It's not a journey you take fool-heartedly. It's one that takes appropriate courage, and lunacy. A common cause of soul, and flesh; this thing we not of until we find it, sends us on this journey. A merciless voyage, wrought with peril at every turn. Not of mortal danger, but of something much worse: heartache. A pain so deep that it can not be mended by any medicines, and leaves a scar so deep that it can not be covered. This is but one danger we must face along this solemn campaign of the spirit.
We, however, need not face it alone. We shall make many a comrade on this trip, and that is the hardest part...
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Finding Peaches on the Moon...
It happened something like this...
We met. Not consequential, not without meaning.
Lost. Eyes, fires, and road signs.
Still looking. Frantically searching for that one true.
You. Standing there, 1,000 yard stare.
Dare. Yes, found, happy, safe.
I wish I could say that was it. Stream of consciousness poem? I'm not sure where to go from here, so I'll keep walking, off into the squandered light of a dieing star. Hell, rise up, for you'll find no resistance here. It's already lost...
We met. Not consequential, not without meaning.
Lost. Eyes, fires, and road signs.
Still looking. Frantically searching for that one true.
You. Standing there, 1,000 yard stare.
Dare. Yes, found, happy, safe.
I wish I could say that was it. Stream of consciousness poem? I'm not sure where to go from here, so I'll keep walking, off into the squandered light of a dieing star. Hell, rise up, for you'll find no resistance here. It's already lost...
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Midnight in a Perfect World...
The sky is lit up. The moon, so bright that it makes sharp shadows of everything below it, crosses the sky in low arch, almost touchable. On this particular night stands a lone figure in a sleeping city. The streets empty of life, save this one figure. He stands
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Not Without Meaning...
It's Sunday, the day of many's religious revivals before starting their week of sinful activities over again. I know not why I'm writing this. I should be celebrating, happy for my good fortune, but I know not why I have these feelings of regret. Not for my actions, but something deeper, as if I'm changing one other's winds of fortune. Why must it be this way? Can we not be passive observers, or must our observations always enact some force on the event?
Today is not a day without meaning, but it's one that I've yet to discover.
Today is not a day without meaning, but it's one that I've yet to discover.
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