Women are a mystery, they say.

But I disagree...

I’d say women are an open book,

Easy to read, as you please.

But when they close the book!

You won’t be able to read

But the title on its cover.

And what they also say?

Don’t judge a book...

By its cover.

I once read a book- or

I

Thought

I

Did.

#MysteriousBooks

April 04, 2018

My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun

Yet you expect me to say cheesy love lines

You want me to say

that her lips are more red than coral

(They’re not)

That she is white as snow

(fool her breasts are grayish brown)

That she has rosy cheeks

(She ain’t no Disney princess

Or some Barbie doll)

But I love her

I love to hear her speak

I won’t say she’s a goddess

(I ain’t never seen one)

But I love her

I see our love as rare

I won’t give you misconceptions

with false comparisons

But I love her

One man for a long time was having no happiness. Then he despaired, took brushes and paint, took the canvas and painted it himself. Then he hung his happiness on the wall of the house and began to admire with it. But his joy did not last long, it started to rain and washed the canvas. Then the hero painted his happiness again and hung it over the fireplace. Soon the paints has melt. Only at the third attempt it was possible to preserve the drawn happiness and protect it from dangers.

It is so hard to keep even the painted happiness, what to say about the real one, which, to all else, can not be painted again after being accidentally lost or destroyed. Take care of your happiness - having left, it usually does not return.

For Christmas

I don't want

Presents

I only want

Your PRESENCE

That to me

Is the greatest gift

For the holidays

Your PRESENCE

Love

Compansionship

Laughter

And joy

Doesn't come

With a receipt

It comes with

A

Memory!

TRUTH!

K.j.a. (c) 2017

Snow always brings it back to the front of his skull. That transparent winter noon, ages away. Snow wipes the dust off those memories and takes them off the shelf. Claude has never been too successful at keeping his mind tidy.

What comes first is that dying sun struggling with its rays through the clouds, spilling light over the playground and the boy's boarding school. Saint-Julien school for boys [reformatory // correctional center]. The building was reaching back toward the sun. Its neo-romanesque walls thick and stern, seemingly providing safety. Standing dark red, red and dark victoriously over the melting white snow, the school looked proud and reserved like a professor would look at Claude over the rostrum or a preacher over the pulpit. You'd feel small and irrelevant staring up at it and the tiny windows placed along its whole length and height would merely wink at you with their curtains. You'd then turn your head with slightly flushed cheeks and ears and continue throwing your glances elsewhere.

And the playground, it was coated with the same shade of cold-day grimness. It was an achromatic painting of someone's fading childhood. Colorful leaves hidden by soft layers of snow and mud. Colorful laughter quiet under the cries of the swings, the cries of the smaller kids, some cursing and then a sound glimpse of the traffic somewhere behind the protective Saint-Julian. Claude was listening to it all, observing his still fairly new situation and the faces still unknown to him. It was slightly unlike him to remain clam, on the bench by the side, slowly adjusting to the new home, having his favorite activity taken away from him. Along with his family or rather, the other way around; he'd had been taken here. What an overwhelming dissatisfaction, to have your wishes come true in the most distorted ways, felt like the world was mocking him. His expression was unreadable, blank, his fourteen year old mind bewildered. Nevertheless, his curiosity clung to him, always whispering into his ear, giggling.

Then a rougher voice flew into his ears. Someone spitting out: "Fucking little dickhead." It wasn't directed toward him, no. However, it was only meters away and he had to move his focus to see what's happening. His eyes alert. Heartbeats feeling heavier in his chest.

Two figures at the current center of attention. Bigger and smaller, a persistent cliché of school fights. It wasn't the world's most difficult question to guess whose voice it had been. The bigger figure was a boy so obviously over Claude's age. He had his fists clutched at the other boy's shirt, dangerously close to his long, soft neck. As much as his face was cold, his eyes were shooting fire. The pair of bright, widened eyes, on the other hand, seemed frozen with fright, accompanied with the expression of crimson embarrassment and terror.

"Give me the money" the older one was practically growling through his teeth. Shaking his head in attempts to get his dark locks off his face, one of his hands sweeping away the smaller kid's efforts to kick him wherever. "You will lose your fingers, you little-"

Anticipation and cold air dancing withing Claude's throat. He got up. Stopped when his feet made those few steps. Robotically.

When he opened his mouth, it felt as mechanical.

