IRC-Galleria

let me sail, let me sail, let the Orinoco flow.
let me reach, let me beach on the shores of Tripoli
let me sail, let me sail, let me crash upon your shore
let me reach, let me beach far beyond the Yellow Sea

from Bissan to Palau in the shade of Avalon
from Fiji to Tiree and the isles of Ebony
from Peru to Cebu, feel the power of Babylon
from Bali to Cali far beneath the Coral Sea

from the north to the south, Ebudae unto Khartoum
from the deep Sea of Clouds to the Island of the Moon
carry me on the waves to the lands ive never been
carry me on the waves to the lands ive never seen

we can sail, we can sail with the Orinoco Flow
we can steer, we can near with Rob Dickins at the wheel
we can sigh, say goodbye
Ross and his dependencies
we can sail, we can sail

sail away

sail away

sail away.

oon jostain helvetin syystä poika enkä saa sitä vaihettua mistään. APUA

lontoon jäpikät juorunnu musta ahaha. essi kerto että ryan ja matt oli ihmetelly kuinka haluun jonku jamien ku oon nii hyvännäkönen että voisin saaha ihan kenet vaan :D

ei siinä vähän kohottaa itsetuntoo, ryan ja matt ei tosiaan oo mitään pahannäkösiä jätkiä (etenkään ryan<3), kohta pää täynnä pissaa mulla jos vielä kuulen tämmösiä juttuja hehe.

The instant she walked into the crowded Red Feather saloon, the lively chatter died. Everyone's eyes were focused on the torn appearance of the middle-aged woman. A ghost from the past, was the first thought in the minds of the men. From the days they had all felt like being something else than just a miscellaneous group of drunk and disorderly.
She had changed awfully lot. The occasional rude and suggesting comments that were dared to be spoken aloud didn't do a scratch on her even façade. She'd used to be bad-tempered, and they had enjoyed seeing her furious. Her now tranquil expression frustrated them; seemed as if she'd heard absolutely nothing. The gaze she had lowered down, though, was full of hidden anger towards the men who had once laid their dirty miner hands on her smooth, young skin.
But now the radiant beauty she'd once possessed was gone, its absence forcing the men to realize that the Golden Days were merely a mix of unreachable memories in their blurry minds. Making her company at the empty bar wouldn't bring back the glamor of the old days, so people stayed still in their booths and little by little the careful discussion got louder. They started to talk about her as if she hadn't been sitting just a dozen feet away. Unwilling to hear the obscenities chanted in lisping male voices, she ignored every sound her ears picked from behind her back. For a brief moment she was completely alone with the bourbon she'd just ordered. That moment was quickly over as she noticed yet another man in the corner of her eye.

Rain Stanton's reaction, as he entered the saloon and laid his eyes on the thin female figure sipping on her drink, was silent astonishment and overwhelming worry, of which the latter he'd last felt over a decade ago. It was the same kind of worry, only for slightly different reasons. This wasn't the girl in need of protection he had tried but failed to give; the woman in front of her was the outcome of a rough course of life.
Rain knew he wasn't to blame for her lot in life, but seeing her starved and exhausted like that made him sad. And the men still didn't give her a single moment in peace. He threw an angry glare towards the loudest troublemaker as he took a seat beside the woman.
“Siri,” he called although he was aware of having gotten her undivided attention the moment he'd come over to her. She kept her eyes on the half empty glass of bourbon as she greeted him with a nod barely visible.
“Rain. Still here wasting your life?”
Rain ignored the rhetorical question. “You got away.”
“I did.”
She smiled a bittersweet smile and Rain left the questions unasked. There were things people wanted to keep to themselves.
“So what did you come here for?” he asked, hoping not to sound unwelcoming. She turned to look at him for the first time. The look in her grey eyes was tired and so blank it scared him. Behind that, there was silent pleading. It hurt him to look at her, but he didn't break the eye contact. After a moment she tried on a smile.
“Just for a couple of drinks.”
Rain snorted and ordered her a plate of actual food. The lack of resistance on her part surprised him, as she'd always had the unfortunate habit of trying to turn down every helpful gesture. Now she accepted and started pecking at her meal in silence.
“Are you gonna stay for good?” he continued the interrogation. She answered with a single shrug.
“Where are you staying?”
Another shrug. Rain came to the conclusion she didn't have any money on her.
“I have a big house. Plenty of guest rooms. No charge.”
“You do?” she asked, a hint of mockery in her tone. “Inherited the farm, huh?”
“Yeah. I sold the cattle, though.”
“A pity.” Now the irony was audible. Rain recalled her distaste for cows due to a childhood trauma. Some issues never leave you, were they big or small. He studied her facial expressions, or actually the lack of them, while waiting for an answer. But she was everything but an open book; more like a double-locked diary, the key thrown into the depths of a bottomless river. Her face was impassive, so he had no other choice but to wait for her to declare the decision.
“I guess I could come,” she finally said. “Just to see how the old farm's doing.”

