Musings 2

No one loves the sunset the way I love the sunrise.

Only in the moments that the rays slowly graze upon the wrinkles of the ocean do I realize its depth. The hidden mountains that lie still under its covers conceal valleys of life that stir and slumber simultaneously. Even the strongest caresses cannot reach the crevices where darker, more beautiful, secrets lie quietly. Whether in sleep or in sun, those secrets lie for the brave. Perhaps I am not brave enough, but I am persistent, and try.

These golden fingers smooth out the wrinkles creating new ones in its wake, turning the world over with perpetual waves. Crossing the soft sea to solid land, the soft photon fingers run gently through the fields of flowers, tickling each of them with sunshine. Dancing awake at the slight stimulation, they sway with the winds carelessly. Gilded meadows become thick brush and tree. The ashy wood is rejuvenated and given second life. Pockets of light pick through the forests, and a quiet intrepid peace eases the dream drunk creatures to witness dawn.

In these moments, where the potential for power and the pursuit of peace lie passively, I am  at ease. In these moments where the easy warmth wakes the weary world, I find a calm drowsy daze. In these moments, these in between times, do I love you most; do I love you best.The virgin soil untouched by intrepid adventurers, beast or bark, quivers expectantly. The clouds swell gracefully over deserts and peaks awaiting release. Life faces death, teasing each other in their play for pawns.

Even as I tickle you gently with kisses and fingers and breath, i know your darkest self. In the dark shadows created by the rising dawn, I find a fearful curiosity of what those spaces hold. Light never stands still for very long and those secrets will reveal themselves in time. But the potential for those secrets, that's boundless and infinite as the power of the sun.

If only every angle of you could be illuminated, then I could appreciate your whole radiance. The potential for each seedling and each sprout and each tree,clinging to the soil is realized in this moment. No matter what the day holds,and what power and destruction lie in its path, the potential is unbound by the finality of each action done unto it. Even as you turn and the sea rolls with you, no potential is greater than the roots that have yet to grow and the land that has yet to be touched. In the sunrise, where I cradle you, you are all the possibilities that sleep in the soil, all secrets that lie in the sea, and all life that stirs in this warmth. I don't know what the full day holds, nor do I care.

All places between ravenous sea and boundless sky, finite earth and shapeless water, is where I find more reasons to stir and love you more.

No one loves the sunset the way I love the sunrise.

7

I was fine(d).

Fine: a bold faced lie through a bared-teeth smile; a deflection of the questions from prying minds; an acknowledgment of scales balanced just right.

Fine is a damnable word. Everything is fine when we fly through the city nights, watching the streets transform into tarmacs before our eyes. Everything is fine when we conceal our wounds on the world's stage, hoping to play the part well, but not well enough. Everything is fine when we see both here and there, and slowly realize that this goes no where. 

We paid the fine for speeding through the nights, the blue lights reflecting in our love-drunk eyes. The moments finally cornered us, full forced and strong. We surrendered and it beat us, wanting to win more than we wanted to lose. Surrounded, we were forced to look these moments in the eyes and acknowledge that there was no where to hide. 

Fine pays itself in the seconds that it's said. It is the price for the wonderfully wounded and the recklessly resilient. 

We were fine(d), but we won't be anymore. 

6

Almost, but not quite.

That's what you say to a child who's an inch shy of 48. Denying him the fear and exhilaration that the roller coaster can bring is safe and sorrowful. Restrict him by the threshold and he'll never know the thrill. Let him ride and fear may seize him forever.

Fortunately, you don't need to make the choice. We already know he isn't ready now. We have paper rules and uncrossed lines to tell us so. He isn't ready now, and all he needs is time. One day, he will be ready to choose what it is he wants, so let us hope he chooses well.

We stand here at the cusp, not as lucky. We're not shy of 48 seconds, minutes, hours, days? Time is ours for the taking, with an amount undefined. Not counting down the moments, but counting up the time. Excuses don't exist when we make the rules. But even the rules don't say where to cross the lines, especially when the end is undefined.

What do you do then if you don't exactly know the end? If you're asking if it's almost, but always knowing it's not quite?

5

Even on the darkest nights, the lean light fingers tickle her face. The moon beams, trickling to the sea, quietly manipulating the secondhand sun. No matter how far he is from her, he's always searching for her, chasing after her, reaching for her. Sometimes she's a little coy and hides behind the earth, shyly out of view. He always finds her and for that, she could not be more delighted.

On her darker days, she turns away from him. Hiding in shame's shadow,  she keeps herself from turning back. The sun reaches with warm rays, patiently comforting her until she was ready. It was never easy, comforting her. She was as cold as he was unrelenting, and he would wait until she returned to him… Yet.

Sometimes the moon would hide so fully behind the earth that the sun could not reach or see her. The sun would never see the moon's heart raw, as the earth always blocked the view. We could only watch the crimson break bleed, as we were too far to reach or even stay. Perhaps it was better this way; what would happen when the sun breaks?

