Meursault

October

October

October is an attempt to write consistently for a month – an attempt to challenge myself. October may give way to November, or October may close naturally with October 31st.

October may be a month but its referential frame is much wider – this body of work seeks to explore that.

October will signify my thinking born out of this month, my feelings felt during this month and how they translate into print, and images I perceive (in the loosest possible sense, mental and visual – distinction to be had) in October.

October I

Thatch roofs bow with the weight of winters passed. Lead gutters filled with copper leaves gurgle out – an ode to another era. Scythes doomed to fall silent; reeds felled, bundled and tied no more. Old weathered hands rendered superfluous.

Dilapidated farmsteads, dishevelled windmills and grain stores stripped bare vulnerable to the biting cold. Pained moaning – ice born wounds that will never close up. Falling splinters of anonymous stone swallowed whole.

October II

I can look out into the garden and still see only green. If I crane my neck and arch my back I can see the odd brown leaf lying on the purple shingle. Really my periphery is clear of burning oranges, deep crimsons, muddy browns and other more rotten shades – unbent neck, locked gaze, body rooted.

Yet, for every day that I can remember as soon as I slope off down the street I encounter, conkers, fallen leaves, and eternal damp – in short autumn, in length b-e-a-u-t-y.

Two pronged, three forked, and five fingered leaves. Bloated moss. Neglected conkers – too small or too late for those seeking them. Little rain and yet there’s a perpetual gurgling, collective run-off making for an omnipresent pulse that matches my own.

October III

Spluttering coughs, runny noses – at lunch the local pharmacies are doing a lightening trade. The tea and coffee list has been revisited at work – tastes as well as seasons have changed. Figures to watch, people to please, personas to uphold.

Walk away from home. Return home. Perpetual dawn. Perpetual dusk. 9-5 is really 7.30-6 – sun barely risen, sun already set. Half cast shadows spilling over cobbles, concrete and asphalt. Tap and drag of tired feet – zombie walk.

Dinner is in the oven, butternut-squash baked and shared between five. Books to be read under the brightest light of the day. No need to find the cold side of the pillow it’s already kissing your cheek.

 October IV

14.20: A car as inconsequential as a black Toyota Prius becomes a warhead. Another smashing of the peace – or so we expected.

14.30: Searing red headline with more details to follow. Another area in lockdown. Whispers of terror in terror.

The Natural History Museum, South Kensington. People poised and ready for what could have been.

A friend lives nearby, I reach out to her. She doesn’t reply. By the time she gets back to me the red mist has quelled – eye contact broken with the abyss. She was with Hades at the time.

Big Reds story is straight, far less sensational, yet overnight the hero image remains as a man in a forensic smock – fingertips clasping onto the coat-tails of terror.

By mid morning he is released with only the suspicion of dangerous driving hanging over his head. Yesterday was Saturday, today is Sunday, tomorrow will be Monday and  people are worried past worrying.

October V

Autumn leaves are slow burning fires lit absolutely everywhere – an elemental path along which to walk hand in hand with the incremental shortening of days.

Blazing orange gives way to smouldering brown. Smouldering brown gives way to black ash. Black ash gives way to the pale white light of winter solstice – now building can begin again.

October VI

Through the open three paned-frosted glass the post-box red doors draw my eye. After contemplating the depth of the red for a while I rake my gaze back across the churchyard.

The grass is pearled with beads of dew. Damp hems spring to mind despite the stillness of the churchyard – the time of anonymous mourners long since elapsed.

I go to turn away but the apse of the church captures my gaze. Wet sand. Bulging growth. Unsightly scar. The accumulation of pigeon shit or a botched repair? A sole bedraggled blackbird cradling itself.

At this time in September a man had been scrubbing the tombstones, memorials and obelisks. He started early, before I arrived at work. When I sidled out for lunch he was gone.

I remember the steaming water, the ash of his cigarette and his muddy blonde hair – all offset by the motion of his brush over the russet stained stone.

