Five Sentence Feelings

Anger:

You can feel the blood rushing through your veins and your heart beating faster and faster, and louder and louder until those simple heart beats become the only noise you can hear, drumming against your ears until you cannot believe that you are the only one who can hear it. Your breathing quickens and reality begins to warp as less and less oxygen reaches your brain. As your mind tries to sort through its multiple thoughts of profanities and obscene comments, your body starts vibrating and you try to hold back the urge to scream out at the world all of your frustrations. Sadly, your mind wins the battle and all thoughts pour out of your mouth at incredible volumes; scrambled and uncensored. It isn’t until your body has cleansed itself of the tension that rationality sets back in and regret floods your thoughts, refilling the empty void where anger had just lurked moments earlier.

Fear:

A stifled cry catches in your throat, threatening to choke you as you stand in shock. A pulse of adrenaline shoots through you veins and you release a breath you were not aware you were holding until now. As if in an instant your muscles respond to the adrenaline that now vibrates under your skin and you find yourself running faster than you ever thought capable of your body, occasionally glancing back to watch the horror that startled you. Your heart races under the tension and the excitement and it is not until the adrenaline drains from your system that you find yourself bent over, gagging, while your body trembles furiously.

Passion:

The feeling begins in your chest like a million little starbursts exploding over and over, causing you to become giddy and giggly, and a large smile cannot help but spread across your face where it would not even cease to exist should your cheeks become mountains of pain. It is a feeling of such intense happiness that it feels like the Sun itself has created a new home inside your beating heart, illuminating you brilliantly from the inside and spreading a welcoming warmth throughout your veins. Thoughts of your passion invade every idea; everything in the world reminds you of this thing you love. Even within the depths of your dreams it is there, lurking and thriving, reminding you that it is yours and you are its.

Pain:

As tears brim your eyes and cause the world around you to smudge and swirl, you choke back a sob that threatens to breach your lips. Your chest feels as though it is compressing and folding in on itself and breathing becomes harder and harder as you try to fight against your quivering lips to maintain the smiling face you held before. Through your tears you can see the sympathetic faces of the people around you and it immediately becomes impossible to hold back your feelings. Tears roll down your face, one after another, until there is no more water left to release and your eyes are left to burn in a pain lesser than your broken heart.

Bleeding Rainbow

The metallic smell permeated throughout her studio as she dipped her paintbrush into one of the many shades of red that currently decorated her palette. It was a deep and rich red that could cause one to think of the freshest red rose petals. She smeared the colour into a rough arch above the neater and more professional arches of colour that were painted upon the blank, white canvas the night previous. The red liquid oozed over the other colours of her skilfully realistic rainbow, creating the gothic look that she was renowned for. As she watched the red bleed across the fabric, embedding itself in the crevices and orifices of the weaving, she devised the name for her newest creation. She named it “The Bleeding Rainbow.” It was not a creative name, at least, not to anyone else. However, all her paintings were inspired by a person she knew. This painting in particular was inspired by Leslie Powell, a very flamboyantly homosexual man she met at a gay pride parade. As a fairly well-known and local artist, she was called upon to create the signs and banners that the homosexuals would carry in the parade.

As she handed Leslie one of her many signs, he took her hand and slipped in a piece of folded paper. He claimed that a greater being was telling him that she and him were destined to be friends. With a sly smile, the artist accepted the piece of paper and found Leslie’s cell phone number, Facebook URL, MySpace URL, and Twitter alias written in curly, feminine letters. Upon returning to the abandoned warehouse she called home and work, the artist drew up each of the websites and added or followed each of Leslie’s social networking accounts. They conversed almost entirely over Facebook for the next few weeks and she began to learn more and more about Leslie’s past. He was disowned by his strictly Christian parents at a young age because of his sexual orientation. He had no boyfriends, no job, and rarely attended the university he was enrolled in. As far as the artist could tell, Leslie’s life was purposeless. He lived just because he could; surfing couches and helping plan gay pride events. She felt sorry for the poor and homeless gay man. In fact, she pitied his very existence. This pity lead the artist to invite Leslie over to her house for a cup of coffee and some cake. She greeted Leslie at the door with a hug and brought him to her studio where the chocolate cake and two cups of steaming coffee were situated on a small mosaic table. 

