Frantic Beauty

You feel it in the fingertips of the heart. Blind. Reaching out through the central nervous system. Carving into you like clay, working through you like putty.  For a moment it rests behind the eyes, and you stop, paralyzed. Because before you know what it is, you see it in its entirety. And its too much.  The world is too rigid and time is too steady and it will never fit, there's no place. Its hopeless and you haven't even begun. Oceans of peach pits…

(Disclaimer: while seemingly unrelated to leimay's rehearsal process, I felt this post belonged here, next to all the others)

There’s something so

tragically selfish

about writing—

To be kept away from the

distractions

of day to day,

Content with the isolation

needed to draw out what

lies beneath.

How arrogant

of one to think that

solitude could lead to

greatness!  That the things…

This fits. This feels right. 



Is it the shape of things that determine what fits, or do we shape things to make them fit? When shaping ones own body there are always limits. The mannequin in the window will always wear it better. Creativity is bound within the walls of your figure. My shapes are often made to not fit everyone. They fit me and only me and even then they sometimes escape my control. And yet I can be fitted to. But only if I let you. No, only if I fit…

Borders are a symbol of consciousness.  Of our attempts to understand.  To draw a border is to define something, by clearly delineating it from what its not.…