How does one begin to undertake such a task? How does one look past the futility of fighting lichen and moss – the stain that won’t wash off?

I don’t know, but one does…

October VII

The water sits still; many boats are moored up one after the other. Kettles whistle. A woman sits alone, half shrouded by a net curtain – a slight twist to her lips.

An old boy with white hair and rough hands wolfs down his cigarette. He wipes at the condensation on his boats windows with a blue cloth. His head ducks in close to the glass. The ash nearly meets the pane, its own subtle attempt to help things along. As he finishes up he chucks his cloth to his friend. The ash remains sitting atop its mount stoically.

Leaves and twigs ride on the slow moving water, roaches skit below these vast continents. A sign warning of restricted access to pleasure boats marks the base of one arch of the bridge. Across the road sits a pub where beyond the old city walls of Norwich suspected witches were hung and burnt alive.

I walk onto the bridge its flagged in two different patterns as well as cobbled – a mismatch tapestry of stone. Two men, one old, one haggard, mutter together on the other side. As I swing close by I can hear them discussing crack cocaine. One pulls out a pouch, the other looks unsure, they both peer inside.

I press on past rows of pretty houses, converted outbuildings and the back of a school field before emerging into the cathedral grounds. Endless limestone. Pines with fingers stretched to the floor. A women walks towards a corner with an air of ofference, palms facing outwards, arms straight – a banana skin chucked into a black bin.

October VIII

Warmer days, August rekindled out of smouldering leaves. Sun cascading down, curtains swiped open and then drawn shut – too little light, and yet too much for eyes accustomed to grey.

Daytime damp waning, no need to wipe your feet. Mass graves of mulching leaves offered a shot at redemption, reanimated they begin to flutter, like burning butterflies in mid July.

Mowers steered by the bleary eyed gnash at the freckled grass – the last cut of the year. Perhaps one more than last? Memories of insignificant events long since elapsed.

The mercury stretches its back and tips its toes – a high of 20° is achieved. In disbelief the brave quickly light BBQ’s. For them the shortness of days is a mere memory, the impracticality of which lies on another plane. Burning charcoal wisps up into the atmosphere, the toasted smell of the evening as it draws in will enriched by it.

October VIIII

Two days ago, the sky burned orange, sulphur and then grey – apocalypse now. A cosmic harpy flipping through atmospheric filters.

The craning of necks skyward,

The twitching of office blinds,

The countless images taken,

The jokes about the end.

Today the warmth is all but gone but the wind remains and old grey is back. I nip out of the office, I find it hard to focus, where does one look now?

Down. Down at the wet ground and shuffling feet.

Down. At the mushed-up paper and the destitute in doorways.

Walking home back past the cathedral. A woman crouching on the ground between two cars, a phone in the palm of her hand, a sports bag behind her – deadly still except for a single finger scrolling ad-infinitum. A modern-day sphinx.

The cathedral plane is lit up, two burning lights mounted onto two adjacent cobble fronted buildings – one light sits slightly higher than the other. A burning, pulsating hew of water particles dancing in the lamplight. The buildings are too far apart to be Victorian London, or 1900’s Prague, although they give off that illusion. Yet Dickens nor Kafka scurries past.

A limestone monolith, an unthinkable amount of time, skill, weight. Spires like spears with which to kill the gods of old. Inside a choir has started up, loud, clear, beautiful, but hidden from sight. These invisible voices affect me, a sense of knowing which cannot be relayed accompanies me on my drudged walk home.

October X

The vampiric cold nibbles away at my nape. Blood rushes out to my capillaries – rose petal skin. Fingertips soldered to my plastic phone case. Scrolling, clicking, tapping, stretching – the trappings of a modern day acrobat doomed to arthritis and wavering vision.

It is the weekend. A man sits across the aisle on a train, he pants and heaves as he declares to his lover that he has made it on time. He asks her about her lunch and they exchange goodbyes. Five minutes later he is at the bottle – screw top white, one third guzzled down.

