Ross haul for last weekend

last weekend I went to Ross and got two pairs of shoes; flats because the zipper on one of mine broke and I had to get rid of them, and red heels for V-day. I also ended up finding a cute black minidress at a nearby store. And lastly, I ordered a shirt online from a company I love. So here we have the tiny haul I did:

This is a miley cyrus brand dress. I know what you’re thinking, but if it’s cute I’ll wear it I dont really care who made it. I love this dress because it has a cinching waist band and cute ruffles on the bottom. And it was on sale for seven bucks! A closer look at the ruffles:

I couldnt believe I found these at ross! they’re steve madden oxfords, and Ive been looking for a pair of classic leather oxfords for weeks, but they’re always expensive. These were only 17 bucks(:

heres a closer look at the stiching and the general style of most classic oxfords:

these amazing red heels were fifteen bucks, and I got them for v-day cause I have a cute white and black dress picked out and i wanted red heels to go along as a pop of color. These are suprisingly comfortable and manage to make me look like model-tall even though Im 5’3. i like the soft leather quality too, plus i dont own any other red shoes.

lastly, this is the cute design of the t-shirt i bought online. a graduate from my school started his own clothing line, and I already own a shirt and a sweatshirt from the company. The name of the brand is Arkaik, and you can check out all of his cool stuff here: arkaik.storenvy.com

a loss in the family…

I am currently submerged in work, including reading two new books. The first is a really great work of fiction entitled The Time Traveler’s Wife, and is the book that the movie was based off of. I haven’t seen the movie yet, but I’ve ordered an early copy of it as soon as it comes out. I love Rachel McAdams so I’m hoping I’m not disappointed.

Today, I was about 3/4ths through the book when I got inspired to write a peice similar to a portion of the book. The style is completely different and not my usual either, but the theme is the same. I haven’t written creative prose since I took up essay writing, but it feels good to know I still can when I want to. Here we go:

There is an awkward tension in the air. He rocks back and forth on his heels—heel toe, heel toe—and looks at her in the way men who do not know the nature of women often do. She is sitting in the armchair, her long unbraided hair falling over her thin, frail shoulders as if it is trying to extinguish the coldness between them. She drapes one arm over the chair and rests her pale face on the creases of her gown. Her expression is of one who has no expression—but empty and void of anything remotely like emotion. Her face is drained of color, and the entirety of her figure and her lifeless expression makes the impression of her being a sad plaything, a doll.

          The man takes all of this in without remark. He continues his rhythmic heel toe, heel toe; and it calms the beating of his heart.

          “Everything will be alright, Evelyn,” he says in a voice which betrays his false hopes, “we can try again. We can always try again.”

          He knows before she moves to lift her head, giving him a look of transfixed sorrow, that this is a lie. He knows it. There are some things in the world where having what one wants in the future does not replace what was lost in the past. He knows that there were things that they will never have, now, and things they will forever live with. They will never have that innocent happiness that comes with love without pain; but they will always have a drain that cannot be stopped by space nor by time.

          He goes to her, upon his knee, and tries to lift her face in his hands. She stares at him and the drain beneath her pupils are unmistakable; there is no miracle in the world that could bring back the light there that once shone. He brings her up gently until she stands, weaving back and forth like a stalk in the wind, and gathers her delicate frame into his arms.

          He digs deep within himself to find something to say that has not been said, something more honest and open than a half-hearted reassurance. He wishes he could sweep her into his arms and run out to the courtyard, point at the irises and tulips and say, “do you see what I see? Here there is life, life to be lived. We can be happy again.” The words are stuck to his lips as he mouths them—“we can be happy again.”

          Evelyn looks at him but does not see. He presses her face to his chest and feels her lips. He wants to say so much, to show her the spring leaves on the maple trees and the shaggy dog who barks incessantly at bluebirds. He wants to swing her around like a child until she laughs in that twinkling way she does. He wants to catch her, laughing with her, and say—“see? I knew everything would be alright. Didn’t I tell you everything would be alright?” and she would nod and say, “I should have believed you.” And they would return to their bed and try again.