As the artist began to cut the cake, she paused and looked up at her guest. Smiling, she asked Leslie if he would like to see her newest piece of art. He enthusiastically agreed and followed her to a drying painting. The painting was that of a brilliant rainbow, however, the red arch that should have capped the rainbow was missing. Just as Leslie turned to ask the artist about the missing colour, he felt the quick sensation of sharp metal piercing through his skin and down his arm then a heavenly rush of pleasure scrambled to overcome the pain of the wound. Before realizing what had happened, Leslie’s other arm was slashed and more endorphins were released, sending him into a deeper state of hormonal bliss. As his body collapsed to the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, spots of his vision began to fade, black overcame the colours of the world around him as he sunk deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. The artist worked quickly as Leslie’s precious blood drained from his veins and pooled on the concrete floor. From behind the rainbow canvas she pulled out two red plastic bowls and slung Leslie’s arms into them. Though it was a hard job, the artist managed to pull the gay man’s corpse into a deck chair where she was able to drain even more of his blood into the bowls. 

Leslie was one of the many “friends” who helped the artist become famous. Among others were Dallas the gentleman’s club dancer, Simon the paranoid drug dealer, and Winston the unsuccessful businessman who had lost his family in a house fire. As payment for helping these poor, unfulfilled people restart their lives the artist would take their blood for her paintings and no one was any the wiser of her murders. The next afternoon, the artist carried her finished painting to the art gallery where she sold it for $2,000. Finally, within the last moments of his life, Leslie gained purpose in the world. Though not remembered by most, Leslie would always be known to the artist as “The Bleeding Rainbow.”

Dreaming of a Nightmare

The sky of pale blue sweeps over my world, effortlessly viewed around the few white wisps of cloud that lazily lounge about. The brilliance of the Sun as it heats the earth beneath my body as well as the features of my face. Every freckle, hair, imperfection. Its fingers make their way through my skin to my soul and further warm me from the inside. A joyous feeling follows in the path of the warmth and causes a contented smile to spread across my face.
I can feel the uneven terrain stretch before me. Warm, soft, long grass. Cold, damp, dark dirt. I lay down upon the ground, allowing the earth to swallow me whole and absorb my soul into its own. True unfaltering peace filters through my body, allowing it to forget its stress, its troubles and just exist as the beautiful miracle it was meant to be.  There only exists the natural sounds of a light breeze dancing in the tress, birds tweeting in happiness as they, too, feel the peace of the earth, and the distant chirping of playful crickets in the grass. The smell of summer hovered over me, filling my mind with dreams of carefree times.
But these dreams never really do last. Eventually the world comes crashing down on you, suffocating and choking the last breath from your lungs until you collapse under the pressure; broken, confused, yet tossed away so easily by others. Then our dreams become distant memories. Shadows of memories. And we wait. Wait for our end or wait for our dreams to re-establish themselves into something new and something better. Then the cycle repeats.

Crushed.

How do you explain this feeling ? The one everyone experiences at some point in their life but can never describe to it's true extent ? The feeling of your heart pounding and leaping against your ribs like a frog trying to pierce through your chest and jump away back to it's home in the hands of the one that holds it. The feeling like your stomach is spinning and somersaulting. As if hundreds of thousands of popcorn kernels are popping within your stomach's confines and tickling it's lining. The feeling that makes nausea a good thing because the only thing you could possibly throw up is your heart and your love. It is the feeling that makes you smile as if invisible hooks have attached themselves to the corners of your lips and are constantly pulling upward to the sky. It is the feeling that helps you laugh at the hardships of life as if you were invincible. The feeling that tells you no matter how bad life gets, there is always a positive side, a silver lining. It shows you the beauty in everything; in trust, in loyalty, in commitment. Yet, it still remains a feeling that breaks hearts as often as makes them. It is a feeling that makes you feel safe, sound, and secure then quickly it changes and becomes a feeling that can make you feel like all happiness has been removed from the world. It is the feeling that whispers into your ear to take the plunge off of every high rise building, every bridge that stands strong above swirling currents and rough rocks, off of any chair with a rope tied around your neck, because, honestly, there was never any hope for you in reality, only in the dream world you tried to live in.

