The fog on the hills, the silhouettes in the distance, all so clairvoyant yet transient.
Why are you turning to a ghost? I can see through you, see your heart. It’s so black and dead.
I pray that I still have my opaqueness, for I could handle no report on how my heart looks.
The wind cascaded in my ear and whispered secrets to me. Its a rite of passage, a gauntlet. Speaking to the Wind is a gift, one welcomed within my life. The brisk and chill air on my shoulders, my lips chapped, and my heart pumping blood fast.
Dreams, dust, destitute. These are the words and the thoughts of the wind, harnessed only by translation.
There was a beautiful wind in the world today; cold, brisk, and filled with the skeletons of dead leaves. I remember these days all too clearly; a dark remnants of a season long overdue. The nights are dark, the toilet seat is cold, and my bed lie dormant as my cold body lay in the mountain of blankets. The layers are so thick and my resolve clear.
My month that will be spent entirely at home is drawing nearer, and I have been finding myself searching desperately for projects that will allow my mind to wander into a creative realm. They are merely distractions, for those are the memories that keep me going. That is the fuel that makes me successful.
Perhaps the world was right about.
Foolhood manifested at the worst time…
I shall write things no one except myself can understand. Things that are elusive and escape the reader. The dots are only for me to connect — no one else.
These are the hopes and wishes of a dying flower. To rot in a field of beautiful green and dream of those blue skied days. The butterflies passed the flower over, forever searching for that sweet nectar of a distant rose.
Thorns and weeds about; there is a dark mood in this patch of land. For it is tainted and unable to be remended into that once beautiful garden.
These are the hopes and wishes of a dying flower. To plea to the grasses and shrubs around it to grant it shade from the cruel sun. Even that heavenly gaze is enough to burn its skin. Brown, powdery, dead.
Nothing is left, except a beetle’s haven…
In continuation with an ongoing theme that has been ringing behind my eyes for a few months, I would like to point out a few things. Actually, they are more observations than anything.
It is incoherent for on individual to assert the perfect love match, backing it up with ongoing quotes and anecdotes from the internet and/or the media infused bull shit everyone is fed. I want to smack everyone who has this beautiful picture of love that was created from observation outside of their experiences.
Let us fall back and collect these moments that are treasured on high. For example, do not assume you are a catch worth catching. Do not believe you have someone perfect for you on this earth. You may have one, but chances are, they are deceitful and not who they wish to be seen as.
It is the cruel way of the world. Get over the emotions and toughen up. Become a might fortress non can penetrate.
The weekend was hot and full of reunions. It was calming to get back to a time when things were a little bit simpler. Too bad those times can never truly be achieved again. Times with the family are rought right now. I guess it has become time for me to slip into the background for a few months.
The days are getting hoter.
Bugs chirping in the distance, the fog rolling off the water, the rocks singing in the mist. This is the catalyst of a one crucial moment in my life; the revelations of nature.
It was once a policy of the woods to welcome those whom enter it freely. Now, we strip this benefit from ourselves, leaving the branches to bend only with the wind. The rocks go unharmed, the leaves fall, and the animals fear us.
These are ther revelations of my new day; raw, rigid, and unexplored. I wish to reignite this moment, trying to transcend everything that bogs my mind down this second. It’s hard to return to that shore on that small island I sat upon years and years ago. Outcast, destitute, watching the rocks from an old clay factory wash up on the shore.
These are my dreams no more.
In the days of my past, I use to run through damp fields of grass. Your blonde hair blew in the wind, and we stumbled throughout our campus, drunk, laughing with glee. The night was brisk, but the vodka in our coffees made the night last forever.
It was pure dream as I recollect on these moments. I recall so much about this short span in my life; fifteen minutes at most.
That’s how much you meant to me.
We rolled around in your bed, watching our silhouettes cast shadows in the moonlight. All was as it should be. The TV was static and the blood flowed through every inch of my body. The heat from you was almost enough to keep me warm in a dark January night.
The clouds passed, and the moonlight stuttered. And I made my descent back to normality.