The train punctuates the flats which conjoin Norfolk and Suffolk with a juddering purposiveness. Leaves rip by the windows like slithers of starlings. Besides me four cans of own brand larger are cracked and tossed into a bag with haste. All it takes is forty minutes. I depart, he remains – another drink in hand.

Saturday quickly turns to Sunday – an hour gained without any discernible gain. ‘Turning back the clocks’ a phrase sentenced to death, these days clocks turn back themselves – those which don’t are forgotten about. Grandfather calls out at all the wrong times in mothers hallway.

It is four days since we gained an hour and my wristwatch still isn’t up to speed. Who looks at their wrist for the time? Timepiece? Or the creation of another border between thin wrist and plaid sleeve. My desktop clock and the faltering light frame temporality well enough for me.

 

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Antxnia

No bueno.

​Dragged into the shadow-covered brightness,

Memory fails to remind us that 

this:

Is not our destiny.


Consumed by fear of abandonment

And drained of adventurous spirit,

This version of us freezes (and hardens)

Pissed-off at the very core.

Denying what’s what and where’s here

Desiring to be anywhere,

anything but

There.


This path

Twisted, perilous and deluded as it may seem

Has brothers and sisters of varying levels of success

That will, if permitted,

Foster a certain type of understanding

That only a sibling can reveal.


-Fire

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Meursault

Storm.

The wild winds sharp fingers claw at the dully tiled roofs. A thatch house would be preferable, as there would be no piercing sounds. The only reminder of current storm would be the physical wound of the next day – damp bald patches exposing the covering below – bedraggled thatch on the grass. Unfortunately, the suburban setting does not dictate such rural niceties – roof tile, cinderblock, clay brick, asphalt and concrete are the suffocating norm.

The questions asked about the immediate consequences of this storm, due to the surrounding demographic atmosphere, are resultantly rather unwholesome – Will the ‘power’ go out? Will the ‘transmission’ be disrupted? Will the ‘connection’ drop? Will I have ‘service’? Questions asked as if ‘connection’ and ‘service’ where some wondrous wanderers who have unceasingly trudged the earth since time immemorial – another mindless addition to the aggregate of ‘this’ inauthentic life.

Another reason to stubbornly read on…

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Epiphaneotos

You, again

You are the kind of girl people like me write poems about.

We attempt to quench our thirst in imaginary seas,
trying to sail as far away from your smile as we can,
scared you will capture our souls in your deepest waters,
but the wind and current always bring us back to you.

He was not one of us, he couldn’t surrender himself to your holiness.
He didn’t deserve you.

There are plenty of brave souls roaming the seas looking for you,
and the only star guiding them is the brightness of your eyes,
and the only faith keeping them alive is the simple thought of you.

Know that.
You are an ocean, beautifully dangerous.
Mesmerizing.

Many will want to conquer you, and will drown trying.
A few will want to understand you and will worship you.

No one will ever own you. No one will even tame you.

No one will ever break you.

You are an ocean, beautifully dangerous.
Mesmerizing.
Don’t let anyone give you any reason to think otherwise.

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Meursault

Observations II

A new year and already the days draw out, although in sum they’re still usually dull. Three runners pass, each equidistant from the other. Each one trying to lap up the mud and water raised in their competitors’ footfalls like thirst-crazed dogs. I play the role of the indifferent forth in this brief tirade, of nylon garments, polyurethane soles, and perspiration. They tail off into the distance, I return to my walk. My eyes meet three angelic figures sitting on the water of the estuary to the west. Swans sheaved in white, adorned with gilded beaks through which they sift the silt, tempting death from hazardous pollutants or hidden plastics at every gulp. Gulls fly above in the grey light mocking all that they see. Anxiety washes over me despite our difference in kind. Who am I? Hesitantly, I walk on.

