#ithinkthereforiamb

[ithinkthereforeiamb]

Anticipation

--Anticipation -- The flutter of a stolen breath caresses the lonely fingers You don't feel anymore-- Ashes spread over nameless dead, the world scatters, Babel again, no understanding from men, No understanding from me-- Your lashes flutter, you'll never discover the breath You left behind stole the heart, the mind Broken No tokens of rememberance for the dead-- Just the fickle words you said that spread the ashes further, Scattered every part of me. Wind on lonely fingers, Anticipating breaths you'll never breathe again.

[ithinkthereforeiamb]

The Science of Creation

You must start simply-- A pinch of personality, a dash of remorse, a small button nose, with freckles of course.  Simple brown eyes, a head of red hair, curls wild and free that haven't a care, unlike the girl, who is stuck, waiting on you for life to begin there-- but the funny thing about her life, you will see,  is that every moment is a stroke of the key, she lives in the words from a pen poised to strike, to bring her small figure alive, to send her on an adventure, to make her blood pressure spike with every dark hall she enters. To feel the thrill of a door that should not be there, in an old musty attic that, if life were fair, she would have never encountered, but alas it is not, and her aunt Gertrude's attic is where mysteries rot, and poor little Babel—she must be named so,  after all she can't just be called girl, its not kosher, you know?-- will run into a lot more than she could have dreamed-- after all, she's not real, so her dreams can't be seen.  Or is she? Is she more? Or just words on a page? Ink in the pen? The light on the stage? You know all about her loose middle tooth, Her third cousin Simon who once jumped from the roof, Her mother who bakes, her father who sews, Her stillborn brother who had 13 toes.  You know every inch of her make believe world-- you know she'll grow up—or she won't if you choose-- and right now you know she has gone where she ought not,  and found terrible trouble that was best left forgot-- you know this because you wrote it out, see-- but then is she you?  Where does you part with me? Does that make her a product or a part?  With every nuance you create a heart that beats for the readers,  so you must create well. Know every nook, every scar, every single tell of her face, how her brow wrinkles, the sound of her voice,  what she would do if faced with the choice of killing a lover to save a friend, is niceness a pleasure or a means to an end?  It's Simple: You need to know everything she will feel-- in short, my dear friend, you must make her real.