All these conflicting feelings, all these contrasting emotions, they are all somehow summarized in a simple word. Lust. Longing. Love. However, the most accurate of descriptions lies in the most simplistic of these words: Crush. Whether happy or heartbroken, there is always a crushing feeling. The crushing feeling of love while they kiss you, hold you, touch you, and promise you the world. Then afterwards the crushing, suffocating feeling of pain and depression as you find that every one of those kisses, those hugs, those intimate moments were lies; nothing more than beautiful imagery spun by your imagination, guided by the silver tongue of the one you loved the most.

Yes, throughout our lives we suffer under the unforgiving hand of love and romance as it teases and taunts us. It pushes us to the ground, offers us assistance to stand back up, and then lets us go, allowing us to fall once more to the hard ground. Repeatedly we fall for the same cruel joke, blindly following love with complete trust. Then suddenly, one day, it all pays off. Love pushes us, offers us it's hand to stand back up, and pulls us off the ground into it's ever loving arms in the warmest embrace of all. True, unfaltering love. The kind of love told in fairy tales; our happily ever after.

Drowning in Words of Sorrow

Noise ! Chaos ! Panic ! Silence.

Not a breath, not a sigh, not an exhale. No movement, but it feels like falling on Cloud 9. Fall, fall, fall. Could you ever sink this deep again ? The sweet vixen's hand beckons you to follow her deeper, deeper. Reach for it ! Stretch ! Stretch further ! Further ! But she's sinking faster than you. Try to fall faster ! Faster ! Reach ! Reach ! She teases, taunts, begs you to move towards her, float with her below the flawed and condemned world of people for an eternity of peace.

Floating. Floating. Your gaze is turned upwards. How far have you gone ? Not far enough. Not for her. How long have you been submerged ? Not long enough. Not for death.

A frantic and less promising hand grips you, it's panic pulses through your veins like a wild fire raging through a forest. The panic causes you to take a sharp breath in. But there is no air.Only water. It pulls you away from the sexy seductress and away from her promises of fulfillment. The light feeling you felt in place of the dark void is disturbed as a pressure forces the air from your lungs. Was there any air ? Your sweet escape, your feelings of bliss and serenity slides up your throat, running against your tongue before being repelled from your body, some trickling down your face, some spraying your arms. Your sanctuary hides, dying the light sandy patch of ground a deep, dark brown before bleeding through the orifices of the earth.

It was your tragic escape, your last cry to the world, the final attempt to reclaim your mind and redeem your soul, to try again in a different lifetime away from this world of which you tainted. But there is no sadness, no anger, no burning rage to the person who saved you from the whipping currents. Instead there is gratitude. In your memory the sweet vixen transformed into the terrifying hag she truly was. Death was not pretty. No, she was not the saving grace you first came to find while you jumped from the cliff into the midsummer lake, she was just another whore. You have more to live for. Yes, you realize you have other choices. The world is not as cursed your thoughts once reflected. Looking back upon the sunset on the water as people swarm to help you, a stranger, survive, you realize there is hope for humanity yet.

Maybe, just maybe, there is hope for humanity yet.

Sacrifices of Love

I walked down the hall calmly, footsteps echoing off the white brick walls, faded blue and gray lockers, and high ceilings. Large windows allowed the early summer sunlight to stream against my right side, warming my skin as the strong voices of the teachers giving their day's lesson blended with the murmurs of the students barely listening in the last school days before their summer vacation. The soft buzz of the dismissal bell signaled for the students to take their lunch break. As students poured into the halls and teachers locked their doors, there seemed to be an air of excitement and happiness that was only confirmed with the buzz of conversation and laughs and giggles of students and teachers alike. It was days like these where school was worth the work and life was worth living.