          Instead, he can feel the tears soak his shirt and seep into his skin. It turns cold and sits there and he cannot move to say anything he wants to. All he can manage is to hold her in his arms as she weeps, rocking back and forth, and repeating the lie over and over, as if the longer he lies, the more the lies seem like truths.

“Everything will be alright,” he whispers.

It’s just once scene I wrote, and I may expand on it later. We will see.

also, I have a chictopia.com blog if you didn’t know, and it’s under the username Asiangoddess1610.

by taking the road less traveled….

I haven’t written poetry in exactly a month. But tonight I did! of course at the cost of one of my angry rages which turned into a ridiculous episode of sobbing and dripping eyeliner and staining my pillow. But nonetheless, proved effective.

The trains sit deafening and forceful, beckoning like a force that drags in even the unwilling.

The choice is simple—east or westbound

I approach the landing and look at both trains at level.

The east is of no unusual sort, but calm and steady,

Reliable, and a guarantee of a safe ride.

The attendant looks friendly but homely, seems a bit tired or bored—either one, aren’t they the same?—and I wonder if there is woman who will ever love him.

He carries my bag as I walk up the stairs.

The seats are comfortable but worn, frayed but durable.

The windows have seen many days and nights, what do they know?

Sitting by me sleeps a wizened old man who reads the times,

And drinks a raspberry lemonade.

The bell rings and I find myself halfway up my seat-

There’s a murmur in my chest; like ice or fire

And I have made up my mind, on an act that rushes into my veins-

 to switch trains

There is no attendant at all on the Westbound train, and I guess that he is making love to a Russian in a dark corner beyond the landing.

I struggle on the high landing but make it to the seats.

The air is smoky but darkly inviting, glasses clink,

The lights are dim but I can see the outline of faces, all awake.

They seem to laugh as I choose a seat by a man whose face is turned.

The windows show no view but the reflection of high-peaked mountains.

The seats are a luxurious velvet sort.

The people are laughing now, or are they crying?

Laughing, crying, laughing…it is my imagination, or they’re getting louder!

Oh the uproar!

‘I say,’ I touched the mans sleeve, ‘what’s that racket?’

The man will not turn though I see his breath fog the glass.

We are moving now, and at moments, instantaneously-

I feel afraid, then exhilarated.

The landscape and lighting changes through mere fractions in time, it seems.

At one point we’re in a field of poppies;

Then the poppies turn the color of blood, that red-like brown and shrinks as it dries, it’s dreadful.

Then sunflowers, but the faces are faces of men as faces crumple when men die.

Some peaceful landscapes appear but they seem painted,

Fake somehow, as if the light is a trickery

Then some horrible images that speak of more deception—irises

That look like human arteries, and

Roses gardens that speak of something sinister and

Reveals those deeply imbedded lusts for things uncivilized and beastly.

The train takes a turn for the worst and here we are—

A station that is not a station, for there is no going or coming of either way;

But a fog that carries the feeling of being lost in eternity.

The feeling is more than a name, but an ever changing presence, and

All at once I feel worldly, exhausted, ecstatic, despairing.

Was it wrong then, for me to ride the Westbound train?

Where it has lead me is a foreign place, unrecognizable,

But oozes with potential or menace

Would it have been better for me to have ridden the Eastbound train?

The land beyond the fog is dangerously inviting,

Like eyes of a jaguar, the night tells me of secrets waiting to be unfolded on her streets.

The thrill is endless,

But the ache of loneliness is more than I can bear

And, so,

Am doomed to tread the grim of the station that is not a station

Until I, too, become nothing.

The man beside me stepped off the train

And I saw he had no face.  

I hope you enjoy the fruits of my manic-states. :]