Take my arm.
I want you to look at it closely.
Do you see the small mole?
Do you see my veins?
Do you see the green blood pulsing underneath them?
No?
But you can see the green right?
Ok.
Notice how fair my skin is.
Its practically a spring roll wrapper.
Its thin and opaque enough to see through.
Like my soul.
I'm just messing with you.
I don't have one.
Politics are thin and opaque.
The participants think that they put up a thick wall,
made up of promises, speeches and white teeth.
But really if you step back and look closely,
all you can see is money and affairs.
Oh and corruption.
That too.
You know what's corrupt?
The way my mother plays Monopoly.
*canned laughter*
Man, Regina Spektor gets me.
Her songs are written like the thoughts that
go through my brain.
That and she has a thing for red lipstick too.
Its been a while since I've kissed someone.
That sounds nice right about now.
I wonder what its like to be in a relationship with someone
who is willing to kiss you whenever you like?
Is it amazing?
Or would you just get bored of kissing the same person all the time?
Would you ever want variety?
I guess not if you really really like that person.
Maybe it would get better every time.
But I wouldn't know.
I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
What am I doing with my life?
Oh right, I spend about 3 plus hours on the internet and Tumblr everyday.
That's what I'm doing.
But where is that going to take me?
Probably to a new therapist.
And what will the therapist tell me to do?
To get off the computer and make friends, maybe date around.
Can I do that?
Probably not.
What was I talking about?
Sunday, September 29, 2013
no.5
I slept with my lovers shirt last night.
The smell seemed to calm my nerves.
I just wanted to feel the fabric against my face
and just imagine my head on their shoulder.
But when I woke up I was scared.
I was scared because I realized that shirt no longer belonged to me.
I was scared because I realized that it took a lie to help me fall asleep.
Even though I was the one who broke it off.
I went to a school the other day.
I walked through the front door with confidence.
I felt in my heart older than them and more mature.
I felt content with myself until I saw them all.
The moment I saw the masses of hormonal raging teens, I lost it.
I fell back into the cast order of sexual angst and popularity.
I fell back into the cast of the Untouchable's.
The place that I desperately crawled out of once I left this hell hole.
I was traumatized once more, knowing that once again, I wouldn't be accepted.
I visited a cathedral today.
I walked in and was engulfed by the awesomeness of God.
But as I walked past the aisles and prayer benches, I trembled.
I looked up at that holy Crucifix and saw the red paint that fell down His sides.
I looked up at the One they said had done that for all my sins.
I looked and I was ashamed, because in all my life, I had done not one thing for Him.
Not one thing in return.
Not one.
I guess I am only afraid of four things.
I fear making the wrong choice.
I fear doing nothing for me or for You.
I fear of never being accepted.
I fear what you will think of me through it all.
I will continue to apologize and say "I'm sorry" for you.
But what is most frightening, is that it will never be enough.
And that is the biggest fear of all.
Never being enough.
I'm sorry,
Charles Darnell
The smell seemed to calm my nerves.
I just wanted to feel the fabric against my face
and just imagine my head on their shoulder.
But when I woke up I was scared.
I was scared because I realized that shirt no longer belonged to me.
I was scared because I realized that it took a lie to help me fall asleep.
Even though I was the one who broke it off.
I went to a school the other day.
I walked through the front door with confidence.
I felt in my heart older than them and more mature.
I felt content with myself until I saw them all.
The moment I saw the masses of hormonal raging teens, I lost it.
I fell back into the cast order of sexual angst and popularity.
I fell back into the cast of the Untouchable's.
The place that I desperately crawled out of once I left this hell hole.
I was traumatized once more, knowing that once again, I wouldn't be accepted.
I visited a cathedral today.
I walked in and was engulfed by the awesomeness of God.
But as I walked past the aisles and prayer benches, I trembled.
I looked up at that holy Crucifix and saw the red paint that fell down His sides.
I looked up at the One they said had done that for all my sins.
I looked and I was ashamed, because in all my life, I had done not one thing for Him.
Not one thing in return.
