jolieflows
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140 posts
Latest Posts by jolieflows
Reflection.
I find myself somewhat amusing the grim ideas. Having trouble finding the right words while having a lot to say. How your brain may change and turn against you while you're silent.
I am everywhere and nowhere at once. once to be seen, loved, and heard. Am I being heard? Can you sense me? How much longer can I take? stuck in translation, clinging to hurtful hope. Hurting. aching and wishing. Indeed, such is life.
—What’s crazy is this human heart of ours. Clumped up veins pumping blood and yet...we follow it? Seriously. Unreal. What's insane is that I thought—no...I believed that maybe, just MAYBE some things would be different or change. And yet...? Almost the same.
For granted, feeling depleted, wanting to live off the grid. For the memories are all great, my mind in a state of confusion and my heart? Pieces. No puzzle to be built.
If by chance... Chance at all my emotional wheel of competency fails me... I will be able to say I tried.
Shall I fail at this or that, whether I fall into something or not— I tried. On my sleeve my heart is. In my mind thoughts are. On my heart? I'm unsure.
I tried...
I tried...
And maybe I cried but that's life.
And don't forget folks, that's what you get folks...
—Angie 💋
💕
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra
|| Saw it coming. Erwarte niemals etwas. Hoffnungen zerschlagen.
𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞~
Her script had previously been altered by The New York Times, which called it a "Folly-wood production." Typical. The War in Bosnia was, of course, a sensitive matter. Any aspect of warfare is extremely illogical and challenging to comprehend. Angelina was aware of that. She also understood that she couldn't anticipate an easy transition into the directing world. The actress was prepared to make her script a reality, though, now that the red tape had been removed.
There were a lot of files, pens, cameras, and storyboards in her home office. She had battled like an animal in a cage for this film to be made. She was certain that her mind had become scrambled from all the writing—and rewriting she'd done.
A good war movie gave Angelina a feeling of reliance, and she adored them. She could only hope that this film, for which she had done beneficial research, would draw a sizeable audience. It would be different to direct it. The devoted actress has collaborated with some of the best filmmakers throughout her career. As time passed, Angelina saw that she was taking notes. However, her brother was the first person she turned to.
Having chosen two separate routes, Angelina obviously appreciated her brothers' advice. They spoke on the phone for many hours, the majority of which were him assuring her that she could accomplish this.
Angelina had agreed to star in two major films between her major debut as a director. It was insane how she ended up committed to multiple projects at once.
The brunette sighed shakily as she glanced over the final script draft that Universal Studios had authorized. This would undoubtedly be different from still photos of flowers, sneaky photos of Brad, and all the other ridiculous things she performed with her camera. Angelina had to begin arranging auditions for the top actors and actresses with the help of her dependable team.
Angelina wanted— no, she needed this film to capture what couldn't be told by anyone else. In her veins, Angelina knew she could do this. She found herself up at night, penning and configuring almost every finer detail. That's just how it had to be.
Angelina pulled her hair back in a loose bun and gathered her screenplay, camera, and passport. Location, location, location. She had been looking for the ideal location to film the movie in order to hone her ability to make it. The US Embassy, of course, had its own restrictions on where she could and could not film.
She would have a full day with 5 to 18-hour flights, photocalls, writing, and solo photography. But she enjoyed it that way. Angelina discovered herself in a time when she needed to keep moving in order for the fire inside of her to be useful. The stunning actress closed the door behind her and turned to her script.
‘𝑰𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚.’
Und nicht wahr, Leute, das ist es, was ihr bekommt, Leute ...
Never again. And yet? It'll happen again. Fucked up but true— that's what happens when you let life, get the best of you. Cold hearted, bitter and tear stained, so in the end it happened like I imagined and I hurt myself again. Better off just keeping memories and moving on. Conflicted soul, torn thoughts and often alone. That's what happens when life leads us. Be prepared. Be aware. And...never...
At a loss for words... discomfort at it's finest. Hurtful, heartbroken almost— and yet, still having hope. A fool. Sometimes, sometimes... Cold and alone, heartless. Touch knees to elbows, mellowed and self-loathing. Cruel. Cruel. And no more love to be given.
Depressed statues
“Jhst thinking...how nothing last.”
Sad and true. Yet, there's a small call of realism...and the ache of memories to always be saved. Until then...💋
I should know better. To be a fool is one thing...but to be a fool and expect love? Tragic. And just like that, square one has returned. Guard up. Hopes limited and neither sad or angry this time. To wish is to be left hopeless, to dream is to be hurt; and hurt? That's life. Expect nothing and everything.
