dclarien

dclarien

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plane

the reflection staring back at me isn't me; it looks like me, same hair, same awkward side-part, same bumpy red skin and squashed mouth and unfeminine eyes. but she is flat, a shade of the person I am. and inside I know I am different

There's always a man, there's always a city, there's always a lighthouse. And yet I can never seem to find my way, despite all of these constants. Where is the guiding light to lead my way home? I want go home. I want to survive this, and see the dawn once more.

cocoa

The warmth fills me, starting with my lips pressed against the warm ceramic of the mug in my hands. It filters through my soul via my fingertips, frosty and trembling from grief. Cocoa warms my tongue, my teeth, trickles down my throat and into my belly where it radiates outward, banishing the cold within and without.

There was a long visual silence as the days (then weeks, then months, then years) went by. When was the last time they had seen them? Had it been a matter of moments or eons? "I'll be back soon," they'd said; "back before you know I've gone." And now they were. And they did not look the same.

Leaving Kugane was both the easiest and hardest thing Iojrao had ever done. She knew, of course, that staying wasn't an option. She would have to leave it all behind if she was to find who she truly was, and not be held back by the person she was currently pretending to be.

unity

Sometimes I think about the way I sit quietly in a room full of fast talkers and idea makers and wonder if I have anything to contribute. But support is just as crucial, just as important, as leading the way. It takes all of us, even when we are quiet.

...is dead. That's what they tell you, right? But then they laugh at what you love, point fingers behind your back and sometimes right in your face. Cringe is alive and well in the bullies, in the elitists, in the gatekeepers. Cringe is thriving in the negative spaces of their hearts. Cringe will never be dead—not until we stop caring so much about what others think of us. That's all there is to it.

He wrapped her up in it, swaddling her close and lifting her into his arms. She was perfect-- bright blue eyes, dark hair, rosy cheeks. And she was his. She always would be. The doctor walked his way. "Congratulations, Dad."

It only took one blast to break through the tower's defenses. Brick and mortar exploded in a flash of light and fire, and the building toppled inward. The great stone spire had fallen in one breath of dragonflame, and with it rose the morale of her army.

She eyed the rows of produce with an almost-wary eye, her cart clattering on the uneven tiles. She preferred shopping in the wee hours of the morning, when most people were asleep and the college kids were home partying. It was quiet. Just her, the cart, and the food. She could take her time. Be picky. Savor the moment.

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writing since 2010 · 220 entries · 219 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Courka showed up.

8longest streak

219days written

0.3entries / week

on this day 15 years ago

Courka wrote about elastic
“She threw the orange skirt down in a huff. It made her terribly angry-- the garment had been one of her favorites, and would still fit if not for the elastic that had suddenly stopped being elastic. …”

the words Courka reaches for

hardeyesnowfaceheadlovesmilehandsagainstheartbodybelievemomenthurtlightmatter