Not one.
I guess I am only afraid of four things.
I fear making the wrong choice.
I fear doing nothing for me or for You.
I fear of never being accepted.
I fear what you will think of me through it all.
I will continue to apologize and say "I'm sorry" for you.
But what is most frightening, is that it will never be enough.
And that is the biggest fear of all.
Never being enough.
I'm sorry,
Charles Darnell
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Sebastian
There was something so royal about it all.
How the foyer was the size of the White House
Filled with black marble flooring and gold framing expensive old art.
How I sat in a blue velvet seat and how
I was tugging at my blazer and checking my watch constantly.
How I fretted over the face that my hair wasn't properly combed
And how I accidentally put on too much aftershave.
My hands trembled.
My heart was panicking.
Why was I so nervous?
We were only getting a drink.
Just a drink.
Not a life time commitment.
But maybe that was why I was so nervous.
Maybe I wanted it to be just that.
Three minutes till 8:00 o'clock.
I hear the faint sound of heels clicking against stone.
Hold it together, dammit its just a date.
She appears from around the corner.
She is standing up tall, she walks with confidence.
Her green eyes softly penetrated into my soul.
Her red hair made me feel like a devoted Samson.
The cut of her dress revealed her shoulders in just the right way.
This woman was my Aphrodite, Cleopatra, Delilah, Madame de Pompadour...
This woman would be my beautiful demise.
I stand up and button my blazer.
She walks up to me and genuinely smiles.
Her soft, silky hair.....
And then I am gone.
I am hers.
Tell mother I loved her, for I shall never return.
How the foyer was the size of the White House
Filled with black marble flooring and gold framing expensive old art.
How I sat in a blue velvet seat and how
I was tugging at my blazer and checking my watch constantly.
How I fretted over the face that my hair wasn't properly combed
And how I accidentally put on too much aftershave.
My hands trembled.
My heart was panicking.
Why was I so nervous?
We were only getting a drink.
Just a drink.
Not a life time commitment.
But maybe that was why I was so nervous.
Maybe I wanted it to be just that.
Three minutes till 8:00 o'clock.
I hear the faint sound of heels clicking against stone.
Hold it together, dammit its just a date.
She appears from around the corner.
She is standing up tall, she walks with confidence.
Her green eyes softly penetrated into my soul.
Her red hair made me feel like a devoted Samson.
The cut of her dress revealed her shoulders in just the right way.
This woman was my Aphrodite, Cleopatra, Delilah, Madame de Pompadour...
This woman would be my beautiful demise.
I stand up and button my blazer.
She walks up to me and genuinely smiles.
Her soft, silky hair.....
And then I am gone.
I am hers.
Tell mother I loved her, for I shall never return.
no. 4
All I ever wanted was a constant.
All I wanted, was to know that no matter what, something or someone would always be there. Unchanged.
Unmoved.
I used to think that my parents were a constant. I used to think that they knew all the answers and that they could heal any wound with some rubbing alcohol and bandages. In my youth, I saw them as sweet gods that gave me a perfect life. But then one morning, I woke up to my tender mother's face sopping wet with water and mascara, and my father with a face of stone.
Death has a certain way of stripping people to their core. A way of ripping off their masks and personas to show you who they really are.
My parents were no longer stable. They changed, and we moved a few years later.
I used to think my friends were a constant. My naive 6 year old mentality thought that best friends forever was a everlasting contract. The loyalty I held and still hold to those children at school was and is fierce. I told them everything, I listened to them in return. I offered to be a playmate, a sibling, a shoulder. Little did I know that not all people abide by contracts. Most times, they actually take the contract you two made and light in on fire right in front of you, with their new contract holders laughing in the distance. Falling asleep to tears became my constant for a time.
My friends no longer cared. They changed, we moved on.
When family and friends were no longer enough to sustain me, I turned to the only thing left. I had been taught from a young age that God was always there, that He was constant, that He never left you. And above all, that He loved you. Being a young adult, love was the only thing I seeked, because everything left in the world had disappointed and hurt me. I turned to God in complete desperation. I prayed to him with so much fever that any priest with tremble with jelousy. I trusted Him. Then one cold night, a fire was thrown at the only thing I had left to call home. It went ablaze and by the time it went out, I was no longer a constant.