—Ostern'; Hasentag—
“Large conflicts make the world feel unmanageable and intangible to us. Nonetheless, there is a brilliant or dim light at the end of the tunnel. The mental tenacity that defines luminosity. If burned too brightly, it will burn out.”
Stepping onto her balcony was Angelina. Unaware that it had been some time since she last visited this specific plain. Also unfamiliar to her but ingrained in her consciousness. She let her delicate hands smooth away any potential rust by rubbing them against the shiny metal of the balcony railing. Standing, existing, and breathing in the air that around her felt almost strange. How brief life is, how it might be, yet how hospitable all the changes have been and will be.
Her blue eyes soaked up the sun's radiance, allowing the light to wash her. The brunette took off her silk top and leaned over the railing to get closer to the sun. Today was Easter, or rather, what Angelina jokingly mistook for "Bunny Day." As the gentle wind chilled her bones, the sun's heat seemed like dancing love coals on her face. What is there to do on a "Easter Sunday" that hasn't previously been done? It's safe to say that the stunning actress had penned a large number of poems, saved her work for her travels, and...had grown more aware of what she had missed. Missed in the absence sense. Her lips twisted into a half-smile as she thought back on the previous days.
“Ich bin verliebt in diese Saison … in das, was ich bin.” The German words, flowed freely from her mouth as she spoke to no one; just herself.
It was true. Angelina had developed a sense of who she was. Including all the complexities of existing, breathing, and loving. She was no longer just an actress. Much more, and it frequently made her afraid. She was now a writer for publications like TIMES, the Wall Street Journal, Global Traveler Inc., etc. But, she was now even closer to the love of her life, which made her giddy with happiness. Yet, Angelina had a strong urge to change with the season today.
Angelina found herself in the flower-filled garden before she knew what had happened. She had taken off her floral skirt and was now barefoot, only wearing her matching silk bra and underwear. Her skin blended with that earthy sensation and the alluring aroma of flowers, soil, and honeysuckle. The actress danced on the uncut, untrimmed grass and weeds, letting her hair blow in the wind. The exquisite flowers, with their open petals appearing to welcome her, gave her skin a slight tingle. The woman tipped her head back and giggled lowly, possibly in delirium, but with genuine ecstasy. It meant so much to her to stop, drop, and roll in this magnificent garden.
Throughout the house, Angelina had left her countless cameras, both used and unused. She looked up at the tempting sun with her legs crossed and her back close to the grass. Its rays are making her more endearing, complimenting her, and in Angelina's thinking, warming and praising her. Because there was no longer the mental pain of a conflict. Naturally, the pouty lip actress was aware that there would still be times when she would barely hang on and the need to lie in the garden would seem like an insurmountable obstacle. Not right now, though. Just her—no camera, no writing instruments. She, the flowers, the Planet, her thoughts, and this Easter Sunday's springtime.
Angelina would remain there, safe in the company of dandelion, rose, tulip, and other wild flowers—a garden of euphoric delight. Her hair was strewn across the grass, her eyes were innocently staring into the sun, and she was thinking only beautiful things. She would lie there on Easter Sunday and perhaps the following "Bunny Day" as well.
“...And if it burns out, it can always be re-lit. Be reignited, reconstructed by all and anything. No stipulation on time, no chain on creativity—and no stain on progress. Life is, in all ways, conflict and strife...but just enough love to make it a life.”
Somewhere, somehow, something... All the questions, hurt, overthinking, and pain— it'll all end. Because... Tomorrow's a new day. And that's what keeps me going.
I have to have faith in myself. I must have something absurd and irrational to cling to. Stupid and silly, yet I fully comprehend it. I'm destroying myself with worry about the future. I'm exhausting myself thinking about the past. in the present? Standing here, unsure of myself. Walking while blind... It's almost as if I'm a wind-up toy with a purpose. Would I hear myself if I shouted?
Not the rose petal anymore. Just a leaf. By my own thoughts, I have been crushed and malfunctioning. Suffocated and plagued by oneself. I'm no longer disillusioned, but instead having mental dizziness. In my head stewing. Then halt. Then halt. Yet how? Breathe. Exhale and inhale. The day will be new tomorrow. I've come this far, and I'm confident that I can continue.
