Books by Maria A Fiorille
Fuck it. Such strong words. Perhaps not strong enough. Perhaps so highly dramatized that they cannot partake in their planned performance. The six letters and single demonstration of punctuation deteriorate from the purpose they wish to commence. The ink bleeds forth into a deepening crimson grave. Cover shut.
Words of an antagonist have never veered so sharply from the intent of long-standing morals and emotion. Danger may suffocate itself for a mistake of mistaken well-being, when the danger need only steadily increase. Imagination cannot contain its very own being, when the walls were never made for containment. Purpose will never be defined through these words, nor will it be understood. Conversational pieces may overlap steadily as they conform to various meanings and future mishaps. But today is not just for the living.
It is for those who have lived.
And for those chosen to embark upon that world.
One may ask oneself about the world in question. Where? How? and Why? may come to mind. Exceptions can and will not be granted. For those in experimental temptations may have the urge to resist and the nerve to ponder. Suggestions may be made. Confrontations will undoubtedly arise, as expected. The world as we know it will all question.
But what do we know? And who is this we? A civilization cannot hold true to itself without desperation and ignorance. Knowledge may be the key, yet it will send a person spiraling down further than one could ever imagine. Perhaps knowledge is the key to destruction. Knowledge can come to those chosen, or those who choose to be chose.
This circle of words and ideas may play a haunting game. Bouncing back and forth, touching the tip of an idea before wandering off in an obsolete direction. Perhaps this is what life is all about. This may be the very essence of a past, present, and future combined.
Confusion can take a stand against knowledge and will fail.
Confusion can defy dignity over and over again.
And last but not least, confusion can deny itself.
The living cycle of spontaneous thought may lead in the end to a beautiful mistake. Yet beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or is it?
The reoccurrence of beauty cannot be simply stated in a native language or perhaps even in the act of imagery. But beauty is a force, invisible yet invincible. Perhaps the vicious circle of life can be overcome by beauty, or the mere understanding or acceptance of such a force.
Maybe these words will be overlooked. Maybe they will be respected. Maybe they will become obsolete emotions like so many others before them. Whatever the future will hold, these words spring from a past divided against the present. These words endow upon the reader a chance for understanding, a chance for evolution.
A game was played to release the odds of definition. A character was sacrificed in order to build a heavenly outcome. The Was became the Is without as much as a backward glance. Futuristic orders cannot breach such contract.
Common practices reveal the truth behind the creation of a communicated language. But only experience can ratify such honesty. Believe these words for what purpose? The purpose of a future? An understanding? A reassurance? None of the above.
Accept these words because. Just Because.
You told me to cry when it hurt.
And I did.
And I did again.
I cry for an unimaginable reason. I cry for the invisible strength of love. But perhaps that will never be seen by your eyes. Perhaps it is too silent to make its way forth to your senses. Perhaps it simply does not exist.
Could love be an imagined emotion? Could it be one dream to focus on and live for, when it never truly was in existence? How could such a thing arise? Is the human soul so lonely that imagery becomes reality? These words may be the blunderings of a bitter, broken heart; they probably, almost definitely, may indeed be. But is there not some truth in the skepticism of love?
Go on. Nice try.
Can it be seen? Felt? Touched? Trusted? Maybe yes, maybe no. Depends on the person and their beliefs. No matter who, one cannot deny the questionings associated with love. There has never been a case of utterly devoted and trustworthy love; it goes against the social definition of human nature. Or does it?
Love can be a risky subject. Believe… not believe…? No one can tell what is right or wrong when it comes to love. Perhaps whatever one ultimately chooses is the right way, no matter the consequences. Perhaps consequences are really choices we cannot allow ourselves to believe the truth about. Based on that statement, there are no consequences. Believing that everything happens for a reason is an amazing cloak to try to bring oneself through the trials of life.
Take off the damn mask.
Are you ultimately supposed to believe in the emotion and feeling of love? It looks pretty darn doubtful, folks.
I loved you.
You couldn’t accept.
Could not or would not? Time will never tell.
Despite hardships, the need for love continues. Society has become so obsessed with the idea of need and want and security and love, that it can no longer see through the web it weaved. Those removed from society may be the apples that fell off the tree; some of those apples jumped.
When debating the idea of love, one must confront demons and skeletons…. All essential to the build of a person, but also the shittiest part of that particular being, the things that eat that person alive and torment the hell out of him or her. Believe me. I know.
No one can give up, however.
What is a life without this fantasized idea of love? This thing we all must have, must need, simply cannot live without. Pardon the sarcasm all you hopeless romantics.
