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and i feebly grasp the fading words;

She clips her unkempt black hair with cheap plastic pins, crossing her legs and scribbling in careful hand over acres of rule vacuum. Seasons lethargically drag overheard, casting shadows of night, day and cloud over penned manifestations of prose, and ink blots inches away from the dog eared corners, fluttering lightly in the breeze. Ink dissolves words into the darkness and they resurface, reformed (bruised with crudely linear corrections) in the golden daylight. Cardboard covers signal the swapping of years, but only numbers change on calenders and wrinkles repattern on faces. Dreams continue in their cyclical fashion and the days continue to alternate periodically between pale silver moonlight and wondrously luminous gold. Sometimes, you catch her eyes sparkle in the light, and a carefully placed dot concludes paragraphs laboriously transcribed on paper.


FORMERLY [info]janierotten. This journal is locked. Add me and I'll almost certainly add you back (do, do leave a message, though, telling me a bit about who you are?)

where'd you learn to tango?

i. where freedom lies.
(ink and yellowed pages, words faded not forgotten)

It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. I realised, somehow, through the screaming in my mind, that even in that shackled, bloody helplessness, I was still free: free to hate the men who were torturing me, or to forgive them. It doesn't sound like much, I know. But in the flinch and bite of the chain, when it's all you've got, that freedom is a universe of possibility. And the choice you make, between hating and forgiving, can become the story of your life.


ii. home.
(pixel and paper, looking for inspiration)




iii. this is the red in my blood.
one electric night, and an eternal connection.

Down on the pitch, men in red, some on their haunches, alone in thought, others vaulting advertising hoardings and diving into the fans. Players in white, collapsed on the turf.

A scoreboard, high above now-deserted Milan seats. A blazing neon sheet, blocking out stars in the dark sky above a wasteland somewhere outside the old city of Constantinople. A clock moving towards one o'clock.

I'd never passed on the facts of life, or laid down the law about men having to do what they had to do. But there and then, I felt the most important piece of advice a father could ever pass on to his son speeding from my brain to my lips.

I pulled Phil so close his face touched mine.

"Look at that scoreboard: '3-3. Liverpool, champions.' And remember how it looked at half-time.

And how you were dead inside. And whenever you feel life's beaten you, think of this scoreboard and realise that anything, anything is possible. Will you do that for me?"

He nodded. I gulped.
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