October | 2012 | Victoriamisu's Xanga Site

Muscle memory- ability of muscles reiterate a previously, magnanimously (but laboriously, of course) recited movement.

Like playing violin, somehow hammering in the deftness of your fingers to almost stammer over the strings when mimicking the bumblebees (thank you Korsakov for this brilliance). Or when pressing the keys to a softer song, Claire de Lune-yet still it's like traversing the world- the dramatic towering everst mountain, to the soft city romance of Paris, to the trickling brookside, all encompassed in one song, all expressed through black and white keys laid out before the fingers.

Fingers are not the only ones that can remember. The heart I believe is one of the most keen on muscle memory, take a journey of its own. It can remember to hurt, and clench tight, it can remember anguish, and whither; or remember the passion, and race, course. It can remember how to be elated, and become festooned with stamps, words, images of those points in time.

You can train it, you know, to feel something, almost permanently. It gets stuck, it's an organ that is tethered not just to our brains, but to our experiences, to the people we meet, to the world around us. As much as we sometimes try to control it, to hide it from the world, everything and every experience seems to latch on tight and shake it.

if you train it to feel fear, feel disgust, feel anguish, these strong emotions soon take over and envelop the heart on cue. Perhaps at the mention of your name, an object that refers back to a memory, a relatable story. But most times, it doesn't even need a cue. After youv'e spent enough time nurturing a person's heart to feel fear and anguish, after you've left your stamp on it long enough and at a constant rate, and you leave it in that state with no mention of fixing it, no attempt to even try to relinquish it from those claws scratching at it, anguish suffocating the bloodlines to the body, the heart tends to stay that way, for the most part, for about 23 hours of the day.

And the brain leaves the world.

What powerful things they are, the muscles. And it's as if they are even connected to the soul. The harder the muscles are clenched, the more painful the soul becomes, the more it diminishes, the less light is shed.

I've recited the cries, the pain, the words, the palpitations, the jumps of the muscles in my heart too many times through. And it is still a wonder to you why it has stayed that way.

But I always find myself reversing the damage of the proprioceptors and rewinding the record, the solemn music that seems to drench over and over the blood.

(I wonder, if the iron can become defunct...)

Amazing thing about it is that the muscle is in your own memory, and to overpower this, you train your brain to push through the forest of myofibrils, and the heart starts contracting to different tunes, different emotions. I'll conjure up an episode of us laughing, or make up a memory. Though it never existed, it's the manifestation of my hopes combined with a version of you that I encountered only in my solitude, and a version of you that occasionally defeated my worst enemy.

And from there is born the songs in my head that once made me calm, once made me able to put aside whatever shadows chewed away at my sanity, and just imagine...and be fine. I make my heart play those songs, until they became loud enough to put anguish aside and...

then i realize, that those are all lies soliciting my reality, my imagination overcome by the need to rid my heart of its own memory.

Well, I guess temporary dreams are better than none.

but, but wait... resuscitation. yes, because, eventually, after all these black fibers grip the heart, it'lll just stop. It'll give out, and become just meat. Electrical impulses, compression, break loose the hold, uncover the first learned memory, the first learned beating, the first rhythm that you made me feel, and repeat. There's that sliver of hope, for the heart has now clawed through to the brain enough to keep you permanently intact even in my consciousness, subconsciousness, my occipital lobe rewired to change everything in to you; my entihornal coaxing hippocampus to place you in memories that never existed; limbic system lingering on your entire being. Why? simply because it's waiting. It, being a communion of heart and mind, for some reason, it sees through the diseased heart, the organ that can only seem to remember your torment, trained to annihilation. It's awaiting revival,

reawaken, recharge

reverberate.

now if only that could hold long enough for me to breathe

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I think this was the format I had some time ago, like a year or more ago. Some prose to keep people guessing, thinking. and then whatever on the bottom underneath that line.

I wrote a lot about forbidden love, temptresses and tempters, drifting away, but this time I thought it was time for hopeful, a desperate hope, necessary to stay alive. What a tormenting need. Soo....a question that I've been getting a lot when I write stuff like this: is this real? is it what's going on in my life? And answer is, sometimes it is, sometimes it's not. haha but seriously, I do write from personal experience or what I can make in to reality from my imagination. I imagine emotions, from both personal experience and from friends' stories. I try to make sense of everything and write it in a way that might make somoene feel the same way. And if I can affect one mind one heart, that means that I've succeeded. Anyways on a public forum, I'll say that you'll have to know me better than just a blogger if you wanna know what's real and what's not, esp with my love life. But, you should never believe what you read one the internet.

HEEHEE. ^.^

behind the scenes shoot for photographer Angie Myers for her expose in maryland dec 7 lasting through the entire month. Male model vinson huynh, makeup artist elizabeth johnson, stlyist stara. Interpretation of Samson and Delilah