Fog. headlights. daydreams. nightmares. ghosts. memories. old times. old friends. past life. my glasses. my vision. my perception of what the future will be like if I make a good or bad decision. MY FREAKING GLASSES AND VISION. MY BREATH IN THE FREAKING COLD OMG
She sat there with a tear stained face. Her eyes hazed over like her soul had left her body a long time ago. Crying over a guy. Mama told her to wipe the tears away and put the blade down. She was told to get up out of her haze filled world. “My sweet child, get up, put your game face on, and get back out there,” mama told her, time and time again. As the blood hit the ground. The she fell in a puddle of blood that slowly formed around her lifeless body. She was gone. Disappearing in a haze filled world. Her mother left behind. Left in a hazy world.
My memories of you are usually quite hazy. There’s one memory I can recall of clearly and that was of you and I planting vegetables in your garden, and talking about how soon we would be planting pumpkins for October so we could carve our own pumpkins that we’d grown ourselves. But that never happened. You couldn’t hold on that long. I miss you..
I looked out into the fog. My mind twisted and contorted the myriad of shapes ahead of me. Terrifying monsters, spawns, demons, MYSELF. My fear, my anger, my hatred, my ignorance, all plotted out in a field of confusion and curiosity. I’m falling through the haze. In the end, it’s all darkness anyway.
The light shines through the smoke, laser beams pointed directly at my chest. It is so bright. I feel it pulling at me, beckoning me to come inside. I could run, I know I could. I should. But I don’t want to. The strange aircraft above me seems so friendly. Suddenly I’m coming up, up, up. My feet dangle as I’m suspended above the corn stalks. A strange voice fills my head in a way that cannot be a language I do not recognize, but I still understand. “Get in, loser. We’re going to see the universe.”
Call me crazy. I like those hazy summer mornings. June, July. Humid, sure. But sultry. hot, alive. A haze. Dream-like. Here, I sit–cold. Scarf around my neck. Longing for a southern Illinois summer. So humid, hot, hazy, lazy, sweaty– why, you can hardly breathe. It’s home to me. Prodigal daughter. Returning home. For a prodigal summer.
My surrounding were hazy. The light through the windows, the pictures framed up on the walls..all fuzzy and blurred. That last punch sent a bolt through my entire system. I jump back up and get ready to make my next move and remember that there is a coffee table a few yards away. I know this place; I know all of it by heart. To face your present you must remember the past, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.
when you wake up from a really nice nap and you have no idea where the hell you are or what time it even is. You really struggle to see anything and everything is just kind of hazy for the first 5 minutes.
My vision swirled, sending colors flying in front of my eyes. I saw double, and for a second I swore I could smell colors. Note to self: Do not pick a fight with a kangaroo.
Quenched. This thirst for something to make me feel alive. Standing alone waiting outside. A haze of smoke around me, a net of safety to consume me and keep me from the teeth just beyond the fugue waiting to sink into my flesh. To tear me. I suck and pull and fade. Cling. Breathe.
Her vision blurred and separated and finally came back into focus and his face was still in front of her. “No.”
It was as simple as that. She looked back down at her work and tried to ignore him, which was bad customer service but good survival tactics.
“You’re just going to ignore me?”
“I’m really good at it. Didn’t you get the memo?
The world had turned grey, as if the thinnest cloth of cotton had been pulled over her eyes. White ash still floated in the air, sometimes swept up from the corners of each street and sometimes falling back down upon the stone like snow. It seemed that every building, and every face of her beloved city had been painted by an artist who had only one colour on his palette. It was the colour of violence.
i smoked a fat ass blunt and the room became extremely hazy. i dont know if it was the smoke filled room or the sweet relief running through my veins but i loved it more than christ. sorry big dog, but you dont make me crave funyons like Mary Jane
The distant sky was hazy with the approaching locust plague and Jospehine knew that this time they were in real danger of losing everything they had invested in the old farm.
The morning looked a certain shade of hazy. It had that water suspended in the air look to it. It was probably the sleepies in my eyes, or the sun was playing tricks on me. I’m betting on the sun though. That night was the night I will always remember. Something happened last night that is so….just..ughh the sun has reason to play tricks on me.
i feel hazy on most days. kind of like mist or those foggy mornings we used to love on school days. Where you cant see through the thickness of it all, but everything felt right anyways. Im just hoping at the end of my haze everything is ok
Thick with haze; somewhat obscured with haze, Not clear or transparent.
Obscure; confused; not clear; as, a hazy argument; a hazy intellect.
