Eggling Day 142

Approaching the 5-month limit of the egg...will have to transplant soon. These guys are so robust that they've gradually been cracking the shell.

The scent they give off is incredible. =)

Have you ever

...felt like punching anyone in the face for no good reason?

Edit:
Took image down because holy mother of god I can't stand the sight of it any more. Here's some music for distraction in its place.

So ironic that my answer earlier in the day was an uncertain No/none that I remember, and right away became a Yes later the same day. Nothing personal, no haetin' or anything. It's just the picture for some inexplicable reason, LMAO.


(9:25:51 PM) realitystained: maybe because his snide-ness comes through very well in it?
(9:27:12 PM) yuuzora: Hahahahaha.....
(9:27:17 PM) yuuzora: That actually sort of makes sense.

That actually makes a whole lot of sense.

To talk nonsense in our sleep

You have such a heavy hand in turning this into your self-fulfilling prophecy. Is this what you wanted (to expect)? Is this your last vestige of...

?

I wish there was an empirical measure to map exactly how much was each of our own fault.

20. On conjunctions of

In the earlier days it had been a hint of generic deodorant, gentle residues left upon folds of fabric flicked past my cheek. I would find myself hunching in that unceremoniously ever-same isle in Walmart, sneaking sniffs between passers-by to minimize my apparent creep lvl.5, hunting for your specific variety of specific brand. By the time I had finally figured it out, the association of that particular sense with particular memory was already fading, if not gone.

I am not nostalgic; the replacement was the true worthwhile bargain. An upgrade to your natural you, mingled with a hint of myself, on myself, as my free left wrist habitually rose to cover a yawn at the wheel? It was you.

It was you.

More so than the previously mentioned auditory trigger, this olfactory equivalent packs the real punch that it was you. Last evening I could have drowned in my own hand and arm in you.

Coyly invite me to bed again. I will not decline or deny with wordless silence a second time. Neither will I bring it to your attention for fear that you will ruthlessly take even this away, just like you undid those kisses. I will not forget. Even if my consciousness drifts and my memory of dream and reality mingle in half-out confusion, my impressionable skin does not forget.

My thumb fits over your newest badge under my collar bone.

dot my i's with eyebrow pencils close my eyelids hide my eyes I'll be idle in my ideals think of nothing else but I
I
I
and I

Trigger

Only one thought will ever be associated with this song. On repeat.

There is a rare one-to-one correlation going on here. See me listening to this and you'll know for a fact that I'm consciously submerging myself in all associations of you.

It's twistedly funny that you think I will one day forget.

No matter what.

These in-between days crawl by increasingly slower each time.

Senseless words rolling off tip of fingers and tongue

And in thick words we breathe, are tied, bound to thin-pressed legalities and responsibilities to rope twine together, roll mauve and blind green, drinking in premature gestures of sun and spring. Sung in high praise for the price of choice, price of freedom, price of picking the path of lukewarm resistance with no cost-reducing enzyme or ATP coupling.

Again this looks like a year with no spring. I coil in repulsed anticipation for the first hint of summer threatening to gorge down even this, this, relatively-tame albeit month-too-early, so-called spring. Like the onrush of another side-along exponential experience, though I don't too-much-mind that one at all. I anticipate.

This future.

Reveling in its endless possibilities, and reconsidering again what I once dismissed as impractical impossibilities. Drop an idea in my lap, and then totally leave. That is the way to turn a blind-due-to-stubborn me around. No bullheaded nagging insistence will intrigue or work magic like that. That was the newness. That was his secret.

That, and I was entirely willing to be swayed.

The tapestry analogy

Like the joy that would be felt by blind fingertips aimlessly grating scraping peeling along unforgiving mortar grooves of an immeasurable brick wall, enduring exasperation and fear in deep self-conviction and stubborn refusal-to-be-proven-wrong, only to delve for a tapestry-disguised tunnel only hinted to exist in slick slimey hearsay...if even a thread from the fraying edge of that heavy textile was felt in place of farther grainy cement; if even the first hint of spring-breathed flowing air breezes hope through barrier of hollow to dust to cloth to wall to the blind, blind you, in the z axis, out relative to this white space.

He merely sways with the (to him, uncertain) wind, still shied away. Still shimmering, shimmering, ablaze inside. Haloed in the evening sun.