The swift streak of red, the lazily swaying grasses, and my tiny hand enveloped in yours mesh together and form a sonata, which gently suggests that that world is a wondrous place.
As you kneel before me with tears streaming down your face, lips trembling, for the first time, I see what it is to hurt someone you love, and it burns me somewhere deep inside.
The darkness of the bedroom is seemingly impenetrable, but I feel your presence in the cool night air as we lay, heads together, learning what it’s like to have a soul mate.
Your eyes betray the truth: you see the monster inside me that I so desperately try to hide, yet you’re still here loving me… and all I can do is run away.
The universe regards us with bemused curiosity, wondering how four such tiny souls can stare into the eye of all things without losing each other in its vastness.
By Chelsea Hurst
I’m from a world of questions and insecurities,
Ebbing and flowing with things known, things certain.
I’m from the modest little printed words on the page,
Filling my mind with fodder and knick-knacks,
From the cool and beckoning watercolors,
Drifting about the blind white paper.
I’m from a timid little girl who wanted, above all, to be liked.
I’m from fidgeting fingers, hair like a sheet to hide my face,
From the unsaid, silent peace that only night can harbor.
I’m from the place where naïve fantasies are next to reality,
Where make-believe is a cherished friend.
I’m from the towering, labyrinthine hedges,
From wandering restlessly on the edges of consciousness.
I’m from a soul that never wanted to hurt anyone,
From eyes that cannot stand a face filled with no.
I’m from a misty ethereal garden in the depths of my mind,
Where I discovered, little by little, who I am.
I’m from a place that resonates with a whimsical, lilting melody,
A place saturated with the most vibrant hues,
Where the luminous morning sun filters in through the cracks
And brings light to my world.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Type Five in Brief
Fives are alert, insightful, and curious. They are able to concentrate and focus on developing complex ideas and skills. Independent, innovative, and inventive, they can also become preoccupied with their thoughts and imaginary constructs. They become detached, yet high-strung and intense. They typically have problems with eccentricity, nihilism, and isolation. At their Best: visionary pioneers, often ahead of their time, and able to see the world in an entirely new way.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
~William Shakespeare (this is possibly my favorite poem of all time)
(inspired by recent uproar over wikileaks… Julian Assange? good work.)