To fight without reason, to assume.
the hazy is hardly ever the pauper
the pauper
is the stooge whom caretakes to anyone and everyone
because their goals for a crumb of bread isn’t hazy
hardly lazy
lazily hardy
the pauper provides a contusion for the brains that cannot handle an outstretching needy palm!
the sky is hazy, my eyes are hazy from the lack of sleep I encounter daily. My body is tired from the endless homework and stressful days and organization. The sky is hazy from the smoke that clouds the fresh air making me with I lived in the mountains where my eyes would not be hazy because I would sleep in in the warm cabin and not worry about the world
Gooey drops dripping on your silhouette that was left like a frozen idea whose breath couldn’t grow into more. I still have that frame etched into my memory the esteemed pride and care that I place it on the mantle with, I cannot stop enjoying what you used to be. And though I do try it often rears recklessly. Selfish in timbre timid in texture.
He wasn’t supposed to swallow the planet. Just chew and spit. But he didn’t know that- so now he hears in shades of reds and pinks, a low voice that sings to him, laughs at him, and he is too busy staring down at the floor beneath his feet, the way it wavers and slithers despite the fact that he is certain that he’s standing still.
It was a hazy day all of the stuff that was happening in the last days were confusing. First my neighbors stood up all night in thier garage. Then the went to the park then unfortunatly there was a bomb set off at the park and the weren’t killed. I was crushed to find out that they were muslim and that they almost died but barely survived the bombing.
I had a friend who told me about hazy days she used to spend as a child; long, hot summer days, free from school, free to do whatever she wanted with her friends. And sometimes, on summer mornings, while her mom was inside making breakfast, she’d find a few friends and they’d go running wildly through the quiet suburban street, following the big truck that sprayed and sprayed big, sprinkling clouds of behind them. They’d hover over the streets for a long long time, to the great delight of the little girls who’d hold hands and run through the big, wet billowing clouds that had come and touched the street and bathed them in their lovely moisture. Those clouds of DDT that no one knew were beautiful killers and cancer causers and lovely death on a hazy summer morning.
Just as in the Simon and Garfunkel original and the bangles cover, it was indeed a hazy shade of winter outside. The snow slowly drifted to the ground, and Harold hoped more than anything that there was enough there so he didn’t have to go to school. Having just moved to South Dakota from California, he wasn’t used to actual weather, and he hoped that those mythical “snow days” he had heard so much about in the tv shows he watched and the books he read were actually real, and not just an invention of imaginative authors who lived in warmer climates like he once did.
There wasn’t much to see. The haze filled the gaps between the trees, and the pale sunlight filter through only the tree tops. There were shapes out there, hard to see, sometimes black shapes making their presence known but a second later, a gust of wind blew more haze across the track and they disappeared.
As I was driving across Skyline drive at the crack of dawn, the view of the towns below was obscured by the hazy clouds covering the sky. The sun came out an dstarted to burn off the haze, and there it was…a beautiful village with all kinds of activity.
I sat staring at the keyboard like it was magically going to solve all my problems. I thought of what I really needed and if i really needed it. I thought of what my life was missing, or what I thought my life was missing. But in the end I stared at a blank page, in an empty notebook. Completely unheard of. I have a large collection of notebooks filled. But all growing up and everything I had written, they were all lies. They were all about love and this perfect story featuring a perfect pair and every time I wrote I was the girl. I was vicariously living my life through this fictional stories.
It was a hazy day, one of those days where you can’t really see where the clouds begin and end, that she told me she was leaving. At long last, after five years, she would be gone.
I had a mixture of anxiety and relief as she told me where she would be.
Summer of 2010, one of the hazier chapters of my life. Mid-college angst, hometown blues, a lack of direction, and an excess of marijuana. The recipe for nothing at all.
The morning time sees me hazy, the dream fog’s not yet lifted, I remember he held my hand and said, “Please, stay, let us get to 32.” It’s been on my mind all day. I don’t get it. 32? What’s so special about this number that it’s on the periphery of my waking life. And yet I feel drawn back to a year of letters, a year of music.
Fog. headlights. daydreams. nightmares. ghosts. memories. old times. old friends. past life. my glasses. my vision. my perception of what the future will be like if I make a good or bad decision. MY FREAKING GLASSES AND VISION. MY BREATH IN THE FREAKING COLD OMG
She sat there with a tear stained face. Her eyes hazed over like her soul had left her body a long time ago. Crying over a guy. Mama told her to wipe the tears away and put the blade down. She was told to get up out of her haze filled world. “My sweet child, get up, put your game face on, and get back out there,” mama told her, time and time again. As the blood hit the ground. The she fell in a puddle of blood that slowly formed around her lifeless body. She was gone. Disappearing in a haze filled world. Her mother left behind. Left in a hazy world.