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Meursault

Observations

I straddle a chair, and cast an eye over its form. Four poorly manufactured legs stretching down to no real feet just dull wooden ends. The chairs leather has been worn out from the excited motions of sports fans, and the anxious pickings of those who wait for someone who may never arrive. My seat faces the bar, the lone tender looks bemused, his clientele are muttering, shouting, screaming, dying. No, no, they’re not dying, at least not visibly, perhaps internally. I order a drink barely considering my choice, it seems irrelevant, the coolness will envelop most of the taste. The money chinks into the register without me realising I’ve handed it over. After a few poorly executed sips I turn and survey the room. Daylight is fading, the lights are yet to come on, perhaps they’ll never come on. An elderly duo play pool in the corner, their game is rather still, they’re drawling into each other’s ears. The tables’ cloth is worn, and marked by constellations of chalk stain. The cushions looked warped, slightly hunched like the spines of the participants. This scene makes me nauseous. I turn away, another glug of liquid, followed by a breath or two.

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And so it went...

Soul Mate

As I sit and wait for my love to return,

I feel my heart softly burn,

And it stings a bitter sweet sorrow,

I hope for winter, but I’ll take tomorrow,

I know you’re on a wild path,

But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss your laugh,

Nor the way you smile,

When I describe our walk on the Royal Mile,

Soon is the time until we have our own,

And it will be mighty, as previous times have shown,

I know good things come to those who wait,

But it’s different when you miss your soul mate.

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Collection of memories and creativity

Three Insignificant Letters

We have given three insignificant letters
Gathering in circles with broken beggars.
We have given one bemused syllable,
It seems we were always so cynical.
                                                                                   .
The Arabs, they refer to it  as ana’ak,
Throats vibrating, plunging back.
Cutting the air with such guttural thunder
One is left in such resounding wonder.
                                                                                  .
The Indians, they call it Āliṅgana
Tongues embrace the divine whimper
To hold fast; to cling to; to cherish.
These words, they’re made to nourish.
                                                                                  .
So, press your chest to mine my dear,
Our beating  hearts are your call to prayer.
Is it so wrong that I must claw and clutch
For your last, warm inexplicable touch?
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Collection of memories and creativity

“Where Are You From?”

 Momentary pause bathes disappointed thoughts; the steady flow of analytical data I had been gathering screeches to an abrupt halt. Files upon files of presumptions, thoughts, images pushed aside. The gentleman facing me, from what I have gathered, holds his drink a little too tightly and his eyes equally as loose. Often retaining conversation well within the realms of comfort, until now. “Where are you from?” The question poised is constructed to achieve two largely intriguing results. First of all, my tentative companion would like to assess my exterior worth, I am not white therefore my anthropological basis  is questionable. The second reason relates to his inability to comprehend that I may be more like him than he would allow himself to admit. This is all achieved within the safety of a duplicitous question, I give him benefit of doubt and reply “Durham, and yourself?”
                                                                                                                                                                                         .
His answer, is sadly as predicted. Careless eyes scan down, then up. “oh, no – I meant where are your ancestors from?”
                                                                                                                                                                                           .
Ideally, my response would be embedded within some South Asian country, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Bhutan… ect. ect. Upon hearing what he expected he may now consequently reply with some irrelevant bordering racist thought on the days of British colonialism. By doing so he has stroked his anxieties in placing an entire ocean between the fear that  my reality is akin to his own.  A blissful comfort I wholeheartedly embezzle.
                                                                                                                                           .
“Well,  early migration of anatomically modern humans seems to suggest Africa.”
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Meursault

