Watching the clock, she reads her horoscope. No promises of arduous lovers who will lead me astray... no words of wisdom to employ... no unfulfilled destinies yet to explore. In her youth, she had grand illusions of what stories might fill her journals. She'd cast her blue eyes skyward as if to reflect the wisdom of ages, the glory and the splendor of foolish youth. The knowing that it's almost impossible to encompass the energy that now eludes the aftermath of the child. It mocks her as she tries to reconcile the balance that she does not know.
Oh vain glory and nursey school stories what was learned? Oh lost youth and back seats of parked cars, were you unmerciful to scorn me with those memories of lust? She asks herself if any one will ever remember how beautiful she was or how lovely she was as she danced.
She was a dancer. She was a poet. She was a diamond made of concrete.. a concrete diamond. The streets made her shine but the streets cut her down and diluted her scorn.
It's amazing how the scorn turns inward and leads to this horrid apathy... disinterest.. unwillingness.. and deceit.
She decieves her lover, she decieves herself as she tells herself that her life is acceptable.
She knows that somewhere is beach and a pen and journal with her name on it. There is a chair and a house by the ocean that calls her name. Her heart has forever belonged to the sea.. she promised it long ago with a vow. I will come back and I will sing to you and cry my tears into this ocean. If you wait for me I shall return and write your memoirs still.
As a child until a woman child she climbed upon the walls of stone and sang sad songs... lamentations of the wind. Her heart forever holds these memories.. knowing that the sea shares her secrets... the shells disclose this in whispers that only the children of the ocean understand.