No, nothing has changed, moved, happened.
But everything. The possible is so much wider.
Looking at that painting for the first time in so many years.
Never noticed the depth. The layers. The possible.
And what if is within my reach. And I want to be the victim of our what can I do's.
Red will be my color for your dreams.
Let me run let me dream let me live in red.
Let me be the possible.
Even before my knee brushed his thigh I dreamed of nights without cloth between our skin.
That first drop of sweat that I still taste on my tongue, that fire that ignited, that hunger that only grows as it's fed.
I want. More. Out of breath more. Blind more. Screaming more. Sweet more. The treasures within your eyes spilt upon my need.
Funny how life places the stones we walk on, right above the water level, just high enough so that we do get wet once in a while.
I wish everyday brought a First. Of course one would tell me I'm the one making them. Bringing them to life.
I wish every word I wrote was a Word. Of course one would tell me all of them are. It's all in the intent.
Whether the day is bleak, or not so bad, or even nice once in a while, surely a First would make it fuller. A story filled with Words would make it magical.
Through troubled times, on the verge of losing my mind, I wonder… Are my expectations too much, too heavy to carry? I don't have the answer. Even when pointed to, I don't think I could see it.
A ghost, a sad poet, an error 404… A teenaged girl and a pseudointellectual bullshitivist… In a string of words, in the home of the quiet velcro or in the skirmish of dark and light. I find glory… I find love for art… I live life in your panels. To no end.
So today I intend. Because you were my Firsts, you are my Words.
Yet, why should I step on this path, as well travelled as it's been?
Conforming within my rebellious stance, the timeline eludes me.
My actions, as random as they may seem, are of the doomed and the broken.
I've been granted full access, but will I reach my destination?
Only with my eyes, my hands, my mind, can I really touch your soul.
A passing breeze, the caress of the willow's leaves on your cheek.
When I get home, the one at the end of the path, far from the maddening crowd, all this will have turned to dust.
*post title inspired by Franky
Crystalized, my dreams float above, attainable only if I really want to reach that far.
Being afraid… of being happy. Of not being enough, or just too much.
Yet solitude… Yet isolation… Fill in the blanks, they'll never fit me for I am a world of contradictions within a universe of linear shit.
I look down, look to the floor for arrows to tell me where to turn. But I know… I know that maps can only tell me so much.
Simplicity itself I tell myself. Just get rid of that goddamn tattoo, that fucking stain on your soul.
Then the light will hit me. At last, sweet light.
My jumped ships impassible, waiting for a storm that died out of wind long ago.
The hulls full of, empty of. Waves written in sand. The voices fled along with the moon dreams ago.
Night falls again. Maybe in the morning there'll be water. Maybe in the morning wind will come and kiss my sails.
In the valley of my dead skin a river flows bearing liquid life. And over mountains it spreads and still it runs and drips and splashes.
Breaking the wall of my limited imagination. Waking me up. And as my hands climb and dive warmth springs between my fingers.
A morning like a cloud. A night like sleeping in the cabin of an angry boat. And the sun, the sun… Behind my eyes still closed.
A pillow made of all that greets my sleep such are dreams in these waters.
The comfort of the other's words. The knowledge that emotions and thoughts run their course and sometimes reach our own stream. At a loss for words and yet drowning in them. And then… And then I want to write again.
These Things
by Charles Bukowski
| these things that we support most well have nothing to do with up, and we do with them out of boredom or fear or money or cracked intelligence; our circle and our candle of light being small, so small we cannot bear it, we heave out with Idea and lose the Center: all wax without the wick, and we see names that once meant wisdom, like signs into ghost towns, and only the graves are real. |
A month a month what can you do what can be done undone.
The lines are still printed and my shoes clutch at them, don't stray dontpleasestay stray go I have to go I have to step away the lines are cuts cuts in the regular programming.
It's not quite quiet shhhhhh I told you sixty days half the mark is making a line another line.
And stones across the stream and x's on the screen and nothing to keep me from falling into life as deep as I can see.
*Swans fly and leave what's familiar. Realizing their freedom is what will save them.
*I hope I make it. and I hope u make it too. thanks for reading, even when u didnt want to.
*echoes barely noticeable
when we think we were right.
deafening
when we think we were
wrong.
echoes easily heard,
when we are alone
"choices echo forever"
*"She's gonna be home soon. . ." he whispered, no answer.
"I better get up and go to the couch.". No answer.
Slowly his muscles relaxed, his breath eased, worried thoughts faded to colorful shapes then nothing.
The authors know who they are.
Four men. Four different voices. Three countries, three continents.
Four companions from the start. Some have gone, just now or a long time ago. Some are still around…
Paths were crossed, tears were silently shared, truths were of the virtual kind.
I have loved every one of you. Every one of your words.
I have loved you because you loved me, I have loved you because together it is was ok to be lost.
Distance does make the heart grow fonder.
For distance made it all possible. It just made sense.
And it still does.
Weather you're still reading or not, still writing or not.
You're always with me, lights along my path.
_______________________________________________________________________
There are thousands of reasons why people have blogs. I hope yours is bringing you as much as it has brought me.
I don't believe it's a small world. I believe it is an infinite one. Of possibilities. Of wonders. Of beautiful words, of beautiful people. Most of whom I will never get to meet, share a drink or a coffee with. But it doesn't matter. We have shared our souls.
J'ai soif.
Je cours.
Another one another one is here somewhere… Filled its pockets behind my back, full of my resolve… I hear hear hear don't you? Another one, somewhere, I hear… I thought I heard it… Somewhere behind me…
Et c'est devant maintenant… C'est là que les pas résonnent… Je ne suis toujours pas rendue… Pourtant.
Je cours.
Having caught glimpses, it makes it easier to believe.
Beauty, in glimpses, goodness, in glimpses.
It's climbing the stairs at the waterpark, getting to the top and looking down.
It's being out of breath, reaching for the railing, wavering from the sight.
At the sun drenched bodies, at the water drops flying off in sparkles from a boy's hair.
A line drawn from my eyes to yours, to theirs.
A collective sigh of pleasure, an ocean of laughing souls.
Once my voice was dancing with the surf. Once it stayed on the bank.
Drying, disappearing as fast as the streaks of foam left behind.
But at the top… I can believe I still belong it this echo.
Amazing how the climb is long and arduous. How the descent just happens.
I'm hanging on to the the railing, not quite fighting the pull yet.
Just getting some glimpses.