Indeed I am a hopeless romantic.
If you show me what I’ve been waiting for.
The characteristics of being skeptic and cynical fall into the requirements for the defense of my precious little team. I’ve assigned proper roles to each girl; be your damn self, or else.
Ah, getting off track with emotions…. A definite problem the world faces. Look at murder, assault, or even the daily life of a quiet housewife. Interruptions of emotion overriding the process of Fate. A bunch of bullshit to some.
But then there’s that little thing called love again! Oh joy!
Turn on that good ol’ TV sitting in the corner. Boy kissing girl. Turn channel. Girl kissing boy. Turn channel. Boy and girl…. Never mind, turn channel.
Escape from love is like a psychiatrist with a patient. You feel guilty about that secret, urgent need to be there, but you won’t admit it. In the end you know you need it, and you feel damn proud. You’ve accepted it. Accomplished something. Isn’t love a tad bit like that? A resist then a retreat? Oh, if I only knew.
So, is love worthy of belief and worship? Show me. You, show me.
So many times the three words of emotional cliché echo in my head. Only problem is, my ears seem to be tuned out for receiving those waves. They once were, but slowly the silence overtook the hope of a possibility.
Dreams are like the clouds. Unsure images. Believe or not believe? Your call.
Mine’s been disconnected.
Sometimes people feel that they cannot avoid what has been handed to them. Whether it be love, fortune, or tragedy, no one can escape life’s offerings. Sometimes we wish we could.
How does one accept love?
Give and you shall receive? Not always.
Love and be loved in return? Rarely.
If the latter could be true , how go about loving? And making that love essentially known? It’s one thing to love, but to really love… it takes a special person to do that.
Or maybe just a special gift.
Even if the gift of love is retained, how does one convey it to another? And if this other rejects? What then?
Unanswerable questions have arisen. No easy answers. No simplistic ideal to free the inner emotions. Just you. And your love. Without your lover.
Tear glass eyes well with pain frequently. But rejoice with other sacrifices one has learned to treasure. Love is in abundance without a true confession. But it overflows inside, waiting to overwhelm.
Tired eyes cannot help but remember connections. And memories of all but too many words spoken and shared. Perhaps the single most pure definition of true and uttermost love.
Are connections love in disguise? Could the world be a loving place if all bonds were broken down into emotion? Or would the strength of such dignity overwhelm the tranquil beings inhabiting this planet?
If one were to examine a bond between him or herself and another, what would he or she be expected to find? Trust? Honesty? Emotions worthy of the title of Love? Perhaps, my friend Jealousy?
And what of jealousy?
What of it indeed….
To care but ponder? An absurd suggestion! Yet how true . How true it really is.
This experimental feeling may come out of love; it may be the air beneath our wings. It also may be the loss of sturdy ground beneath our unsteady feet.
What do we make out of jealousy? It is a natural side affect after all. All are forewarned when choosing to take part in communication with another sole. Be it friendly or more, you are protective of your territory. You like to stake out your own grounds and keep them under a watchful eye. But when a trespasser arrives? Beware.
We all have natural instincts to protect what we have, but when we protect another’s? There we find ourselves in massive conflicts, despite what we believe.
Being headstrong is our nature, well for some of us at least. Jealousy loves to entangle within those of us with these extra protective impulses. Stalking our dreams. Preying on our possible partners. And loving every second of it.
But a connection with loved ones puts up an invisible gate. You cross that line and you’re fucked.
Or maybe not so. But at least in deep doggy doo-doo.
Connections are like flowers…. Pull off all the petals and you’re left with a limp pile of stuff. Stuff. Nothing important. So never try to be wiser than fate.
Imagine a pleasant landscape. You can see the amazing evergreen forest in the distance… the field you’re standing in stretches as far as the eye can see….
You come to a patch of wildflowers. Growing solely in this eyesore of a dream. Touching a petal causes it to wave innocently amongst it sisters. Pluck a daisy for behind your ear.
Run freely through the wide space surrounding you…. Nestle in a bed of dandelions and blow the seeds into an oblivious freedom. Lay back and stare into the clouds.
The misty air breathes freely. There is no limit for these innocent breaches of humanity. Tired drifts of sanity flowing along as you follow them with your closed eye.
Could you feel that?
As the breeze rustled the single strands of your hair, a connection pulsated.
The imagery of a bond is simple if you allow yourself to not only dream, but to dream with someone. Explore and share your dreams together. Allow each other to become a part of those dreams or help them become reality. Take a step, hand in hand.
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