I was traumatized, I moved into a four walled brick room without windows, as to shut out all the light of God. There is where I still remain. I thought that He had changed, that he had moved on from me as so many others did. I felt betrayed.
Yet, in all honesty, it was me this time.
I'm trying to make windows in my brick wall room.
But chipping away at thick, sturdy, cold brick with bare hands is not an easy task.
And sometimes, I give up.
But I'm still trying.
I need my constant.
Your crumbling piece of compacted silica and concrete,
Charles Darnell
All I wanted, was to know that no matter what, something or someone would always be there. Unchanged.
Unmoved.
I used to think that my parents were a constant. I used to think that they knew all the answers and that they could heal any wound with some rubbing alcohol and bandages. In my youth, I saw them as sweet gods that gave me a perfect life. But then one morning, I woke up to my tender mother's face sopping wet with water and mascara, and my father with a face of stone.
Death has a certain way of stripping people to their core. A way of ripping off their masks and personas to show you who they really are.
My parents were no longer stable. They changed, and we moved a few years later.
I used to think my friends were a constant. My naive 6 year old mentality thought that best friends forever was a everlasting contract. The loyalty I held and still hold to those children at school was and is fierce. I told them everything, I listened to them in return. I offered to be a playmate, a sibling, a shoulder. Little did I know that not all people abide by contracts. Most times, they actually take the contract you two made and light in on fire right in front of you, with their new contract holders laughing in the distance. Falling asleep to tears became my constant for a time.
My friends no longer cared. They changed, we moved on.
When family and friends were no longer enough to sustain me, I turned to the only thing left. I had been taught from a young age that God was always there, that He was constant, that He never left you. And above all, that He loved you. Being a young adult, love was the only thing I seeked, because everything left in the world had disappointed and hurt me. I turned to God in complete desperation. I prayed to him with so much fever that any priest with tremble with jelousy. I trusted Him. Then one cold night, a fire was thrown at the only thing I had left to call home. It went ablaze and by the time it went out, I was no longer a constant.
I was traumatized, I moved into a four walled brick room without windows, as to shut out all the light of God. There is where I still remain. I thought that He had changed, that he had moved on from me as so many others did. I felt betrayed.
Yet, in all honesty, it was me this time.
I'm trying to make windows in my brick wall room.
But chipping away at thick, sturdy, cold brick with bare hands is not an easy task.
And sometimes, I give up.
But I'm still trying.
I need my constant.
Your crumbling piece of compacted silica and concrete,
Charles Darnell
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Cindy
A woman walks the sidewalks of the Upper East side, wearing a black coat with the fur collar and stilettos that only native New York-er can walk in. She sees the dimly lit neon sign at the entrance of that sleazy bar that men who are looking for affairs frequent at 2 am.
They tell their wives they're backed up on reports.
Their wives aren't stupid.
They're just scared.
The woman turns into the alley by the filth and gin in the club next to her, and takes the back entrance. The moment she walks in the door she is being guided by the manager who is rambling on about her being late, and maybe the woman he met here two nights earlier. She slips off her coat to reveal the 40's bombshell she is and adjusts her red, two sizes too tight dress. Her manager hangs up the coat while still rambling on and on about how his girl likes apple martini's and how her ankles were carved by the gods, and the woman just pushes past him to slip into her dressing room.
She quickly closes the door behind her and sits at her vanity. She looks in the mirror.
She sees the dark, luscious curls that gently caress her shoulders.
She sees the deep green eyes that hide behind her long curly lashes.
She sees the plunging v-line that her mother would have slapped her for wearing.
But she thought to herself "Mamma, I don't have a choice", and pushed the thought from her mind.
She sees her pouty full lips as she brushes more red wax on them for the animals her manager calls "customers".