The flow of energy continued throughout the cafeteria as students munched on their lunches or stood in groups trying to form something of a line as they patiently waited to purchase their food and crush their craving of disgusting and greasy junk that only the cafeteria could serve without guilt. The cafeteria was organized easily enough. Unlike the cut-throat, first come, first serve organization of other cafeterias, this one was mapped out perfectly. In the middle of the room sat the most popular of the grade twelves or any students that stayed behind for an extra year, at the very outside of the tables were the grade nines who still didn't have their cliques distinguished enough to be considered categorized as anything but scattered. Nearest to the grade nines were the grade tens, able to be organized into popular and unpopular but without as much of a distinguishable line of difference as the older grades. Finally, the tables closest to the grade twelves, the tables I sit at with my group of not-quite-popular-enough-to-be-considered-cool friends, were the grade elevens. Most people to leave the cafeteria first were the grade nines and slowly the rest would follow suit, leaving the cafeteria empty and the hallways full.

Another bell rang out informing students and teachers to begin their way to their third period class. I walked to my typical classroom and found myself greeted by a sign telling me that my class was moved to the library that day. I pushed my way through the crowd of students once more, climbing down the two flights of stairs I had just made my way up, and making it to my class just in time to beat the late bell.

As my teacher began briefly explaining our assignment for the thousandth time since we started it, I realized he wasn't in class again. This was the fourth class he had skipped since we talked for the first time that Monday. I recalled the rain that poured that day, drenching anyone and anything that stood outside for any amount of time and the cruel words the popular females of our class had shot towards him. I was sure each word stung like acid rain and tried to stand up for him but they quickly began insulting me too. We spent the rest of the class talking about the social structure of our school and society as a whole. I was sure the exchange of laughs, giggles, and flirting that brought smiles to our faces meant something.

I shook my head to relieve myself of the deep gaze I was stuck in when a sheet of paper -- the assignment -- fell on the desk in front of me. I picked it up and scanned the room again, disappointed when I once again did not see him. I walked slowly between the rows of books, fingers brushing the spines and stirring up the smell of books as I looked for the best books to help me finish my assignment. I heard the hushed giggles of the other girls as they gossiped about nothing important.

After a few moments of eavesdropping the click of a door and hush of the teacher dispersed the stereotypical school girls, leaving only the cruelest of the females left searching for the books she needed. From the silence the teacher's voice emerged telling "Mr. Davies" to "please take off your hood and get an admit slip" as they slipped past each other in the doorway. The room was now only filled with students, as the librarians, fulling expecting the teacher would not leave his students alone, occupied the upper half of the library that was used for students with learning disabilities.

There seemed to be thee painfully silent moments where tension hung so thick in the air that it caused the small hairs at the back of my neck to stand stiffly on end. Though the silence felt killer it was the sound after that was fatal.

A single gunshot.

A thud on the floor.

The sound seemed to echo within my ears, not just the library. My spine stiffened and I pressed myself against the bookshelf. I felt fear take over my mind. Not fear for myself, or my life, but fear for the one who pulled the trigger. I knew. I couldn't swallow the denial, but deep within my heart, I knew.

People were running, screaming, hiding. More shots rang out and a few more thuds could be heard against the floor. I stood still, afraid to move into he line of anger and revenge that filled him and corrupted him until his heart had turned black. She knew who he was going after. She understood his thirst for revenge.

More thuds came from the floor but they were lighter than the previous ones, more like footsteps. He was moving closer and closer. I held by breath and willed myself to become just another book as he walked past the aisle I took refuge in.

He kept walking.

I had to get out of the library. I started to move, to escape, but there suddenly came a shrill scream from the aisle next to mine. I waited for the shot to echo throughout the library again but there was only the sound of two voices. One was rough, deep, and pained, the other was high, pleading, and panicked. She was begging for her life -- that "wretched girl," as her called her -- but he wouldn't listen and kept telling her about how she hurt him, how she was a stuck-up bitch, and how he was going to make everything right again. This was it. He was going to kill her too. As the gun clicked and another bullet waited to be released, I watched from around the corner as she backed up slowly, hands raised, body trembling. I couldn't let him kill another person, but what could I do ?

