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I know you want to (I can see it in your eyes) indulge in the folding, curving, stretching of the lips: outward and up. My lip mass can only increase in anticipation of a mind scrumptiously tickled into and by this expression of contentment.
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Smiling is addictive... many times I have done without, only to start up again and be unable to stop. The lips crack somewhere in the middle due to the strain, and still I cannot cease manipulating it even more deeply in place. I radiate well-being and creative stimulation. I feel sexy and desirable.
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I will want you to press your smile to mine. So please show me.
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You've indicated that you're prone to this kind of fashioning of the lips at certain times... so now all I need to see is the proof. Send me your love, electrify my senses even further with a beam; get your equanimity on.
You are the sweetest thing I can think of.
I'd like to move towards a bolder style in my short stories for Orble. Up to now I've been focusing on narratives informed by the subversion of satisfaction and happiness, however I'm finding that the more I focus on something, the more it becomes magnified and enhanced. Quite simply, to pay attention to your pain is to emphasise it, encourage it, let it multiply, and I'm interested in focusing on more palatable experiences instead.
Waiting For My Lover
I am mesmerised by the intensity of your focus, the things I can see in your gaze. You are so out of sync with everyone else I know, and it's what I'm drawn to. My language for appreciating you is still being developed, becoming more vivid (and more vague, as the number of vivid narratives gather and comprise bodies of assumed knowledge).
I'm sublimely questioning myself into a state of even more enthusiastic question-mark worship...
Today I wandered around, just enjoying my emotional processes, trying to understand who I am and what I want out of the situations I find myself facing. How I got that glint in my eyes, why I am so stubborn about maintaining my legendary openness and friendliness. Why I will become even more subversive in the future, not less. I will keep tiding against the swimmers, cultivating my tantalising revolutions, inspired by mellifluous revelations.
How can I coax myself into surprisingly greater self-appreciation, and lead by example? How can I talk you out of some of your less loving moments? Will you still find a way to beam at me, even when others are making you feel close to dismal?
I wouldn't think twice about confiding in you my deepest secrets - I knew you wouldn't judge me, and that even if you couldn't offer the kind of emotional spectrum I wanted you to, your input would still be valuable. But I think I've had too much of you now - I censor myself so as to more easily fall into a groove with you. But why? You yourself don't like ingratiating yourself to others. In my loneliness I mistook our contact as sacred, clung to outdated beliefs about my investment in you and how it protected me from the outside world.
And now he says "I'll be your best friend instead." And I don't even know him that well, but I know I can trust him to be there.
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Turbulent waters, I create - why? I'd like to spawn successively smaller waves across this great ocean that is my emotional base. I want to bask in the sun, free of the attraction of choppy waters pulling my gaze down as I weigh up the probability that I will lose myself in the roar.
A crescendo never reached, the hysteria dies down... slowly but surely. Why did I invent it?
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"Oh / I've been travelling on this road so long / I'm just trying to find my way back home / The old me is dead and gone, dead and gone," sings Justin Timberlake soulfully.
I bob along gracefully, wishing I had cause to make such an announcement. I'm dedicated towards undermining my automatic sense of speedy rejuvenation. I am afraid to rediscover my limits, because they make me want to be a better person, and I'm not sure I can handle the punishment from the rest of the world. So I simply become one more person who is working against me - the crucial individual, the approval on whose part I could use to restore myself to my former, abandoned glory.
I love the questions I pose/pause to the tune to by the minute. The minute itself is constantly gaining potential. Soon a second will hold more potential than I know I am able to give it.
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"And that's all that I need / Yeah / Someone else to cling to / Someone I can lean on until / I don't need to..." - All I Need, Matchbox Twenty
Since another door has opened, I can finally close this one. I just hope it's not too late to reclaim my inner harmony. You'll be with me many more hours than you deserve to be. I choose to haunt myself with you as stimulus. For now.
Perhaps we'll meet again someday, and we'll be different people who might realign into a pretty pattern. A crease in a corner of the mouth. A softening of the eyes.
But for now I need to let you go.
Somehow she had come to a starting discovery: She was alienated from her own sense of inner conflict!
It was all very well to revel in the first heady notes of this revelation for now, but how would this new turn of consciousness engineering affect the rest of her system? Was she ready to let go of the delusion that she could fit snugly and comfortably into a corner of society? Maybe if she let go of this search for a safety net she would discover that she could actually perform all the acts without risk of losing her balance
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I recently came across Rubric, a creative writing journal hosted by the arts faculty of the University of New South Wales (UNSW for short), where I found some postmodern material that you might enjoy... You can find the homepage here, and my favourite piece so far here (it's a metafiction piece about a chance encounter in Oxford Street, Sydney and offers some insight into human psychology  ). Says the writer of this piece, Mathew Wall-Smith, about Rubric: you can't put rubric on your coffee table. you can't buy it. you have to read it. you have to take your joy not by consuming but by being consumed. Poetry lovers will find quite a few texts in verse amongst the archives of the four issues. Enjoy!
Think outside the box
Hello people of Orble, 
I have been reassessing my life of late and have realised that I spend too much time on the social interaction aspect of Orble, getting pulled into the silly, incessant squabbling that is rampant on the network, and not enough time writing - whether it's for my blogs on the network, my personal diaries or the book(s) I am trying to write. I have enjoyed exchanging comments with you (esp Morgan and Ruby) over the many months we've known each other, and I will miss aspects of that interaction, but I fear I will never take my writing seriously enough unless I put some limits on how I spend my net time
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Being curious is an art form. It's a skill I have to keep fine-tuning and refining as my circumstances in life change. I have to trust a narrative that explores the circularity of my experience so I can leave it behind, abandon such a fruitless construction.
The only obsession I can afford is not to be obsessed, or to seek everything in moderation. It's a question of curiosity that I am seeking - what is the most healthy form? Of course, I need to go into the specifics, otherwise such discussion devolves into some hefty generalisations
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The American front cover
When I picked up the book, I regarded the title as a bit awkward, but decided to postpone my judgment of its level of resonance till my glance had bounced off the last bound page with text. Having now done so, I think its likely that Barack spent some time deliberating over which the better choice of or from. Perhaps I too would have chosen the more esoteric of the two if I had presented myself with this particular dilemma. An of would have been meaningful because not only did he have dreams about his almost always absent dad, but most his growing up was informed by a certain positively inspirational image of him that he later had to re-evaluate to some extent
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It was when I woke up to light from the sunset penetrating through the window, putting me in a kind of light-deprived haze, that I knew my adventure was beginning.
I had performed this feat before, not once or twice, and knew what to expect: The depression that comes with spending most of your hours in darkness, the eyeball's inability to process natural light smoothly after being exposed to darkness and the feeling of being tired even though you've had enough sleep that resulted... not to mention having to explain yourself to family, friends and acquaintances, to whom the idea of altering your sleep cycle dramatically over a small period of time seems foreign from their experience
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All writings posted by 'Postmodern Critic' on www.postmoderncritic.com, unless otherwise stated, are the original works of Postmodern Critic (aka Epiphanie Bloom) and copyright laws apply.
As long as you give me appropriate credit, I am happy for my writing to be reproduced elsewhere. In fact, if you tell me about it I can link to you, thereby increasing your traffic
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on Fire and Rain/Ode To My Brother
Postmodern Critic
Daily Inspirations
Relativity Watch
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