she was only in 9th grade, whilst I’d graduated from high school a year ago. As perverted as I felt at times, I couldn’t stay away from her. She had so much intensity; it was hard not to get sucked into her world. Which is exactly what it was – I was well aware of the fact that we were all just pawns in her master plan.
Two years later, we were inseparable. I was with her before school, during her lunch break, and after school, until her mom kicked me out of their house at 11 PM. She even coerced me into letting her skip school and writing a fake note, which happened many times, because I never said no to her. It was all perfect until she decided to visit my house. She didn’t give a warning – I’m not even sure how she found my house, because I never invited her over. But she did, and she saw me. She saw me bleeding in my bathroom. She saw me, and her face grew horrified, then she threw up in the entrance of the bathroom. She thought I was dead, and she started crying. Then she saw I was the one holding the knife… I hadn’t been attacked by somebody… I had attacked myself. She grew hysterical. She fainted in the doorway, but she was still conscious, her wide, innocent eyes taking in everything. I moved towards her, trying to comfort her, but she pushed me away and just stared. She just stared at me.
After that, everything changed. She made it her personal mission to cure me. She was certain that I wouldn’t do it anymore. She didn’t understand. I was addicted. To multiple things. I was addicted to pain: to the high it gave me, to the stomach turning feeling when it subsided. And I was addicted to her. No matter how hard I tried, I continued to come back to her.
She changed. She was now painfully self-conscious, skipping meals to lose weight. She was despondent, never speaking unless forced to. She was dull, her skin turned as gray as her mood. She was dispirited, never leaving the house except for school. She was unamusing, not making a joke unless it was to pretend that she was fine. She was still beautiful, but in a sad sense. As if she was hollow inside. I pretended not to notice. I continued to visit her, even if it was just to watch her breathe. Most of the time, we didn’t talk at all. I also continued to cut. My legs were ruined by how many scars they carried, I would soon have to move onto my arms. Every time it would be the same… I would go for a month without cutting, she would hope, I would crush them, often by her coming home from school and finding me in her bathroom, lying on the floor with a kitchen knife beside me. She would cry, she’d say it’s over, then she’d cry as I was shaking. She would then turn around with a towel, and clean me up. It was this way for a long time… until she did something I never thought would happen, told me of thoughts that I thought were only mine. That was the trigger. As she was sleeping, I realized I couldn’t continue hurting her like this.
So I decided to leave. I would leave her, to go get help, far away from her. Maybe in a year or two I could come back, and we could have our hopes, our dreams, and our future. But for now, I watched her sleep. It’s quite calming, you know, watching the person you love most sleep.

©2009 ~Sannex7
During the whole of a dull, dark and soudless day in the autumn of the year,
when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been
passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and
at lenght found myself, as the shade of the evening drew on, within view of
the melancholy of the House of Usher. I know not how it was -- but, with the first
glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I
say insufferable ; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-
pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with wich the mind usually receives
even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the
scene before me -- upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of
the domain -- upon the bleak walls -- upon the vacant eye-like windows --
upon a few rank sedges -- and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees --
with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation
more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium -- the bitter
lapse into everyday life -- the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an
iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart -- an undreemed drearness of
 thought wich no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the
sublime. What was it -- I paused to think -- what was it that so unnerved me
in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

It's only a Fairy Tale (Mai HiME)

Dimanche 21 décembre 2008 à 0:34

Who are those little girls in pain
Just trapped in acastle on the dark side of the moon ?
Twelve of them shining bright in vain,
Like flower that blossom just once a year.
They're dancing in the shadows like whispers of love,
Just dreaming of a place where they are free as dove...
They've never been alowed to love in this cursed cage,
It' s only the fairy tale they believe...

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