Scaramouche's Stories

mentioning the themes below. And in former post(s), too, I guess - in that this is your rambling woman going on about all the things there's to ramble about, in life, in this world, on this entire planet, if you just turn on the news, and how they leave me (yours truly, faithfully): disoriented, devastated, depressed, all things beginning with D, turning every day into D-day, and my life into distance - literally - I do not defer, I beg to differ. And I respond accordingly:

this is a song-ish thing, of all things, at least it's
supposed to go with a sort of melody, that I didn't
have the time (or chance) to compose & it's about
the EARTH, and preserving it, and trying to be a
humanitarian, and I'm starting to sound like some
kabbalah celebrity, and a little like Madonna,
(...as if that were ever a baaad omen...?!)

"....and there is death, death everywhere, one
feels as though one might as well go dead too,
to complete the picture, then again: what picture?
and be picturing what, exactly, say you darling
when there's enough sorrow in the world already
and there's enough to dread in what we've got,
what we see each day in streetside windows,
in the shops, and in the sewers, we've got worse
and our problems lie between this desire to prevent
more such, and to preserve, to stay away, be staying
put and and keep an eye on what we still may hold, or
to succumb to the indifference of just another incident,
one occurence more, and something further, do we
even care, any longer, do we even care to take a proper look
I thing we drown in our refuse, let it go to waste
every day, when there's so much to cherish, and
we leave the hopes for finders ready, leave their world
to take and ours to dispatch, as if we do not realise, the
future belonging to no-one but ourselves, as if we do not
understand and only underestimate and we love disaster
truly, we desire that instead of true desire, we like death
so we don't have to worry about living, so we don't have to
occupy ourselves with our lives, and just to leave them be:
death, death overall, and the rates they rocket to the sky
we see them disappear and reappear for our inner eyes
and we're content with that, more than a striking wish - "

whereas this is a dedication to the beautiful,
immensely talented miss Johansson, first name:
Scarlett, who's now a singer in addition to being
the best (and best-looking!) actress around,
and contrary to common belief: she actually
sings pretty damn well:

can you see the rain:
that is not rain, now,
and the clouds that pass
unnoticed, dreary can you
see the words that are so
left unspoken, into all
that passed (between
us) so unsaid, we are
empty and quiet and
slightly invisble: to our
invariable selves, at least
we must never must not be
completed in fire & water
and loud: confirmations
openly, premises further taken
out, and it's enought to live
but may not be enough to die
it may never be sufficient in death
to live when it rains, when it rains

and there shall be less nonsense, a sense to all things, and to purpose, as I will look upon these surroundings, the valleys around, this: my being, and know that there's a point I didn't overlook, all: I'm still able to recall, whatever it is wherever it is, maybe, that's all there is, and it gives me a kind of, sort of, tickling sensation down my spine and up my throat, which I cannot ever help, and I suffocate slowly on an epiphany of bliss, and it hits me: it's like a flash, but it always takes me back