So tendinitis has finally taken a strangle-hold on my life (for the writer in me, my hands are pretty much my life-- until I finally learn how to use voice-recog software). The dominant hand's in the nice little solid, plaster brace (Edit: I ripped the leech off; I think I could hear it talking to me in my sleep), the intermittent sessions of dipping the appendage into really cold water first and then some hot water after some time (pretend it sounds crazy, but is actually ecstasy, and that's the way it's meant to be appreciated) are underway, and have been cutting down on writings, but that won't stop me from blogging or updating my fanfic stories. At least, not by much.

Oh, and apparently, the end of the world is being written by monkeys on type-writers. I repeat: Freakin' monkeys with freakin' type-writers.

A little free-writing extract to share with one, all and sundry, is a little “analysis” (for lack of a better word) on one of my college and class mates. Two versions exist, the first being comparatively closer to the whole concept of free-writing mixed with the understandably veiled sexual frustration of the 21-year old in me. The second isn't much different; for the family-friendly, it resides in a different galaxy compared to the former. If a few of my so-called beta-readers/college friends/philistines (we're talking those who didn't even read the whole thing before proclaiming ire and “asshole” upon the author) didn't offer their moral diatribes, it wouldn't have been such, but readers are still readers, hence the changes. Enjoy.

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“An angel's wings are everything. The strength of their connection with the body determines the confidence one has when using them. The number of feathers they shed outlines the purity of her numerous thoughts as they touch upon soiled hands in solid form. Their shade illuminates their silhouette against the sun. Their structure and aerodynamic design aids in navigating harsh winds and cruising easy breezes alike.”

Her hair flows down, straight and unscathed, like a waterfall. It's divided neatly into 2 straight waves, with a deep trench forming somewhere in the roots' terrain. At one instance, commanding respect.

At another, conveying innocence.

In yet another, suffering in loneliness.

In still another, accepting of all she sees.

The cheeks she uses to smile are worn and dimpled?

Small digits of nimble laboring ability conclude the long stretches of hairless ivory. Right-handed; seven extra years. Shoulders, even and odd, length and stature respectively, solder the immense weight of thoughts into her pride. Her shoulder blades extend into two narrow smooth clavicles, below which a multitude of pairs of symmetrically equal yet opposing ribs lay, adorned by her strong scarless sternum. Still lower is her navel; even lower still, her solemnity. “Temple of Love”, “Goddess' Gift”, Divine Recreation”-- such stereotypes of stereotypes adorn its identity.

Such blank eyes.

Her eyes are one's entry to her mind-- the entry to one's thoughts, derisions, desires, memories, hate, nightmares, idiosyncrasies, euphemisms, horrors, jokes, happiness, emotions-- but there's a divide between them. Tracing down her forehead, through her neck bones, through the ravine in her chest, ending, then extending back through the hips, traveling along the spine, between the shoulder blades, creeping up her neck, cell-deep in the silken fabric and arriving once more at her forehead.

There are no distances, only journeys.

Only two in her mind:

Her and them, her and him, her and her.

There is only observation to be made:

Isolation, obscurity, rejection, solitude, contemplation, domination, discomfort, denial, abstinence, divinity, quintessence, obsolescence, shyness, misdemeanor, non-committal.

Only one observation; yet many are the misleading jargons and analysis.

“An angel's wings are, indeed, everything.

“However, most important of all, they determine how high she can remain, beyond the reach of the Earth.”

An angel walking amongst the streets of Man.

No wings on her back.

Only wings on her heart.

The cheeks she uses to smile are worn and dimpled, but then, from what?

...There's definitely more to her than meets the to-be-continued tag.

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Yes, there was meant to be a second part but couldn't get around to it with all the other stuff on my butcher's block, so it'll have to wait. Here's to the next couple of months in rehab...or not..