She hears pounding at her door accompanied by the shouting of her manager that go along the lines of "You're on in 5 missy! You better well not be late this time or it will cost you your job!"
She gently rises from her seat and opens the door to find him in a sweat, furiously gripping his clip board and pushing back his greasy hair.
"The band is already out there waiting for you! Get out their or I'll kick your.."
She just walks past him onto the stage up to the mic. She looks into the sea of monsters and cigars.
They make her sick.
The spotlight comes on and showers her in materialistic light. The applause, cat calls, whistles and
profanities erupt and all she can do is close her eyes. Close her eyes and pretend its not real.
The band starts her opening number.
She opens her eyes.
She opens her mouth.
The club goes silent.
They tell their wives they're backed up on reports.
Their wives aren't stupid.
They're just scared.
The woman turns into the alley by the filth and gin in the club next to her, and takes the back entrance. The moment she walks in the door she is being guided by the manager who is rambling on about her being late, and maybe the woman he met here two nights earlier. She slips off her coat to reveal the 40's bombshell she is and adjusts her red, two sizes too tight dress. Her manager hangs up the coat while still rambling on and on about how his girl likes apple martini's and how her ankles were carved by the gods, and the woman just pushes past him to slip into her dressing room.
She quickly closes the door behind her and sits at her vanity. She looks in the mirror.
She sees the dark, luscious curls that gently caress her shoulders.
She sees the deep green eyes that hide behind her long curly lashes.
She sees the plunging v-line that her mother would have slapped her for wearing.
But she thought to herself "Mamma, I don't have a choice", and pushed the thought from her mind.
She sees her pouty full lips as she brushes more red wax on them for the animals her manager calls "customers".
She hears pounding at her door accompanied by the shouting of her manager that go along the lines of "You're on in 5 missy! You better well not be late this time or it will cost you your job!"
She gently rises from her seat and opens the door to find him in a sweat, furiously gripping his clip board and pushing back his greasy hair.
"The band is already out there waiting for you! Get out their or I'll kick your.."
She just walks past him onto the stage up to the mic. She looks into the sea of monsters and cigars.
They make her sick.
The spotlight comes on and showers her in materialistic light. The applause, cat calls, whistles and
profanities erupt and all she can do is close her eyes. Close her eyes and pretend its not real.
The band starts her opening number.
She opens her eyes.
She opens her mouth.
The club goes silent.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
no. 3
Sex.
Great, now I have your attention. But now I don't really know why I felt I needed it in the first place.
I wish I could write something poetic or deep about it. I wish I wasn't just sitting at my computer, staring onto the blank white screen in front of me in a loss for words. I wish I could think of something witty or sarcastic to write for you to slyly smirk at. I wish that this wasn't giving me war flashbacks.
I wish I could go back and change everything in my life that I accociated with "love". It's never brought me anything good. Always trouble. Pain. Abandonment. Yet, I'm addicted to it.
Now I sound like a masochist. But I guess that's what love made me. I guess that's what it made all of us, or else we wouldn't keep trying it again and again for sick pleasure.
I think we are all just trying to find someone who we can give ourselves too, and who in return can give us an emotional (and for some maybe ever a literal) orgasm. Isn't that all we want? Don't we just want to feel the rush of knowing someone is there, that they care? That we matter to at least one person?
Well if you don't, I do.
I thought I found someone who cared once.
They didn't.
They left.
But I cared.
I still do.
Sex.
Your addicted masochist,
Charles Darnell.
Monday, September 9, 2013
no. 2
How can people color inside the lines?
Honestly, when I color, I am all over the place. I can never keep my hand strokes in line and I am constantly mixing the crayon colors together to create a mysterious new one. How can people be perfect, concise, simple?
Maybe I just don't understand because I've always been the complete opposite. I have always aspired to be one of the outlandish creatives. I have looked up to people like Van Gogh, Degas, Picasso, the Spice Girls my entire life. I have always wanted to be the next one to create something new. I have always wanted to be one of the artist.