My memories of you are usually quite hazy. There’s one memory I can recall of clearly and that was of you and I planting vegetables in your garden, and talking about how soon we would be planting pumpkins for October so we could carve our own pumpkins that we’d grown ourselves. But that never happened. You couldn’t hold on that long. I miss you..
I looked out into the fog. My mind twisted and contorted the myriad of shapes ahead of me. Terrifying monsters, spawns, demons, MYSELF. My fear, my anger, my hatred, my ignorance, all plotted out in a field of confusion and curiosity. I’m falling through the haze. In the end, it’s all darkness anyway.
The light shines through the smoke, laser beams pointed directly at my chest. It is so bright. I feel it pulling at me, beckoning me to come inside. I could run, I know I could. I should. But I don’t want to. The strange aircraft above me seems so friendly. Suddenly I’m coming up, up, up. My feet dangle as I’m suspended above the corn stalks. A strange voice fills my head in a way that cannot be a language I do not recognize, but I still understand. “Get in, loser. We’re going to see the universe.”
Call me crazy. I like those hazy summer mornings. June, July. Humid, sure. But sultry. hot, alive. A haze. Dream-like. Here, I sit–cold. Scarf around my neck. Longing for a southern Illinois summer. So humid, hot, hazy, lazy, sweaty– why, you can hardly breathe. It’s home to me. Prodigal daughter. Returning home. For a prodigal summer.
My surrounding were hazy. The light through the windows, the pictures framed up on the walls..all fuzzy and blurred. That last punch sent a bolt through my entire system. I jump back up and get ready to make my next move and remember that there is a coffee table a few yards away. I know this place; I know all of it by heart. To face your present you must remember the past, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.
when you wake up from a really nice nap and you have no idea where the hell you are or what time it even is. You really struggle to see anything and everything is just kind of hazy for the first 5 minutes.
My vision swirled, sending colors flying in front of my eyes. I saw double, and for a second I swore I could smell colors. Note to self: Do not pick a fight with a kangaroo.
Freshman year…. Ahhh. Bitter oh so sweet memories.
The high came down, so now all I was was hazy. Then everything came crashing down.
Quenched. This thirst for something to make me feel alive. Standing alone waiting outside. A haze of smoke around me, a net of safety to consume me and keep me from the teeth just beyond the fugue waiting to sink into my flesh. To tear me. I suck and pull and fade. Cling. Breathe.
Her vision blurred and separated and finally came back into focus and his face was still in front of her. “No.”
It was as simple as that. She looked back down at her work and tried to ignore him, which was bad customer service but good survival tactics.
“You’re just going to ignore me?”
“I’m really good at it. Didn’t you get the memo?
The world had turned grey, as if the thinnest cloth of cotton had been pulled over her eyes. White ash still floated in the air, sometimes swept up from the corners of each street and sometimes falling back down upon the stone like snow. It seemed that every building, and every face of her beloved city had been painted by an artist who had only one colour on his palette. It was the colour of violence.
i smoked a fat ass blunt and the room became extremely hazy. i dont know if it was the smoke filled room or the sweet relief running through my veins but i loved it more than christ. sorry big dog, but you dont make me crave funyons like Mary Jane
The distant sky was hazy with the approaching locust plague and Jospehine knew that this time they were in real danger of losing everything they had invested in the old farm.
He kept on talking, saying nothing. Hazy words of dust.
Sadly, she looked at him, sighing.
The morning looked a certain shade of hazy. It had that water suspended in the air look to it. It was probably the sleepies in my eyes, or the sun was playing tricks on me. I’m betting on the sun though. That night was the night I will always remember. Something happened last night that is so….just..ughh the sun has reason to play tricks on me.
i feel hazy on most days. kind of like mist or those foggy mornings we used to love on school days. Where you cant see through the thickness of it all, but everything felt right anyways. Im just hoping at the end of my haze everything is ok
Thick with haze; somewhat obscured with haze, Not clear or transparent.
Obscure; confused; not clear; as, a hazy argument; a hazy intellect.
To fight without reason, to assume.
the hazy is hardly ever the pauper
the pauper
is the stooge whom caretakes to anyone and everyone
because their goals for a crumb of bread isn’t hazy
hardly lazy
lazily hardy
the pauper provides a contusion for the brains that cannot handle an outstretching needy palm!
your form flitted through my curtains like smoke
in the mi(d)st of the morning sun, or perhaps in spite of it,
how could I bottle the vapour of your being into something so defined as my embrace
you faded like fog, and left my side a murk
the sky is hazy, my eyes are hazy from the lack of sleep I encounter daily. My body is tired from the endless homework and stressful days and organization. The sky is hazy from the smoke that clouds the fresh air making me with I lived in the mountains where my eyes would not be hazy because I would sleep in in the warm cabin and not worry about the world
Memory hazy
Fingers lazy
Call me sleazy
Call me crazy
Guarantee I’ve
heard it all already.
hazy days are some of the most lovely of them all. and when they sun breaks through it becomes a stunning portrait of outdoor goodness
Gooey drops dripping on your silhouette that was left like a frozen idea whose breath couldn’t grow into more. I still have that frame etched into my memory the esteemed pride and care that I place it on the mantle with, I cannot stop enjoying what you used to be. And though I do try it often rears recklessly. Selfish in timbre timid in texture.