Bobby

Bobby was an intense young boy of four and a quarter years old, although he was unaware of this facet of information connected to the general expanse of his life thus far. You see Bobby is a deaf mute and was held back from entering school the autumn just past. Consequently Bobby hasn’t had much opportunity for relational activity with the other children of this dusty town, in which he is in situ. Bobby spends many of his days on the decrepit front porch of his mothers beaten down, relatively inexpensive property. Naturally Bobby had no awareness of such trivialities but his mom often threated over the life she could hope to provide for her son. Bobby’s father was absent, absent in fact since before his sons’ birth. Bobby’s mom had no clue where his father could be, perhaps he was resettled with another wife and had multiple satisfactory children who had no deficiencies, which even if they did have them would be entirely beyond their control. Or perhaps he was entombed in poorly nailed coffin, with a mockingly honest tombstone stating, “Here lies a man who walked out on his wife at the imminent arrival of their handicapped son.” For Bobby’s mom’s sake one would hope for the latter, although I reiterate Bobby is only obliquely aware of such things. He is too concerned with the seemingly endless vistas available to view from the porch upon which he playes wordlessly day after day.

Today Bobby’s gaze marvels over the corrugated iron roof of the lean to porch upon which he sits like an old polytheistic idol. His eyes graze over the mismatch overhead lining. In places blue tarp covers over breaks in the old rusty overhead, the kind of tarp which can be found almost anywhere without any definite source or purpose. Yellow edges of chipboard exposed to the elements are also visible as part of this fuselage, the source of this being the half stripped kitchen inside the house, which Bobby’s mom couldn’t afford to fully finish. The kitchen now sits in-between identities, half stripped, and half laid fresh with new white lacquer effect cupboards, these being the kind that many may already consider ‘tacky’ or ‘out-dated’ or even downright ‘unacceptable for use’. As one can imagine these sentiments would be those of a rather more obtuse taste in kitchen design, and so we should not frown or cast a disapproving eye over Bobby’s mom’s efforts. Despite this diversion into home logistics Bobby was evidently more contented by his own slice of solitude, out here on the weather beaten porch with the old cracked beams and discordant overhead.

After averting his gaze and letting it gradually glide back towards the overhead setting a few times Bobby felt his stomach call out in hunger. Bobby had not long since had breakfast but he was no stranger to being a nonconformist on the regularity of mealtimes. You see he was rather a large child and often couldn’t wait between meals so he’d rush inside and clutch at his mothers trouser, or hanging jumper and open and close his mouth until food was presented to him. Bobby’s mom always obliged his mute requests but worried over expenses incessantly. She worked late nights at the local bar earning a poor wage, as a ‘perk’ of the job she was turned over night after night by the coarse ritual flirtation of lonely middle-aged regulars, who smelled of sour milk. Regardless of this Bobby’s mom gave far more to her son than those matching more affluent demographics. They had been held up together since his birth and despite his inability to hear or speak they shared a relationship of quietude between the two of them which most others parents could never form at all, or at least not until well past the adolescence of their children. Part of Bobby’s endless charm radiated from his iridescent smile that he often displayed when in contact with his mom. She took this simple twist of his lips in an upward motion as a vastly meaningful expression of his gratitude and this propelled her on ad infinitum.

Bobby now with concern for his stomach turns to begin to step inside but his eye is caught by an odd sight, a man holding his mom. The scene before him isn’t entirely clear, as the windowpanes are dappled with dirt and speckles of black mould, this further disrupts any light that does make its way under the porch. Bobby had a slight inclination that this man could perhaps be of some form of connection to him. Despite his inability to vocalise his thoughts, and perhaps the fact that even his thoughts were silent or wordless he still perceived the lack of a third party, could this man possibly then be his father. Bobby also stumbles across this possibility, he smiles at the instantaneous picture he sets in his mind of the family they could be. However with a second glance Bobby becomes chilled by the image before him, the man clutching at his mother is wild eyed with tiny pit pupils, his lips move in shudders, sickly he whispers into Bobby’s mom’s ear. Her face is wide and hallowed, her jaw jutted, eyes blinded by fear. The man raises a fist containing a blunt object and brings it down with senseless fury onto her upper right temple. Bobby’s mom crashes to the floor, falling beyond the range of his sight. Bobby is cemented to the spot, frozen in terror. Although Bobby may be a deaf mute he still feels the screams of his dying mother in the marrow of his bones. Out of view another heavy blow ends the despairing riving. The murderer rises, stony faced and blind to the world, he makes a hasty exit through the rear of the house without even considering the possibility of a small boy who looks on transfixed.