To me, art is not supposed to be perfect. If I think it looks perfect, chances are I hate it and I've already told three strangers how awful I think said art is. Art to me is controlled (or uncontrolled in some or most cases) chaos. I want the artist to splatter, brush, and pour out their souls onto whatever canvas that is in reach. I want them to not just tell a story, but to try and show the world how they feel. Pictures don't just portray emotions, they portray people.
I want to feel the euphoria, despair, heart break, confusion, and passion that lives inside the artist heart. I want to be able to reach through that canvas and feel the scars that are etched into the artist soul. I want to be able to fully understand what they are trying to tell us. Art always has a meaning behind it, a warning.
I just want to live the artists life.
I just want to be an artist.
I just don't want to be told I have to color inside lines anymore, dammit.
Your ever-loving muse,
Charles Darnell
Honestly, when I color, I am all over the place. I can never keep my hand strokes in line and I am constantly mixing the crayon colors together to create a mysterious new one. How can people be perfect, concise, simple?
Maybe I just don't understand because I've always been the complete opposite. I have always aspired to be one of the outlandish creatives. I have looked up to people like Van Gogh, Degas, Picasso, the Spice Girls my entire life. I have always wanted to be the next one to create something new. I have always wanted to be one of the artist.
To me, art is not supposed to be perfect. If I think it looks perfect, chances are I hate it and I've already told three strangers how awful I think said art is. Art to me is controlled (or uncontrolled in some or most cases) chaos. I want the artist to splatter, brush, and pour out their souls onto whatever canvas that is in reach. I want them to not just tell a story, but to try and show the world how they feel. Pictures don't just portray emotions, they portray people.
I want to feel the euphoria, despair, heart break, confusion, and passion that lives inside the artist heart. I want to be able to reach through that canvas and feel the scars that are etched into the artist soul. I want to be able to fully understand what they are trying to tell us. Art always has a meaning behind it, a warning.
I just want to live the artists life.
I just want to be an artist.
I just don't want to be told I have to color inside lines anymore, dammit.
Your ever-loving muse,
Charles Darnell
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
no. 1
Do you remember your first kiss? Let me rephrase. Your first real kiss? The feeling of soft, warm, lustful lips colliding with your anxiety filled ones. Oh, and lets not forget the excitement and horror that filled your stomach and made it ache so much that you thought that you would hydro-pump onto your lovers sweater.
Do you remember the taste of your very first homemade mousse au chocolat that your father said was better than Madame Bouffard's from Lyon?
Do you remember watching the blissful and ignorant kids running to the playground, flying on the swings, and sliding down the plastic slippery slopes? Do you remember how for the first time in your life, you wished that you could once again not want to feel responsible, mature, grown up?
Do you remember your first concert? Do you remember how the music was so damn loud and how the bass changed the beating of your heart to coincide with it? Do you remember how for the first time in your life, you felt completely free?
Do you remember the first time you had a panic attack? You know, the one that happened after you watched It's a Wonderful Life and the scene where the protagonist jumps off the bridge in a suicide attempt terrified you? Do you remember laying on Mom's bed and shaking for over two hours?
Do you remember the first time you wrote a sonnet? Do you remember how your early teenage angst flowed through the pen and you felt like The Bard of Avon himself? Do you remember how impressed the teacher was? Do you remember how for once in your life, you felt like you could do something and be proud of it?
Do you remember any of this?
No. You don't.
Because they are my memories.
These are just glimpses of the life that I've lead.
These experiences, are what have brought me to this laptop.
Are what have brought me here.
I am here.
Your's wholeheartedly,
Charles Darnell
Do you remember the taste of your very first homemade mousse au chocolat that your father said was better than Madame Bouffard's from Lyon?
Do you remember watching the blissful and ignorant kids running to the playground, flying on the swings, and sliding down the plastic slippery slopes? Do you remember how for the first time in your life, you wished that you could once again not want to feel responsible, mature, grown up?
Do you remember your first concert? Do you remember how the music was so damn loud and how the bass changed the beating of your heart to coincide with it? Do you remember how for the first time in your life, you felt completely free?