The gunshot rang.

Searing, red-hot pain flashed through her heart. My heart. How could he have done it ? I looked into his face. It was so unfamiliar at first: cold, angry, vengeful. But slowly, it softened, as if in recognition of his actions and the fear on her face.

She ran away and just kept running, only stopping when she knew she was safe.

Warm substance drooled down the front of my shirt, staining the cloth a beautiful red. Breathing came hard and short until the air was replaced with the coppery taste of blood. A waterfall of red poured through my lips, dying both my shirt and the gray carpet below my feet. I tried to talk to him, tried to tell him to drop the gun, to go to the police and make negotiations that could save his life yet. But I couldn't. I just choked again and again on the copper; tears of frustration stung at my eyes and rolled down my face, wasteful in their attempt to wash away my blood.

My muscles began to tremble and numb as my legs collapsed underneath my weight. Spots of my vision began to blur and blacken, sweat beaded on my skin, my chest seized, and a permanent fatigue swept across my bones. These feeling grew quickly. My chest stopped moving, the sweat was replaced by cold, and with the last of my vision I watched as my lovely murderer beat me to eternal peace. A single bullet to the brain, dark red spraying across the books and shelves behind him. With the last of my hearing I listened as the shouts and yells of the police entered the library after being assured there was no threat to innocent life left. And with the last of my love from my massacred heart, I forgave him and loved him and prayed to see him again.

I reached for the light.

Kings Meadow

The sweet mist from the ocean below sprays against your face, a thin and stunning fog settling around you, encasing you in your own little sanctuary; deprived from the world. The early morning sunrise bleeds into the water as if God himself had cut his wrists and let the beauty bleed into the ocean. The blood spreads further, reaching for you and only you as the Sun is pulled higher into the sky, occasionally hiding behind the looming clouds, teasing. Always teasing. Early morning.

The turmoil of the ocean laps against the wall of rock you now perch yourself upon. The clashing, crashing, and groaning of the ocean against the Cliffs of Moher continue the war between water and earth. Your bare feet dangle over the edge of the Cliffs while rocks push against your bare skin. One push. One small amount of pressure and you could free fall through pure serenity, as if floating on air. Diving into the swirling mass of water, a beautiful sway of art on the surface, beneath a reverie of silence and numbness, seems like a dream that could only end in definate silence that would forever seperate your soul from heaven on earth.

Heaven on earth. Ireland. This place was only described in one word. Breathless. But what is beauty when you observe it everyday ? Does the beauty in itself become more ordinary than perfect ? Will these seas of green ever be seen as beauty to the eye that has beheld them it's whole existence ? Or will that of everyday city life become more beautiful than nature ? Can beauty really be ordinary ? Can the ordinary be the extraordinary ?

What is city life ? The rush of wind caused by a thousand cars as they scramble through everyday life, only driving from location to location. Looming skyscrapers casting dark shadows upon the world, masking the elegance of real architecture. Smog so thick, even the bare heat of the summer makes breathing almost impossible to the strongest of lungs.

The sun has taken it's place in the sky, full and bright without a dark cloud to hide behind. Soft whisps of pure white clouds decorate the sky and the water below. The once angered ocean has calmed, water so blue swimming in it would feel like swimming in the sky. Your world is serene. It is staring into the face of bliss and stunning beauty, and the feeling like heaven is opening it's arms for only you to enjoy that reminds you of that one little word. Breathless.

As you stand from your perch you pull a string from your sweater and release it into the cool sea breeze. You watch as it floats away, dancing in the air; watch as nature turns it over in her sweet hands ripping the man-made string fiber by fiber.

This is the way it is meant to be.

This is peace. How could you have doubted it ?

This is Ireland.

This is home.