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Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

I haven't blogged in a very long time. It's unfortunate too but lately I've been stressed with choosing colleges and regents. Due to lack of writing I wrote something for you guys. Well for like the two people that actually take the time out to read my ramblings.

"The wind was the only sound in my room. It grazed my arms from time to time and kissed the panels on the walls. The room stayed silent. At times I would hear rustling from the other rooms on the second floor. Words continuously sent through technology into her heart. From what I’ve been hearing which isn’t much is He’s devoted to her. His heart is stitched onto her sleeve. His adulation continues to cultivate. From the LCD screen she sees his smile. Sometimes it widens when she transmitted the right words. Touch wasn’t a need for them. In a way I hoped she’d stop continuing her endeavors. Because these endeavors hurt me every single waking day. Knowing that his heart doesn’t belong to me and knowing that I’m never good enough to get an acknowledgement from the port world. "-Amanda Lee

I made this strictly from my heart :)

Check this out.

I love these graphics. There are so meaningful. At this moment I'm saving a bunch of them into this little Hp computer.
http://www.wordboner.com
http://fueledbyphotos.tumblr.com
http://mylittlesecretshh.tumblr.com
http://writeathometheblog.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default
http://thedreamfiles.com/

The words that makes circulation of thoughts zoom.

This piece that I'm about to share with you is one of the best writing I've ever seen in my life. It touched me. I need to take a creative writing class after seeing this. It made my heart pound. Seriously

He makes movies in dirty golden hotels with girls like Eva – Eva against sequined curtains and spilled drinks, Eva with a twisted ankle and bruised arms from wearing heels while tripping on the steps of the grand staircase while no one was watching. He makes movies where girls like her have low husky voices, whispering across candlelit tables while sultry angels escape from her lips and through the end of her Nat Sherman cigarettes. And Eva is like wine, heady and rich, spilling over white satin sheets and heavy curtains and staining the carpets. Her lipstick is on the white linen napkins, pressed against the rim of slender champagne flutes, on the starch-white collar of his tuxedo shirts and he slowly falls in love with her until he can taste the dark-chocolaty confection of her hair as it melts against his tongue like cloudy cotton candy, until he sees her emerging from the shadows in his dreams wearing black satin gloves, only her shoulders exposed in the dark.

Sometimes he watches Eva’s back as she walks away – the shadows are thrown across the curve of her elongated spine, delicately creeping against the purple satin of her gown as it disappears against the smoothness of her waist. She catches his glances as he stares through the camera at the dark fringe of eyelashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her lines escape her perfectly molded mouth, after momentarily wrapping around the stained red paper of her cigarette. The words are reminiscent of a bold, dark whisper, emanating from the back of her throat and escaping through the perfect red stain of her lips. He feels her breathe through the camera sometimes, as his camera follows the curves in her shoulders, in her back. Her words caress his neck and brush the collars of his shirt like buttery lipstick-kisses.

(Sometimes he thinks he will send her flowers, four dozen buttery white roses, bouquets of fluttering pink peonies, soaking in chilled bottles of champagne. He will send her white cream cakes covered in tiny pink rosettes, cold martinis, the poison red of maraschino cherries sinking in the alcohol. Silk elbow-length gloves, diamond-encrusted hair barrettes. Sometimes he thinks, after the camera stops, that he will approach her and touch her arm, and she will laugh, elongating the arch in her back, her gloved fingers pressed against the redness of her mouth, but he never does.)

Eva drinks blonde champagne, and he dreams about her body in long black dresses floating in a bubbling crystalline flute. In his dreams she is refracted by the glittering chandelier, casting little flecks of light across her face and shoulders, onto the darkness of his tuxedo. In his dreams she smells like Chanel and the roses in her room, the gardenias in her shampoo, spilled across her satin pillowcases. He is close to the nape of her neck, to the chignon sweeping back her hair. During the days, his camera obstructs his view and he can only watch her from its shadow, only when he pans across her face, her lips, the skin right underneath her earlobe. He feels as if she is staring at him from behind her curtain of lashes like a lover, a leopard ready to pounce. She smolders.

At night, Eva climbs the velvet staircase, the train of her purple satin gown trailing on the steps behind her, the flickering chandelier lights illuminating the skin behind her elbows, on her back. And she is cast in shadows, slowly disappearing through the hotel hallways, until he can no longer smell the Chanel against her neck. He finishes his drink, tumbling in his lowball glass, and he goes to his room, dreaming of her low husky voice, her lips wrapped around her Nat Sherman cigarettes.

Lack of Coherency my small ass... this is touching

Lately I haven't been posting anything of intellect lately. Maybe because my mind is on non existent mode. It's so worse that my little sister seems to outshine me on it.
Her blog post really touched me in more ways than I could even say. Her intellectual mindset still bothers me up to this day. She's brilliant. She seems to outdo me in every single thing I do whether it is writing, cooking and more. And to think that she doesn't want to be a writer. My writing is a complete sham compare to hers.
Anyways before I keep typing on how wonderful the little scum is, here is what she wrote about racism
http://princessynattirb.xanga.com/702595565/the-n-word-is-not-a-synonym-for-black/

men and mascara always run

So much for my promise to post every weekend. That promise was totally ruined a couple of weeks ago.
So here to be gracious: Here is more than a sentence of my story.

Those secluded words that I’ve been dying to say to him but never got the chance to. He didn’t wake up instead he grunted a little. My arms was wrapped shoulders. My mouth inched near his ear. I whispered
“ My heart will always be with you, Jake Lewis Lewinsky, I love you”

Sheesh y'all

I know, I know, improper English in my title. Sue me?
I got the book I was raving about for months now. Here is a picture to show you that I'm not bluffing.

FYI: This picture is pretty awkward. You can't see my face and the lighting is not very lucid.
Oh and my hair was in chaos.



I'm jumping out of my shorts shorts right now. I don't want to read it so soon. Whenever I read books so soon. I lose interest. Which isn't good. But, most likely I'm not going to lose interest.



..... Great.....

I'm contradicting myself. Just grand.


Amanda