He wasn’t supposed to swallow the planet. Just chew and spit. But he didn’t know that- so now he hears in shades of reds and pinks, a low voice that sings to him, laughs at him, and he is too busy staring down at the floor beneath his feet, the way it wavers and slithers despite the fact that he is certain that he’s standing still.
It was a hazy day all of the stuff that was happening in the last days were confusing. First my neighbors stood up all night in thier garage. Then the went to the park then unfortunatly there was a bomb set off at the park and the weren’t killed. I was crushed to find out that they were muslim and that they almost died but barely survived the bombing.
I had a friend who told me about hazy days she used to spend as a child; long, hot summer days, free from school, free to do whatever she wanted with her friends. And sometimes, on summer mornings, while her mom was inside making breakfast, she’d find a few friends and they’d go running wildly through the quiet suburban street, following the big truck that sprayed and sprayed big, sprinkling clouds of behind them. They’d hover over the streets for a long long time, to the great delight of the little girls who’d hold hands and run through the big, wet billowing clouds that had come and touched the street and bathed them in their lovely moisture. Those clouds of DDT that no one knew were beautiful killers and cancer causers and lovely death on a hazy summer morning.
Just as in the Simon and Garfunkel original and the bangles cover, it was indeed a hazy shade of winter outside. The snow slowly drifted to the ground, and Harold hoped more than anything that there was enough there so he didn’t have to go to school. Having just moved to South Dakota from California, he wasn’t used to actual weather, and he hoped that those mythical “snow days” he had heard so much about in the tv shows he watched and the books he read were actually real, and not just an invention of imaginative authors who lived in warmer climates like he once did.
There wasn’t much to see. The haze filled the gaps between the trees, and the pale sunlight filter through only the tree tops. There were shapes out there, hard to see, sometimes black shapes making their presence known but a second later, a gust of wind blew more haze across the track and they disappeared.
As I was driving across Skyline drive at the crack of dawn, the view of the towns below was obscured by the hazy clouds covering the sky. The sun came out an dstarted to burn off the haze, and there it was…a beautiful village with all kinds of activity.
I sat staring at the keyboard like it was magically going to solve all my problems. I thought of what I really needed and if i really needed it. I thought of what my life was missing, or what I thought my life was missing. But in the end I stared at a blank page, in an empty notebook. Completely unheard of. I have a large collection of notebooks filled. But all growing up and everything I had written, they were all lies. They were all about love and this perfect story featuring a perfect pair and every time I wrote I was the girl. I was vicariously living my life through this fictional stories.
I’m screaming, but I can’t wake up. Some nights I wake up lost in confusion. I can’t remember if it’s not about me.
It was a hazy day, one of those days where you can’t really see where the clouds begin and end, that she told me she was leaving. At long last, after five years, she would be gone.
I had a mixture of anxiety and relief as she told me where she would be.
“My memory’s hazy, but I distinctly remember the taste of Amber’s lips on my mouth,” I said as I poured myself my third cup of coffee that morning.
“You’re kidding.” Mallory gawked from behind her chipped ceramic mug. “You? And Amber Stipley?”
“The one and only.”
“Dude, don’t let her boyfriend find out! He won’t care if you’re a chick – he’ll eat you alive!”
Summer of 2010, one of the hazier chapters of my life. Mid-college angst, hometown blues, a lack of direction, and an excess of marijuana. The recipe for nothing at all.
i’m a little concerned
that we’re getting hazy
that it’s going to be more about blurred lines
and less about the facts
I look down at the side walk cracks
and realize that there are names here
and people only thin-soled shoes
will recognize
horizontal bodies to walk with
i don’t remember last night. i don’t remember telling you “i love you”. i don’t even remember what we ate. what was in those drinks?
The morning time sees me hazy, the dream fog’s not yet lifted, I remember he held my hand and said, “Please, stay, let us get to 32.” It’s been on my mind all day. I don’t get it. 32? What’s so special about this number that it’s on the periphery of my waking life. And yet I feel drawn back to a year of letters, a year of music.