They played through the cycle endlessly, and never tired and never strayed. There was never a question of what they could endure, but what would happen if the eclipse had stayed? 

4

I want to name perfect moments. They're not first dates or anniversaries or engagements or weddings, though those could be perfect too. Those moments lie in the everyday, where life is a quiet driver, speeding us along.

Perfect moments aren't always made in the grand gestures that seemingly significant dates bring. Those moments are found in the quiet ones where I've watched you slowly smile with relief when you thought I might have screamed. Or the nuances in the way you cut your steaks while I've struggled with a spoon. Or your fingers when you try to tame the wildest of my hairs as I try to fix yours too.  

But... The most perfect moments are the ones where you've caught my eye, and quietly, I knew exactly why.

Always, right there, life stopped its drive, just for a little while, before passing the moment by.

3

Have you ever thought of the sky and sea and see the boundless you and me? 

The two, separated by the horizon, always touch but never tango. They tiptoe around unwavering lines, trying not to be more than halfway. Lying parallel, they play, with color reflecting from one, or is it the other? 

But when night falls, and the world becomes quiet, you could not tell the two apart. The darkness merged the sea and sky as the sun slipped away. In the places where darkness screams the loudest, where you can see the two tango, they intertwined gracefully. Stars become buoys and seafoam turns to clouds. Their expanse doubled in those moments, and it almost felt as if the land became islands floating in air.

Let us be our own together and both infinite and endless, apart. Let us silence darkness with dreams as it sighs under the weight of impossibility realized.

Musings 1

It's running, like a giggling child ducking behind the racks of clothing in the mall; or the unbridled horse running past the houses and the forests with the wind in its face; or the fearful victim in a slasher-film whose fate may be sealed by indecision alone.

My dreams make music I can't remember with adventures that I certainly can; both disappearing with the fluttering of my eyes against the morning light. They say that you only have 30 seconds to remember your dreams or they're gone for good. If only I didn't spend those seconds fighting the creeping sun, prying my eyes open with its rays. Silly sun, peeking through my curtains. It's like that giggling child, playing through the clothes; hiding from parents who may or may not be playing, trying to convince me to join the same game.

My imagination changes the images with each sound and sight and smell. The product, a synthesis of the overwhelming sensations that I experienced doing absolutely nothing. Something I'm an expert at, I promise, my sedentary lifestyle taking a toll on my experiences of the outside world and its richness. While I eat my bags and bags and bags of Ruffles: Sour Cream and Cheddar; the artificial tasting flavorings accumulating on my fingers, moist and chalky, my brain races that horse.

It covers a million more miles than this mere equestrian mammal can muster. It travels from the ground to the tips of trees and rivals the might of mountains and scours the skies and untangles unimaginable universes until it is exhausted having received stimuli so overwhelming, it collapses in a fatigued ecstasy that rivals, and may sometimes even best, the physical union of two people: fucking, having sex, making love.

Love, of course, like those horror films, is scary. Not in the presence of indecision but the consciousness and awareness of the exact opposite. Love is the equivalent energy that should be invested into each and every single idea that should grace our presence in our clouded, and often oblivious and arrogant minds. Making love, here, is not the union of two bodies/hearts/minds/souls, but making love is the union of everything in me for this one expression.

If I were to do it now, for any idea that fights for my focus, it wouldn't be love. It would likely do an injustice to the incredible might that my imagination holds behind the dam I call my skull, throbbing due to the lack of water and sleep and stimulation. My fingers itch and twitch and wait. I wouldn't be making love, but robbing these innocent ideas of the greatness I could make them to be.

I'm not the right person now to make them, but I will keep my mind running so it isn't as stagnant as the person I am right now.

Tonight my mind runs reckless, and tomorrow it may fly freely.

But right now, it should join my body in the one place they're together.

In sleep.

2

Darling did you ever think that the streets are letters to the sky? That maybe the turns are the letter U and the lights are where we dot the Is?

Perhaps the cars trace over repeated lines, made anew with the bright headlights. Maybe forks are where I tell you Y and how we didn't see the signs. I don't know all the words these roads spell, but I'm sure there weren't enough of them, as far as I could tell. 

Even as the world turns, the letters are just made anew. Darling, if nothing else, please know that I [street] you.

1

Even as the salt stung her eyes and the sun cracked her lips, she could never reject the sea's embrace. Even as she shook on the earth, her footing was sure at sea. No matter how gently it cradled or how roughly it reached, it always knew exactly what she needed.

The sea knew each curve in her body and it knew each strand of her hair. The sea knew it could not keep her, and it knew she could not stay.

They spent the sunlight together to keep all worries at bay. When dawn became dusk, they lingered in the sand, before she walked away. The sea hesitated, then reached, watching as it pooled in her footprints. No matter how many times they did this, the sea always tried too late.

It's hard to say which was more tragic; as the sea would never leave her, but she could never stay.

welcome to my blog. let's see how all this goes.