YaaaHaHaHoooooo!

*grin*
Guess what?

Little frozen white bits are falling from the sky.
The most hypoallergenic time of year is here!

Not enough to cancel school, (which is actually a good thing, I have stuff to do.)
I'm going to go put on a big fuzzy Artist-Bane sweater, my boots and torc armor, go get me a big cup of hot cocoa, and enjoy my favorite time of year.

- K.

Interesting...

Nothing too surprising...

Linguistic 37
Mathematics 31
Visual/Spatial 42
Body/Kinesthetic 38
Naturalistic 34
Music 32
Interpersonal 27
Intrapersonal 40

Now I'm hungry.

- K.

Streaming

And it falls like water over rocks,
it falls down as the rain on high,
it falls and falls and falls
until it hits the bottom
and sobs and sobs like a wounded animal in the night.
Why? For what?
For something that it's long forgotten;
that it knows is out there, that it has experianced the painful mockery thereof. For that which it has brushed against, that for which it longs, desires, and fears.
And it crawls on, toward that faint light that flickered, and went out. But it knows that light was there, and though it may walk circles, it walks to where it knows it saw the light.

Shivering, hauling it's self through the dread, though the mire that has new sprung up. Onward, over the parilous void, ever toward the belief of light. But the void seduces, the void soothes with promises it can not keep. And the being slips, stumbles, and falls to the void, only saved by the thin, silver strand of light gripped tenaciously in it's clenched jaw.

A new demon has joined in the harried swarm that follows in a cloud. The demon that says all the right things, has all the right words, but leaves it as empty as a milkweed husk in winter. It dances on puppet wings darting about the being struggling through it's filth, though it's faith.
A new demon to dance, new insecurities to stave off, old ones rising like a tide.
The tide comes in with the roar of a hurricane. Things buried down deep, things not fit to grace the light, climb up and obscure the being's vision, and if, when, the pin-prick of light appears in the distance, it is blinded.
But continues, with a blind faith, toward that light.
The terrain becomes more distinct. Blasted rock and charred, barren earth are revealed bathed in a steel gray light. Few things remain. Stag, graceful in it's fury, paces the broken ground.
Bear is locked in a vale of glass and rock. Crow has fallen, laying silent in the muck. And Canis, Canis the protector, Canis the leader; Canis sings from a distance with tears in it's voice.
Even the moon, that which often guides the being, is dulled and made ineffective.

And it crawls on and on.
And it falls,
and falls,
and falls.




This is streamed thought writing. It's not grammatical, and it probably makes very little sense unless you think an awful lot like me. So if you have any holier-then-thou writing comments to make, save them. This is a psychological excercise, not a dissertation.

-K.