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…

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.