The Moon was big and bright in the clear sky. It shone over the town and forced insomniac people to cover their windows with, in addition to plain curtains, thick blankets in order to be able to get some sleep.
Siri hadn't even closed the drapes. As Rain was tiptoeing towards the kitchen for some milk, he noticed that carefulness had been unnecessary. The guest room door was ajar and Siri was sitting on the double bed, hardly filling her side of it. She'd wrapped her arms around her knees and was gazing at the sky. Lost in thought, eyes reflecting the pale moonlight, she looked more alive than ever, but simultaneously more vulnerable, almost fragile. There was a peculiar glitter in her eyes, like tiny gold nuggets sparkling among grey sand.
Rain's heart leaped inside him and he resisted the urge to go and wind his arms protectively around the slender figure. He was about to make his way into the kitchen and give the woman some privacy, when her surprisingly strong voice called after him.
“I saw you, might as well come in,” she said. “Not like I was intending to sleep, anyway.”
When Rain entered the room, all signs of vulnerability were gone. The look in her eyes was inscrutable again, her shield impenetrable. Had the golden sparkle been merely his own imagination? He was desperately looking for a crack in the shell, through which he could squint and see if there was anything left undamaged, or anything he could fix.
“What are you staring at? You wanna screw me? Go ahead, I'm not a little girl anymore. You've been waiting for it far too long.”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him roughly onto the soft sheets. Gently, he pushed her away and shook his head. It had never been about the age. It wasn't like she'd been a child back then. But he wanted something else. Something she didn't have to offer, or wasn't able to.
Siri was frustrated with him. Deep inside she had been wishing that he'd be the same than all the other disgusting men who were just trying to get laid. But Rain's intentions crossed the line and for the first time during her whole pathetic life she was frightened. Not only startled, but truly scared to death. His caring touch burned her skin as he tucked her in like a baby.
“Try to get some sleep, 'kay?”
She didn't answer. Rain rose to draw the curtains and before he left, he kissed her forehead quickly but affectionately, having no idea what immense pain it caused her.
She started to tremble, but managed to take control over her body. If she had to suffer in order to heal, she would refuse. If she was to live in pain, at least she could choose the pain she was used to.

During the night, a mass of grey clouds had covered the sky. Rain got up early and walked into the hallway. The stone floor was cold when he crossed it with bare feet. The guest room door was closed and he hesitated a moment before pulling it wide open.

When she saw the building, she didn't storm through the gates enthusiastically to check if every nook and cranny was in its place.

Enthusiasm. What a wasted effort.

Her feet were nailed to the ground. They felt suddenly very heavy. Unlike the ones of the little girl who kept nudging her hand persistently. Another waisted effort. She stood paralyzed.

The house was the size of a matchbox. A woodland fairy had shrunk it, the little girl would've concluded. But then again, to her it was probably more like a grand palace. Maybe that was why she was so eager to get to the other side of the gates.

Remembrance. Now wasn't a time for that. The memory lane was blocked. A bridge had fallen down.

Right now, it was just a matchbox. It didn't matter what it had been seven years ago. Or what it had held inside the moss-covered walls.

Seven, six, eight. Time didn't matter. It had always been to late, anyway, so she had abandoned time. A bully never kept bullying if the victim didn't give a damn. Reaction was all they were ever looking for. She hadn't reacted.

And she still didn't. The girl pulled so hard she almost threw her off balance.

“Mom...”
“Sshhhhhh!” she raised her index finger on her lips. The girl frowned discontentedly.

She wanted to hallucinate. She wanted to hear his voice calling from the gardens, melting her feet so she could've really stormed through those gates. No matter that the road behind her was so noisy it blocked every other sound. She would've heard his most silent whisper.

“Mom, let's go. Come.”

But he didn't want to talk to her. She had abandoned him. She was a coward and he had been obliged to face it alone, without her holding his hand and crying beside his bed every night.

“Mom, come on! It's okay.”

He had every right to be mad.

The girl screamed, horrified.

She didn't know when she had collapsed. Someone was carrying her.

She heard the hinges screeching as the gate was opened and then closed behind them.