Bobby uproots himself from his spot and propels himself forwards off the porch through the rickety door and into the kitchen. The pan on the stove is boiling over the water is mingling with far edges of the streams of his mom’s blood. She lays sprawled tragically before him with her skull shattered. Bobby attempts to call out for help but he cannot coordinate the right movements with his tongue, or his mouth. His eyes sting with the deep bitter swells of his tears. His upper lip is distanced from his lower, his pearly white teeth bared, face irreversibly contorted in a soundless howl. Still his bones ring with the blows dealt to his mom, still volumelessly he appeals to the un-answering world. In one final act of desperation Bobby falls down beside his mother and feels for her hand. He pulls her still warm fingers towards his mousey blonde hair, one last absurd moment of comfort, a final touch from his now deceased world.

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And so it went...

Spontaneous prose

So I sat there, and okay I was by myself but I was enjoying myself and that’s more than what most can say when they’re not by themselves, and I realised this fact at the time too which made me enjoy myself even more.

I sat and looked out to the low roofed dark room filled with loud and energetic conversation – everyone is joined with drinks and the accompaniment of this oh so sweet band playing in the background. I think it was the band which made everything seem so much better as they were obviously the focus point of the room – meaning everyone was focusing upon them and they were the happiest guys I saw throughout that whole month. They just loved what they did with a passion which had to be infectious and if it wasn’t infectious then I want to know what they put in the water at this place; probably alcohol actually.

People were sat, standing, dancing and diving, but what was consistent among them all was that they were bouncing a little wherever they were – to the music of course – and they all were just smiling as they spoke and that’s so rare! Who genuinely feels happy in these places these days anymore? These places just don’t seem to do it, and don’t seem to work because of that, but this band did work and that’s what’s so important I think because they were able to put love into their music so as we heard it we were literally being given love straight to us. That’s probably why we loved them so much, just as much as ourselves and the people who listen to us at that time. Conversations just seemed to have a beat and they were beating away in fine harmonisation and synchronisation and man the room just had so much love and elation!

Man, I was alone but that made me so much more at ease as it left me to freely look over each and every little group chat with appreciation, because I had no one else, and appreciated the fact that they didn’t mind me being there in the background raising a glass and smiling if they looked over, and they would do likewise and we’d all nod and then carry on with our lives all the better from the human experience.

Take this guy with rough black hair; actually just so happy to sit in front of the band with a drink on the table.

I look further over and there’s this blond in a pretty dress which has hearts in uniform replication all over it and this just makes me feel as though she needs someone to replace all of those cotton stitched hearts with one real beating heart that would love her and their love would be going to the beat of their hearts and the beat of this music – idealism is wonderful. She probably has someone though, someone who’s given her all of these hearts on her dress and she probably adds them as often as they’re given – which is probably lots and hence the uniform pattern.

Or maybe I’m wrong, and what’s right is staring me straight in the face, which is that I could be that guy? Although I’ve had some drinks and I feel I could just be my own kind of guy and making myself the greatest guy on the planet at that, so I should be cautious to not annoy her in a incorrectly assumed opinion of myself.

But I go over.

“Hey,” Damn she’s prettier than I originally thought and she’s now smiling the cutest and most welcoming smile I’ve seen, which is ironic because it’s scared the hell out of me and I trip up on my words, “going, how it is?” I say, cool as ice and she has no idea I’m drunk or nervous.

But the gal plays it hard, “Good. You?” I realise I have to up my game and match her tempo, tempo! Music, and, what’s more, dancing.

“Wanna dance?” That was the moment that for the first time in my life I was able to switch on and sober up at the call of my will, look her right in the eye and with a surety I’d never felt before I was able to ask someone a question which was so well asked it may as well have been a gentle command which couldn’t be ignored or denied.