"Leave him alone" he yelled - he supposed, but his voice echoed in his ears moments later. It felt weak and unsure. What even lead him? To call it bravery or justice would be a joke. It was closer to stupidity and simply the need for a shoot of something old in a new way. He had eyes of other students aimed at him, perhaps of some professors, too. Will they shoot? He had his own eyes aimed at the burning set and his fist aimed at the cold, frowning face. (The small rat used the confusion as an opportunity to slip out).

He missed. Whatever. But soon they were both on the ground. All mud and snow, drops of red, a new emphasis on the fading childhood painting. A fine detail to fit the building’s dark red walls.

Claude's first fight and crush tackled him down all at once. Punch to the flesh and the heart. François' first hello.

Snow will melt soon.

#fiction #prose #youngadult #teen #lgbt

Gratitude is an emotion from the heart. Gratitude is where you are thankful something happened but aren't required to give back to the person who helped you. It's for the simple things, like, dropping your wallet and having someone return it to you. Some one opens the door for you and you thank them. Gratitude is for the little things people do that you offer thanks for, but would don't leave you with a feeling of needing to do something nice for them in return.

Indebtedness, on the other hand, seems almost as if it is higher than gratitude. Indebtedness is where you are so thankful for what the person did, whether it be saving your son's life or persuading you not to commit suicide, you feel a need to give back to that person in some way. Sometimes it can be a simple case where a really nice person drops their wallet and you return it to them. They then say, "how about I grab you lunch since you were so nice as to give me back my wallet." That is indebtedness. You have a need to return the favor for what another person did.

Now, another difference between gratitude and indebtedness is the fact that gratitude is alway positive. Indebtedness can be both for positive and negative depending on the circumstances. Think in the terms of Hammurabi's code, "an eye for an eye." If someone were to kill your mother, you feel the need to get revenge on the murderer. That is indebtedness. You are indebted to the murderer for what they did to your mother, so how do you pay off that debt? You kill them back, or do something so awful to them they wish they were dead. That is just a blunt description in what negative indebtedness is. Another way to describe it is, someone punches you in the face so you punch them back. You two then get into a fight and get tossed out of your favorite bar. Because he hit you, you felt the need to his him back. Because you guys were agitating people and causing a ruckus, the bartender felt the need to toss you two out. Indebtedness is almost like cause and effect. You do something and someone or something pays you back for it in someway. In other words, you can describe it as the consequences of your action.

There are probably many for ways you can take these two concepts, but that would probably go on for a long time. Either way, indebtedness leaves you feeling in need to treat the other person in equivalence of how they treated you, and gratitude simply leaves you happy and thankful for something that happened. One can stem off from the other, creating an easy confusion between the two. Sometimes, when a person has a high moral code, gratitude is the exact same thing as indebtedness. It just depends on from which perspective you are looking at it.

A little of both, really. Love is made up of -- how to describe it, two phases. The first is falling in love. You see a man or woman, and everything becomes background noise to him or her. You kind of can't help wanting them. Before you know it, you've fallen into phase two, falling apart. You are slowly being to divided into how to act around this person. You are slowly losing track of daily habits. Even your body at some point, can't seem to function without this person. Love is quite the crazy, isn't it?

Golden light filtered gently into the room, illuminating every angle of your face, softening your smile and melting me into pliable plastic, bending at every curve your body offered. Your weight on top of me, with that runaway look in your eyes, like a child caught red handed, elbow deep in the cookie jar. You smile at me guiltily and bury your face in my neck. You kiss me softly once, then blow raspberries into my skin until the ringing of my laughter against these pale blue walls fades, as I pull you in for once last kiss.

You ask me what I’m smiling about, as I run my fingers through your hair and find myself tangled in day dreams of “what if”.

I can’t give you an answer, other than a beaming smile and a half hearted tackle back into the sheets as I try desperately to wrap my arms around your broad shoulders and back.

You pick me up as if I were weightless, and laugh heartily as I use all my weight to keep you bedlocked with me.

There, in that bed, afternoon light pouring in, with your favourite song playing softly as you ran your fingers through my hair, I felt at home, for the first time in years.

Want to know what I wish for? I wish for a bra that wouldn't puncture a lung whenever I moved. It would be nice if I had one that was so comfortable, I could sleep in it. I mean come on, I feel like I'm suffocating here. I can't go up a size because it won't fit. If only, if only.

What if you could tell that person you like that you like them? What if you could finally tell your boss what a jerk he is? What if you could finally find a way to achieve your goals?

Have any of you eaver noticed how easily fear takes root in our lives? How easy it is for it to hold us back? We have the ability to achieve what we want to achieve what we want to achieve. Why don't we do it? It's just fear after all. It's just an emotion, not a blockade.