And so it went...


“I’m sorry.” She said, with a soft and apologetic tone; almost a cry, but with less energy, I would say.

He said nothing in response, not out of a reserved anger, but because of a contemplation. He sat across from her. Leaning his weight forward, he rested his forearms upon his thighs. His fingers met in the middle and were interlocked. They were in sad wanting for a place to feel secure.

The mountains changed form, the wind blew, and the trees slowly swayed to one side, and back; he said nothing – Silence stood by, and was witness to this.

A change, slight, but still change. A thought emerged into his mind in a graceful and considered appearance, and this thought remained, reiterating its intention with a calm whisper.

He inhaled, holding the air purposefully in his chest; it was held there and recycled into something new. Once its evolution was fulfilled, he let it free; consciously, he ushered it on.

He lifted his head and looked to his surroundings, over to the corner, down to the floor, across to the window, and finally, to the central figure of his life, who stood just as those beautiful roses do; in an air of strength, but in reality, a soft figure; flowers have petals, but some also have thorns.

“I’m sorry,” she said once more, thinking he was angry. “I don’t know what I was thinking, please.”

The desperation of a genuine plea echoes externally, moving from place to place, asking for acceptance like a beggar in need of that smallest portion of food. Then the plea is received, found, and returns to the vocation of an echo, an internal and desperate echo; over and over, the Waves explain how they are being forced by the Moon to beat upon the Beaches, who stand in vulnerable and changing presence, and the Waves ask for forgiveness.

He now heard his whisper talking with her plea, and they conversed, they reasoned, and at last the plea understood. He rose. He walked towards her with smooth passion for the one whom he loved; it caused the walls and all the life around them to blur into a wave of trickling colours.

She stood. She looked at him, ignoring the uniqueness of the World, which now danced for them in apology for its imperfection.

He was close; mere inches away. Their hearts beat through their bodies, and found themselves feeding the floor with a strong sense of timing.

Looking, deeply, but with a tender sense of appreciation, he saw every part of her life.

“It’s okay.”

His voice was hard and rough as it fought to politely ask Silence to leave. Once his words touched upon her melancholy consciousness, he followed them, and as grace falls to the divine in worldly aptness, their lips met.

It wasn’t a most beautiful of moments. The world didn’t stop and their hearts beat on regularly. But it was comfortable, familiarity is comfortable.

It went on for a short while, as most comfortable things tend to do, and when they parted, Silence came to protect the moment; his whisper, however, was outside of Silences command.

“I’m sorry.” She uttered one final time.

Once a river finds a new route, does it return to its old one?

“It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.”

When the rains return, that dry and unused river bed can flow ferociously with life again; the river has changed though, its body is altered, and it is something else.

And so it went...

Comfort which comes on a breeze and then goes just as quickly

But it never really felt like something I could have done anything about. It was like trying to keep butter cool by holding it in your hands; the more effort you make, the worse everything gets.

Ironically, it’s really rather bitter being your own poison, and your strength making matters all the more deadly. What do you do?

‘Shh, don’t you see? You do nothing, for there is nothing more to be done. It’s okay, you are love.’

Ossídio Gaspar

The Template of You

There is a confessional writer in me, dead to the certainty of experience, erect like a temple, as a shelter to the recovery, looking more perfectible over time, reminded of most of the things for which there is no possibility of reminiscence, living in memory of what has no space in living memory, but grows into a world of guaranteed illusions, better stabilised with the thoughts that carry the distance of their motivation to the obfuscation of their appropriate origins, and stand still as they bring the maturity of the faculties to a standstill, and leave me covered in what they have no longer the chance to recover, but continued still with every meaning towards doing so, where I restart myself in admiration of this grand achievement in architecture, and lay down within the template showing me the building of something quite new, from the craft of a thousand years either side of my own destiny, by which times all will be crossed out to the advanced effect of a final and truly impossible recovery, and my exterior will have become bones, and these bones become some incomprehensible dust relaying a later original ground from which other such works will stem, as confessional as they are alive, as foreign as they are understood, works of the material chaos shifting between what is always already dead to memory and what consequently dies within memory, with clearer thoughts about this, set to the continuous work of their creative imperfectionism, under the impression, and also just under the expression, to erect another temple that lacks just as much description as all these others, as mine I am confessed to, but standing still longer than in that stillness my body can lay, but just as dead and dusty when I fall under an eternal sleep in that supine disposition, the pillars, the foundations, the roof, tumble and break-down, crumble and settle-down, they are corrupt with the work of my own doing, as weak as the things I cannot remember and fail to keep memory with, in myself, whence the line of sight is cleared again and dead to the certainty of an experience which there seems to be more so otherwise, more so than otherwise, as imperfectible as it was never perfectible otherwise, but now from the illusions which failed to remember themselves, too, from the thoughts that had to live in the memory of the memory that could live not, nor be lived, everything seemed more stable when stability was a thing conformed instead, and everywhere, like a grand temple of architectural wonderment, was the chance to reminisce about what I could not remember, if something that still looked like you, whilst I lay in my own mortal creations.