She opened her eyes – the task had taken hours to perform. Her eyelids felt heavy, partially because of the swelling but also for all the sleeping. It had become a default state for her, being asleep.
But the difficulty of waking up was nothing compared to the difficulties she'd had trying to fall asleep. It had taken days to get rid of all the images that invaded her mind every time she closed her eyes. After a moment of restless snoozing, a nightmare would wake her up. She would be covered in sweat, shaking uncontrollably... And the images had probably never stopped showing up. She couldn't quite remember. Maybe she had just grown so tired that her body no longer responded to the stimuli that normally awakened her.
And then she'd slept. For days, a whole week perhaps.
How could she know? She hardly remembered her name. Actually she hadn't remembered it before checking the patient file that had been left to the table next to her.
Jill Stanton, missionary.
God's work. Was that what she had been doing?
Amara. She had watched as her eyes had turned expressionless. And then she had run for her own life, leaving the woman in the hands of the merciless assassins. There was blood in her hands. Amara had bled. And Funaya, the other woman she'd been holding, too, had bled.
The little boy, Chima, had bled.
There was no God.
She looked at her hands now. There were small wounds and burns all over them. But no blood. Wounds would heal. They already were healing.
She had bled, too. But now she was healing.

“You look fine to me,” the doctor said, smiling solely with his mouth. There was no joy in his eyes, nothing that guaranteed Jill she truly looked fine to him. Her blond hair had lost its natural glow, greasy strands were hanging on her face which was probably covered with yellow patches here and there, as the bruises were slowly fading. And then there were the burns.
Although, by the look of the backs of her hands, they had taken the most damage as she'd attempted to shield her face.
The ringing in her ears after the blow... even now, she had to struggle to hear what the doctor was saying.
“...so I think you're ready to be discharged. At least you shouldn't be tired anymore,” he joked.
How wrong he was. But, against all odds, she eventually got up to her feet, collected the small amount of stuff she had with her into a simple canvas bag and walked out of the hospital.
People in the streets stared. Stared at her scarred face, her blunt expression. Pity, disgust, curiosity... it made no difference for her. They were all hostile.
She turned her gaze down, averted their eyes; tried to hide. And ended up looking ashamed. But she had nothing to be ashamed of, had she?
She had done nothing to prevent death. There had been death all around her, and she had made no effort. Other than running away.
There was a lot to be ashamed of.

She opened the door too hastily. Her feet almost failed her as she drew in the scent that, no matter how mild and faded it was, reminded her of happiness. Food, air-freshener... even the smell of the air conditioning was distinguishable to her now. Even though it didn't really smell, the air in a shat without air conditioning did smell. And the odor of her place was the opposite of that.
She was dreading to place her fingers on the sterile surfaces of the house. She was dirty.
It had started to rain. She hadn't heard it until now as the drumming against the roof had gotten louder. A regular person could've concluded from the sheer sound that there was a storm rising, but Jill noted it only when she walked to the window and saw the heavy raindrops... and that was about the extent of the sight. It was a thick rain.
She undressed and chucked the blunder of clothes into the garbage chute.
She couldn't use the shower. She would've contaminated it. So she shuffled the stairs down, passing locked apartment doors behind which there were probably families playing Trivial Pursuit in front of the fireplace, asking questions like “What was the Iraq War also known as?”
That was surely a fact worth knowing.
As was it that it claimed the lives of nearly a hundred thousand civilians. Civilians who probably pleaded the killers to save their children, civilians who cried for their moms and dads before being brutally slaughtered.
Jill pushed the front door open and stepped out into the rain, letting it soak her and work its way through her messy hair to clean the scalp. She didn't feel the sharp drops crushing against her skin, hitting the ailing spots in her ravaged body.
And she didn't hear the first shout that was addressed to her, the crazy naked woman standing on the pavement; but the second time the shouter was close enough so that the sound actually reached her ears.
“Hey!”
She turned slowly to look at him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She remained silent, hoping he would just leave her alone. But he came closer, taking his coat off. When he finally reached her, he wrapped the long, black trench coat around her and looked at the apartment building behind them.
“You live here?”
Jill nodded weakly and didn't put up much of a resistance as the man guided her in and up the stairs. That's exactly what she had done in Nigeria: followed the men, the rescue team, out of the war zone and left behind the casualties she could've tried to help.
She pointed out her apartment door which was left open. He shoved her into the bathroom, under the shower. As he put the warm water running, she shivered.
After standing under the steady flow of water for an unknown amount of time, long enough for the shivering to end and her body temperature to return to its normal level, she stepped out and wrapped herself into a huge towel.
The man was sitting on her couch and turned around the instant she came to the living room area. She was dripping water on the wooden floor, and he looked like he was about to mention that. But she spoke first.
“Why are you doing this?”
The man shrugged as if it was obvious.
“If I hadn't done it, someone with less helpful intentions could've gotten to you.” He tried to reach her averting eyes. “It's not safe, you know, running around naked in Chicago.”
“I can handle myself.”
He studied her face and chuckled, which made her angry. There was nothing funny in her current appearance.
“With all due respect, miss, it doesn't look like you can.”
He had some gut to tell her that. As if he knew anything about her.
“Get out,” she said silently but with such determination that it wiped the smirk from his face. He seemed unsure.
“I don't know if I should leave you alone...”
“Get out,” Jill repeated. She had just enough strength left to keep her voice even. He got up and walked, all too slowly, towards the door.
“Get out!” she screamed and this time her voice broke as she was trembling with the attempt of fighting tears. He froze, and after a moment of deliberation, returned to her.
As he pulled her closer to him, she gave up altogether. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving behind wet streaks that were wide as the River Nile. Her shoulders shook as she took a staggering breath and she felt his hands stroke her damp hair comfortingly. He didn't ask anything, which was good, because she didn't want to answer.
She didn't ask him to stay, but he did. He held her close every time she woke up in panic, afraid of the faces she saw in the dark corners of her bedroom. When they stared at her, their piercing eyes filled with accusations, she turned around to bury her face to his chest. He rubbed her back and she fell asleep again.

