The Pursuit of Light

There’s something quite enchanting about darkness,

The mystical facets of childhood fairytales seem to tie endless lengths of string around breathless moments and pull them into a continuum of wondrous nostalgia. Those moments will never be the same—frozen, pulsing with resonant light. Perhaps it’s the lack of words which desperately yearn to escape from the confines of the speaker’s lips or the boundless concept of life pouring into the lower part of the hour glass, like the ever-evolving sands of time that causes a moment to stay perfectly imperfect. Maybe it isn’t.

Either way, as soon as something is spoken it dissipates into the air around it; it taints the energy it lives in.

When a moment is lived, it no longer exists and all that remains is the dance of vague moving images to inaudible, non existant music.

 

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Autumn Leaves

She sits upon the turbulent winds of time,

waiting to be carried to the astronomical heights of dead balls of gas.

In the meantime, her crumbling flesh must remain a ragdoll to the ever-changing storm.

Tranquil. Open and free from the ancient, decaying branches of the tree.

Silver Screen

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Silver Screen.”

“Time flies.” That’s what all the people  say.

It matters not where you plan on going or where you think you’ll stay,

it matters not where you were last week or where you’ll be next year,

it matters not where your demons hide or where you’ve shed your tears.

It matters not where you’ve planted your dreams or where you think you are.

All that matters are the hands you hold as you gaze up at the stars.

So as time recedes before your eyes like the ocean swallowing the shore,

take the time to gaze at thoughtless clouds, wending across the sky and just breathe…

The Coathanger

I am a coat hanger.
I have fingers which have graced cheeks, laced with tears;
feet which carry me through orgastic stillness and oppressive noise,
nerves which pulse and glow with life,
I have eyes which hold a thousand galaxies and wayward shoulders.
I am the universe in ecstatic motion.
But for now, I am a coat hanger.

A Sentiment For Those In Need Of A Smile.

When the pressure of bloodied fingers press upon my shoulders,

When the tiny slither of metal sinks into my gut and fills my circulatory system with anticoagulant,

When my torso has the stiffness of a steel girder and my nooks and crannies have been stretched by men in scrubs,

When the doctor’s mouth opens like a vortex into the unknown and ambiguous swirls of colour surround me,

When strange fingers bath unseen flesh,

When my limbs ache with stiff inactivity,

When my mind spins all the worrisome thoughts known to man,

When my flesh is poked and prodded to it’s absolute limit,

I shall smile and know that blood samples, mountains of paper and promises need not cause me sleepless nights anymore.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Make It Anywhere.”

Tales of Truth and Trying Times

It felt  like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was like the lights were on but nobody occupied the space between my eyes. I’t the only thing that ever felt real. A moment of white hot light; it wasn’t even coherent; the most beautiful, profound things never are. I can’t even say it was images. I was just a happening. It buldozed my consciousness; I’d caught the acting bug.  I remember feeling as though I had an umbilical cord which was being tugged by small fairy-like creature; feathers tickled my heard. I felt human. My years of numbness had been broken by late nights, bright lights and the breath of 7 billion other human beings; those years of mindless torture and watery eyes had been shattered like glass, in the presence of an operatic, soprano’s song. I’m not sure what happened but it ignited a love within me which has kept me sane throughout years of belly-crucnching anxiety and clinical numbness. In those moments of darkness and fear, it became the only thing I could feel. It became my reason for being alive.

As I sat upon a deserted island—alone and afraid—desperately releasing flares in the night sky, I came to the conclusion  that one cannot force a rescue ship to arrive so one must embrace the unknown silence of the dark night.

There will be blue skys. That’s what I told myself. In moments of blind panic I’d let myself know that you can only ever appreciate the moment that you’re living. In truthful and trying times, I’d stop, breath and feel gratitude. Hold on to that thing that puts fire in your eyes and makes your insides churn with excitement; follow the thing that makes tears of love stream down your face.

‘Tis the way of the universe to love and love; it’s the eb and flow of palpable, living energy. That’s life. So When you feel purposeless and riddled with negative energy, that sinks deep into your gut, smile and gaze up at the sky. Know that I am a human being and I have felt exactly as you do in the moment that you’re living; there’s always another person who’s feeling exactly as you do in the moment you’re experiencing it. You are not alone.

If all the world were monochrome and I had to choose a colour to paint across the globe, I’d choose the ever-changing hue of the vast sky so I could watch ancient clouds wend through the atmosphere—endlessly and aimlessly. There is something about the omnipresence of the sky as it gazes upon the worm’s meat of humanity—as it gazes upon it’s orgasms and it’s suffering—which gives the impression that it knows of the human existence but wisely chooses to ignore our perpetual state of anxiety and need for control; it’s almost as through it sits above us and smiles—just like the Tibetan Buddhist monk who looks upon their pupil with knowledgeable eyes and old laughter and says “the purpose of our lives is to be happy.” As the man, drowning in paper and expensive fabric, mindlessly trudges alongside the artistic dreamer—who has a heart full of paint and a paintbrush for a brain. There’s something quite magical about the dust of time’s remains and how it seems to scatter itself across the sky—sprinkling humanity with it’s past mistakes and heartache. A universe of mystery lies beyond the marlin blue blanket. So, as the man and his conquests continue to tread the concrete floor, the sky will wink and smile, in all it’s glory.

An Epiphany of Time and Bright Lights

There’s something in the air this morning.

A kind of glittering hope that only lives among the bright, moving images and opaque air of New York City;

the slither of silver, on grey, rain-ridden clouds.

There’s something quite magical about the sound of moving life against the azure blue sky.

‘Tis a reminder of why one must believe in one’s illusions, despite the eb and flow of mundane life—even though life is anything but mundane.

There’s something in the air this morning and I’m not quite sure what it is.