“She lived in her imagination and dreams. She liked only what was most elegant, and if she couldn’t have the best she would do without the second best, because second best meant nothing to her.”
— Theodor Fontane, Effi Briest (1895)
And if I missed you more... bitte komm zurück.
whatever was left, that was ours for a while.
sunrise - louise glück
What risks does having dreams pose, if any? free to let one's thoughts stray and get lost. But that's all there is. Lost. Maybe lost means you don't want to be found. Imagine that the joy is in being above the clouds, gazing down as the body is motionless. Still adrift. to fly into the air, temporarily erasing all concerns and doubts. Expressionless, immobile, and hyper-focused on everything at once. trapped in the labyrinth of my own consciousness. Is this the cost of freedom, though? This never-ending web of anxiety... the agonizing impression that dreams are unreal. yet actual to me. My objectivity is unique. within this body...
Nothing is meant by this body, these words. a moron with a body, I am a poet who speaks foolishly. Usually unheard, rambling, and losing charm; merely musing and muttering. A never-ending mass of nonsense masquerading as... Collective words. I'm hoping someone somewhere will understand. This mind's soul is imprisoned in a machine-like anger, much like a demon. Typical. Although essentially silly, intellect is marked... And what conflict does my body have? I'll continue to float, staying in my dreams, and perhaps...
Perhaps...
And my soul... aches.
- Sylvia Plath, from the 'Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath'
It's my mind... It's my mind. I'm drowning. I'm drowning... Please help me. Someone help me. Can I help me?
Space is like a shelter in many forms. The way that space feels both accessible and far beyond. How elaborate the voyage details are. When Earth has reached its nadir, how hazy the soul remains.
Within many ways, I am a drawback. Just to re-trail, I trail. I forget so I can recall. I think back to position myself in time. When was? Where am I supposed to be? What should I do still?
Space. Stars, dreams, and imaginative creations are the foundation of my life. These are real yet far away. I am the galaxy, yet the burned out stars are the only ones that call me home.
I'm constantly looking for my position on this planet. I'm broken, blind, and ecstatic that I still have a path ahead of me...
—Is just a distinctive time in thought? Is the mind prone towards becoming disturbed when the physical exerts more motion? The past tends to re-locate in mental constructs, intensifying and generating dreadful interpretations of what hasn't happened. Then, is there a time constraint? Is there a set amount of time that the mind should be still? It's possible that the body needs more time than usual to soothe. When the balance of the intellect is off, the soul becomes agitated and annoyed. fractured, hampered, and tumbling into the achingly complex routine. It throbs. There is never an anguish in the soul for what is—only for what wasn't.
Original Sin (2001)
Do you sense that? She nervously questioned. Feeling what? Does the Earth sway? The stars assemble? Are there winds? I can sense it. Enjoy it? My favorite.
All the great authors, poets, and grim wordsmiths put their words on paper, to inquire, "Can I feel it?" Is the new galaxy putting me in difficult circumstances? Feel the conflicts between my left and right brain caused by who I am and who I will become.
Witness the manifestations in action. Is my optimistic side trying to kick my pessimistic side in the hopes? Sensed that.
Yes, I did feel that. Felt what? That. I could feel it! I experienced my two parts merging together to form my entire self.
Despite everything I am, I am not. I am capable of being anything. I won't for all that I do. I'll continue to do what I've done. It is both senseless and sensible. Knowing there is more to "me" than "me" is both magnificent and difficult. It is now and every day moving forward. It appears and then vanishes. It's changing—up it's and down. Change that is heartbreaking, breathtaking, infuriating, and hilarious. I blossom like a flower. similar to my philosophy. I rotate like the world.
—;
So there's this whine and soft pitch of a dissociative type. The persistent incapabilities to secure, the nature of the soul, are everywhere.
Cosmic encounters between various realms. Destruction of what isn't and what will be inexplicably. The happy results of traveling blindly, without knowing anything, yet possessing something.
This poetry is rambling, disorganized, and vibrant.
Writing repeatedly to stir the soul. This is poetry, gloomy reflections, monotonous writing, and a lasting smile.
|| ill and considering. There are only a few days left until the start of a new year. Unable to sleep, yet thinking and yawning nonetheless. What are you mulling over? I'm trying to think when my head is pounding and my bones hurt. No regrets or grievances. because everything operates through a process of lessons and learning. With each dozy cough, I'll look forward to the New Year as these pains gradually go away and I continue to believe the impossibility.