So....
I ended up abandoning all of my projects except for Nanowrimo and Mencorsep. I realized that i can't force art; it just happens. Plus... I don't think I'm ready for a photo shoot with people. :] This was gonna be a short entry, but I was inspired by the awesomeness of the skin. :] So I think I'll add an excerpt from .:S e a r c h i n g:. :]Enjoy:



The trees blurred past, the buds barely visible. It almost seemed as though they were reaching out, yearning for someone to stop and finally notice them. And then they were gone and all that could be seen was acre upon acre after acre of after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre upon acre after acre of dead brown grass and burned, naked farmlands. It was as if the very earth had given up its will to live. “Must be nice, “he murmured and laid a hand upon the cold window. “To not have to feel. To give up everything and just live there.” The gentleman sitting next to him looked over, alarmed, he got up and moved to another seat, muttering all the while about deranged teenagers who no longer respected the value of life. How dare they think that the answer to every little problem was suicide? He was here to get away from his troubles for a bit. If he spent time around anymore mentally ill patients, he was going to jump himself.
“I shouldn’t have to deal with this.” He sighed while settling into a new seat. Martin sighed. Even strangers feared his mind. And here he was trapped inside his own head all the time without reprieve. He trailed a finger down the glass, looking interestedly at the mark that it left behind.
“You need friends your age.” His mother had said, consoling him after a therapy visit that had not gone well at all. He had only sighed and gone over to the neighbor’s – a grave old man, about 60 years of age, who was his best and only friend. He could remember the visit clearly; after all, it had been the last. They had had tea and then gone on to sit by the roaring fireplace and each enjoyed a classic novel, set to the Nutcracker Suite on the Victrola. His mother called him an old soul and smiled gently. His father scoffed, exclaimed that Martin was entirely too soft for his liking and then took him out for a weekend camping trip. Martin enjoyed this as much as his afternoons with the old man. He was a quiet kid, he didn’t demand much and when the old man died (and with him all hopes of the softer side of life) he left to find a place where he could enjoy life in as simple a manner as he desired.