𝑀𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑢𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑑. 𝐴 𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑝

Bis zum nächsten Mal! 💋

I need to keep my joy in mind when I write or alter. I've let my thoughts to fool me.

I've let my imagination to make me into a frightening devil. How clichéd. How depressing of me.

My scowl widens as I pick up the pen. I'm disoriented inside of myself and yearn to meet someone great. I feel renewed when they hear me speak.

What...if no one answers the call? Am I destined to roam the earth by myself? No.

I'll take my own call. I'll turn off my thoughts so I may continue to be content. Because happiness is now a decision. My decision.

—Angie💋

Heeeeelllll yeaaaaah.

Don't ask me "wyd" i really just be in my room going insane and being a danger to myself

And my soul... aches.

- Sylvia Plath, from the 'Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath'

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...

There is often too much to say and not enough time. Cliché. a complete fiasco. Truthfully... Why say anything at all?

My mental imagination is where I'd prefer spend each day. I would much rather be at ease with the knowledge that I can somewhat influence the depths of my thoughts.

Time therefore expires. This will happen. There it is. It will tick more quickly. Let it be.

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider Press Conference, 2001

These are the hours. The hours, the minutes, the seconds. And the mind? Brutal.

Where does it begin? Every story has its origin. Of course, of course, nothing can not possibly exist without something. Of course! Okay, okay— here we go.

Angelina padded across her kitchen barefoot, eyes sleep filled, mind cloudy and her entire morning demeanor; groggy. Her warm body awoke to a chilling tile floor. The bare peaks of the sun were breaking their way into the kitchen, past the flimsy lace curtains. She kept her head low as if the sun was irritating her. She lived sometimes as if she was a roadie for Janis Joplin, setting up for three days of Woodstock. A far reach? Maybe. Although Angelina never considered herself to be too entertaining, she fought for certain roles, scripts in the entertainment industry. Angelina lived the “rockstar” life, but she never considered herself to be a rockstar. Far from it— but she partied like one. Always had. Everything Angelina wanted in life and everything she did was to access.

If she drank, she did that to free the chaotic terror of thoughts, that plagued her mind. She wasn't a looney bin case or anything; nothing clinical or diagnostic had ever been performed on her. But Angelina knew she was different. She had been in school, in acting classes, in auditions—she was different from her own brother. Hell, they didn't even share the same last name; of course they were different.

Standing with the fridge door open, the lanky brunette eyed her choices of the morning. A cold glass of water and...her head whipped toward the counter where she spotted the fresh bananas in the wooden bowl. Ah, Carolina, her every twice of month made must have gone shopping— a blessing.

That was settled then. Breakfast had been decided, now if only she could make the quick choices like that for the rest of her day. Or life. After pouring her glass of water, snatching a banana she shuffled downstairs to her bedroom. It was her seclusion bedroom.

Where she came to write, read, relax...and occasionally, do her extracurricular excessive activities. While Angelina's writing, attempted script and dialogue— talent was a kept seclusion secret. Her use of “recreational activity” i.e. drug use, was not. Almost everyone in her camp— knew she used drugs. And ‘used’ was a limp and loose term. Angelina had gone days, weeks, months, without using sometimes. Then like an uncharted gravitational pull, mustered up enough voltage energy and would pull her back in. And then, she'd be on the wagon. Tinfoil, spoons, baggies, would appear and disappear from her bag, bedroom, all areas of the places she'd go.

Angelina took a small bite of her banana and smirked to herself. How could she...work, agree to drug test, and yet...be an “addict?” But then again she couldn't really classify herself as an addict. In those almost paralytic, drug psychosis states... she'd vow for it to be the last time. And sometimes she'd mean it! Yeah, going months without even giving smack’ a second thought.

A half finished banana was tossed into the waist bin. Her lips disconnected from her glass of water as small dribbles of water, trickled down her chin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Angelina shook off the impending heard of bison stampeding thoughts and prepared for the day. GIA was wrapping up, final scene changes, edits, cuts; the whole shebang. A nice hot shower, maybe a little coffee, and she'd be on her way.

—Solo—

III

It changed into Conan, Leno, Letterman, Stewart— all the late night shows wanted her. Even good Morning America, wanted Angelina on their show. And for what? GIA had emerged as an overnight success. HBO clearly had executed nicely, as did she—a Golden Globe nomination; and that was nothing to sneeze at. Matters were truly starting to pick up voltage with her career. Plenty of new projects sat on the horizon. Some scripts and films Angelina had fawned over for a couple of years, unsure if it honestly it matched her. Lisa Rowe; Girl Interrupted, actually was one that seemed to suit her quite well. But then came such movies as the Bone Collector, Pushing Tin, Gone in 60 Seconds— all of which made her uneasy. some of the “potential” cast participants were all stars she had watched on the large screen. Idolized even. Now, to be performing alongside them...become like an in depth fever hallucination of some type.