She leaned back in her chair, smiled a curiously enticing smile which I thought was her thinking over how I’d just changed into the person who was now in control of the situation she was moments ago in control of – she was stumped but impressed.

“Sure. You know how?” I like this girl.

“It kind of just happens, my dancing that is, so gotta hope it happens right.”

“Well let’s hope, but if not, I’ll look after ya. Come on.” She’s won, but I win because I did well for someone like me.

“Yes ma’am.”

She might have led me on to the dance floor, but I still got her there.

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Meursault

Fly you hopeful souls.

The lively green tips of the now flourishing summertime branches offer me hope. For since before anyone could notice, until no one will care to consider the earth, will push forwards its soul in everything instance of this godless and yet mesmerising divinity. It is sacred land upon which we physically walk and yet unconsciously step, and yet despite these mechanical movements that frame our lives some tender minds still find hope. This hope is a conscious hope for something more than this, and yet I suppose really it is always less. Perhaps however I talk of a place beyond comparison, a place of marginal existence, which is only heard in the echo of this always to be imperfect tense. This hope is carried on feathers born of infinity’s edge, upon these wings shaded with moonlight cream and tipped with quartz we shall sail towards this soulful horizon. But one must wonder who will dare to fly?

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Collection of memories and creativity

Lamentation

I unlock my phone and there she was, beautiful as the first day I met her, sitting on the beach with her hair loose and her body open, looking into the distance, waiting, calling. I remember that day as if it were yesterday; the sea gulls circled our bodies as they danced to the song of the crashing sea. Breaking apart into the love we never needed to proclaim. A tear forms at the corner of my eye as my heart begins to fade. The only energy I can produce manifests in a quiet whisper, resonating the waves that crash against my broken body.

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And so it went...

When you know that the simplest description is the one you don’t think about

If only this ringing which surrounds me and cuts through the sky like lightning and pain and all things which we fear not just because of their reality, but also because of their speed, would slow and clear and know that if only they slowed, we would fear them so much less, because such things move quickly enough for us to know they are not within our control. But it cuts so deep. I tremble with tears balancing by my eyelids and quivering, as I quiver too, and place a test upon the capability of my muscles to tremble also, and I grit my teeth as I tremble with an anger which is more sad to look at than to fear – it’s not something we should fear at all, apart from the sobering fact that it could be felt in us one day.

I stop gritting my teeth though, and exhale, and look around so lost and sad and I don’t know what I see, how can I? And I cry though, still – how can we not? It’s so easy and it spins us into such a delirium and we forget about all things, even the things we were crying about in the first place.

I feel I know Pain, I see him so often now. He walks alongside me, sometimes ever so gently that I mistaken him for someone else, and at these times I let him know my thoughts. He uses this information like a poisoner seeking to know that element which would work to greatest effect, and oh what an effect he uses the things I tell him. I must be partly to blame then? Aren’t we all? But if ever I see the world and see that it beats so violently with happiness and passion and so much love, then I know that I can live an existence alongside Pain for however long Love asks me to, because it’s all a plan, really – not ever devised by us, but we’ll do, with respects to our parts played in its actualisation that is.

But those muscles which did so well in helping my erupting heart to shake my world, now seem tired with life too, and they let my world collapse on the floor alongside my poor mind which seems to be just by itself down on the concrete, among the dust and the smaller stones which get stuck in the cracks of the floor. But all of me – apart from that part which you hold – all that remains of me, I suppose it’s not much, is now so exhausted and tired and just lies there on the floor. And I feel so sad looking down over myself, that unfortunate being, who is ever so fragile and more so than one would think by just looking. Because inside that head there is a conscious mind fully aware of the tragedy which it is playing a part in. It’s okay, I wish to say, but it’s me already I am speaking to, and I look down upon myself anyway, and I know that it’s okay; but knowing a reality, and realising what it means for you, are two very different things.

Maybe with time? (Exhale)

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