It was a sunny morning. She put the coffeemaker on and gazed at her reflection in the hallway mirror. During her last checkup in the hospital, the doctor had said the wounds in her face would most likely heal completely, without leaving any scars. Hands and arms would be another thing, though.
She'd just combed her hair which was starting to reach the shoulder blades. Maybe she would let it grow this time.
The doorbell rang and she tightened the belt of her bathrobe before opening the door.
A smile of fake surprise lit her fragile-looking features as she saw Chris standing in the stairway. She stepped aside, letting him in.
“Mm, coffee,” he said as he entered the kitchen. “Exactly what I needed. How did you know?”
She laughed and took two mugs from the cupboard, pouring them full. They settled down at the table and looked at each other: Chris studied her face, figuring out her mood for today, and she answered his gaze, making the task easier for him.
She was feeling okay. And that was thanks in no small part to Chris.
Everyone needed a miracle at least once in their lives. Her miracle was Chris. He had emerged out of the blue, at the point where she had already fell down from the cliff, to catch her and pull her up.
And there she was, sipping coffee with him sitting across the table, in the apartment she had been more than ready to sell out. It had felt like a wrong place for her to live. It was a happy place, with happy smells from her former life. And she had been severely damaged.
But now, even though she very well knew there was no returning to what she'd once been, she knew that she would cope.
And she could be happy.

i dont even recognize myself anymore. i keep wondering how everyone i once knew seems so distant to me now, some people even... unrealistically different, grotesque somehow. might be impossible to understand my choice of words here, but its just something only i can fully understand with the whole range of emotions raging inside me right now.

well, not raging. quite the contrary, actually. i feel hollow. unreal and oddly serene. maybe sonja was right after all, about everything she said. this isnt real, and i shouldnt have gotten caught up in the moment. the higher you fly, the harder you fall.

well, about the reality i actually dont agree with her. this is just as real as life in finland is. its just different. and i dont think we should be so set out to settle down anywhere, discarding every other option and experience that might come along the way if you just were open to them. i want to be open to the world.

i dont know where i belong. im not sure if i belong anywhere. in a way i like that idea. i never wanted to belong, anyway.

i do miss anu, though. theres just no other person in the whole universe with whom i could share as much. there are no words to explain it. now when i need comfort the most, i wish she could be here. i have friends here, surprisingly good and close friends regarding the short length of time ive spent with them so far. and in a way i can share with them as much as i can share with anu. i can tell them everything.

but the wordless understanding, the nonverbal communication, the physical comfort - i cant find it in anyone else. anu and i, we are grown together. we are connected.

we are sisters.

i wish i had her here.

i havent shed a tear, though. because im not feeling sad, desperate, lonely, or anything equivalent. i dont know if im okay or not, its hard to tell. but im feeling quite good in the end.

just hollow.

thats all.

...you blow a fuse
the devil cuts loose
so whats the use
of falling in love

---

i will keep calling you to see
if youre sleeping
are you dreaming
if youre dreaming
are you dreaming
of me

---

im not saying it was your fault
although you couldve done more
but youre so naive yet so

---

i wanna love you but i better not touch
i wanna hold you but my senses tell me to stop
i wanna kiss you but i want it too much
i wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison

---

c'mon cut your crap
get it on im kicking back
youve got to treat me like a lady
dont you stand over there
be a man if you dare
youve got to give it to me baby

i love the way you like me
the things you say about me
i like you looking pretty though i look like hell
i like it when you miss me
i like it how you kiss me
i like you looking after me though all is well

---

i wasnt prepared for this
oh no i wasnt prepared for this

when the day is blue
ill sit here wondering about you

---

self-explanatory.

huomasinpa just