Do you remember the first time you had a panic attack? You know, the one that happened after you watched It's a Wonderful Life and the scene where the protagonist jumps off the bridge in a suicide attempt terrified you? Do you remember laying on Mom's bed and shaking for over two hours?
Do you remember the first time you wrote a sonnet? Do you remember how your early teenage angst flowed through the pen and you felt like The Bard of Avon himself? Do you remember how impressed the teacher was? Do you remember how for once in your life, you felt like you could do something and be proud of it?
Do you remember any of this?
No. You don't.
Because they are my memories.
These are just glimpses of the life that I've lead.
These experiences, are what have brought me to this laptop.
Are what have brought me here.
I am here.
Your's wholeheartedly,
Charles Darnell
no. 0
My skin is my pride and joy. It is so clear that you can see the blood of royalty and poverty pumping through the crevices of the veins laying just underneath. My skin is the only thing that keeps me together, you know, other than societies rules of what I should and should not do or say. My skin has flaws. It is covered in moles, freckles, birthmarks. They keep me from being perfect, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
My eyes are the window into my soul. The blue grey mirror that lies behind bedroom eyelid curtains shows the glimmering pool of my being that is just waiting for someone to swan dive with abandon into. The closer you get to the pupil, the darker and deeper the pool gets. No one has survived swimming in the deep end of my pool, or at least no one has tried. I put up warning signs of caution to protect the swimmers from the deep and dark ends, yet I don't want them to be scared of the darkness. I want them to embrace the darkness. I want them to find beauty in the black lagoon of me.
My hands are small, dainty, petite, gentle, nimble, see feminine. My hands are the tools that jot down the mumbling thoughts and the raging rants that haunt my mind. My hands are my humble servants. They have been through hell and back, yet are still able to let me jot down thoughts or scribble doodles. They are still loyal to my cause. My hands bring down the barrier between me and society. They let me write how I feel and let me embrace the people that call me friend, lover, child. My hands, are what let me write this introduction to myself. My hands, are what open the door to be myself in disguise. My hands put on my mask.
I'm Charles Darnell. Charles Darnell is who I really am. I am proud of myself, and I am proud to wear this dignified name. I wish I could be myself all the time, and not just be myself when I'm on my laptop alone in my room. Charles is who I really am, and who I hope I can someday feel comfortable being. I hope you can learn to love and accept me the way I do. I hope that maybe through my thoughts and jots you can find solace, maybe even resemblance and some answers to questions you never thought to ask. I hope that we can get through this catastrophe together.
Your humble servant,
Charles Darnell
My eyes are the window into my soul. The blue grey mirror that lies behind bedroom eyelid curtains shows the glimmering pool of my being that is just waiting for someone to swan dive with abandon into. The closer you get to the pupil, the darker and deeper the pool gets. No one has survived swimming in the deep end of my pool, or at least no one has tried. I put up warning signs of caution to protect the swimmers from the deep and dark ends, yet I don't want them to be scared of the darkness. I want them to embrace the darkness. I want them to find beauty in the black lagoon of me.
My hands are small, dainty, petite, gentle, nimble, see feminine. My hands are the tools that jot down the mumbling thoughts and the raging rants that haunt my mind. My hands are my humble servants. They have been through hell and back, yet are still able to let me jot down thoughts or scribble doodles. They are still loyal to my cause. My hands bring down the barrier between me and society. They let me write how I feel and let me embrace the people that call me friend, lover, child. My hands, are what let me write this introduction to myself. My hands, are what open the door to be myself in disguise. My hands put on my mask.
I'm Charles Darnell. Charles Darnell is who I really am. I am proud of myself, and I am proud to wear this dignified name. I wish I could be myself all the time, and not just be myself when I'm on my laptop alone in my room. Charles is who I really am, and who I hope I can someday feel comfortable being. I hope you can learn to love and accept me the way I do. I hope that maybe through my thoughts and jots you can find solace, maybe even resemblance and some answers to questions you never thought to ask. I hope that we can get through this catastrophe together.
Your humble servant,
Charles Darnell
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