She and Julia acknowledged their way to the cramped crowd, that waited for them outside the hotel. Angelina was continually dazed to visualize fans—actual people who were there for her. It was insane to her. Her free hand fished the packet of cigarettes out her pocket, fitting to light one—then the bustle begun. Shouts for autographs, pictures, the whole nine. Angelina pleasantly submitted, satisfied and starstruck herself. With the unlit limp smoke in her mouth she marked a few autographs.

“Angelina!”

“Angelina! Are you and Johnny Miller back together?”

“Angelina! Are you going to do the movie with Denzel Washington!”

Going through as many autographs as she could, Angelina shook off the questions. “I don't really know...” She wasn't insensitive or mean--honestly, she didn't know. With the last autograph, she granted the person who wanted a kiss. That certainly revved up the crowd even more, causing both she and Julia and rest of their beefed up security team to laugh.

Waving to the rest, Angelina got into the SUV, buckled in, and lit her cigarette. Julia looked on with an unpleasant expression. She hated cigarettes. The fading brunette hair, actress raised an eyebrow as her lungs inhaled the nicotine. “Find me something better and I'll quit on the spot.”

Some of that statement was truthful. Angelina had done well for herself not to take drugs over the past two days—not that she could. With the Golden Globe nomination, the squeeze and the end of the film, she didn't have time to do her extracurricular business. And quite honestly she didn't miss it. That wasn't to say that Angelina hadn't taken up quite the chainsmoking—habits, but everything was a working progress.

Angelina always came away from meetings with certain executives emotional. Otherwise, there would have been no particular reason for her to be at a hotel. It wasn't in a negative sense she felt emotional- but a sense in which she was actually doing THIS. This—meaning: really picking scripts, having producers, directors, writers actually want her. After all, she had signed on to do the next few films. Taking the cigarette from her lips, she let the smoke escape through the crack in the window; a smirk of satisfaction rested on her lips as she did.

The car ride had only been several minutes. A quiet ride between she and Julia—no need to really exchange any words. As the SUV pulled into her driveway of her darkened house, Angelina cursed softly noting and perceiving she hadn't left a light anywhere in the house. She only hoped Yogi— hadn't caused any damaged or had been damaged himself. Yogi, was her new bestowed upon her puppy! Her brother James had randomly given him to her. Now, the four legged cutie was apart of her life. It was dark and the klutz she could be...it wasn't a good set up, as she made her up the steps of her porch. With her purse slung over her shoulder, shopping bags nibbled at her fingertips, and her journals pressed against her chest the actresses jogged, carefully up the rest of the stairs to her front door.

Most of the time Angelina wouldn't bother to leave the doors locked. Even though safety precautions warranted her too. It made things easier when meetings, filming—ect ran late. Her body made it through the door on cue as the horn of the car, signaled a goodbye. The shopping bags fell to the floor, her purse slipped down her arm, and of course the journals in her hands began faltering as well.

Before long she could hear the deep pounding padding steps, of her eager doggy Yogi. In a blink of an eye the lovable chocolate Labrador—ran upon her. Tail wagging, eyes large with anticipation, and barking as if Angelina have been gone for hundreds of years. Bending down to meet the adorable canine halfway. She scratched him, patting his fur, and permit the four legged animal to lick her face a bit. “Been a good boy? Hm? Yes? Yes!”

She was answered with more speedy barks and licks of affection. Regaining her standing position, Angelina and Yogi traveled past the dim living room, over the two little steps and into the kitchen. Out stretching one arm, Angelina flicked on the kitchen light and was met with the white affluent, peaceful ambiance of the kitchen fully. Most of the cooking contraptions, the actress had failed to use— her attention span for cooking was anything less than bearable.

Small chuckles echoed from her lips as she fished around the lower cabinets trying to find a snack. Yogi, budded his head against her leg— almost asking for one himself. After grabbing a few simple crackers for herself, dog treat for the pup, Angelina pranced her way to her bedroom.

The lanky actress had wolfed down the crackers fast. Now she became situated in a heated, candlelit, door closed and locked, bubble bathtub. Her pale skin soaking in the sweet lavender body wash, she so graciously added to the water— along with some honeysuckle bath bombs. Angelina adored bubble baths, mainly after long days which includes one like today. As the soothing, muscle relaxing home spa like treatment was needed—to was the Rose Gold, Pinot wine that sat half empty on the rim of the sleek porcelain tub. In the beginning stages of her soak she had, nursed the wine. Baby sips, little nips. Then, grabbing the glass by the base she downed the wine. Rich in taste, smooth on the route, leaving a satisfied almost drool expression upon her face.

Raising her head a bit, damp strings of her hair sticking to her neck. Her misty eyes viewed the steam from the water—it was gratifying to see. Angelina stuck one arm out from under the water, watching enticingly close, as droplets fell from her thin fingertips. A soft “Mmm.” Rang from the depths of her throat, and past her lips. This was bliss. This was truly a peace maker to her overactive mind. Overactive life in some areas.