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| Sunday, May 30, 2004 |
| Well Worn |
| posted @ 03:35:00 MDT by bryn |
| What's with the dark and creepy espionage of the soul, the elusive subversion of what is real and deep? The things that should most bring us together are all too often only practiced in moments alone, in hidden places, sometimes hiding right in front of the onlooking everything. Why else are we here again? It's a trifle with the ultimate exposure at stake... The risk a half-empty treasure feigning life, warmth, and sharing... So close yet only ever only close. Maybe that's the rush, knowing it could just suddenly explode into being or not being? That contrived fear of being found out but in a way that can only happen by yourself to yourself. Perhaps one of those times you open your eyes the dream will not wash away in the awakening wave of apathetic whatever. Maybe tomorrow will come for once without an ache for yesterday and rolling over and going back to sleep really will seem like a waste. Maybe facing yourself and only yourself again won't be so... Again. |
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| Monday, May 24, 2004 |
| The Matter of Forever |
| posted @ 02:27:00 MDT by bryn |
| Are those times left only living in the marked past? That feeling of flying - almost more like floating - in broken slow motion yet ripped away far too fast... Trips to nowhere down winding, purposely slow back roads. It doesn't matter the destination because you're together and you'll be together when and even if you get there. The radio emotes some song you both love or perhaps only the rolling flutter of the wheels and wind is the sound. You lay back in the seat and let go of everything, everyplace, and everyone else and only drinking deep of this moment and more of the same seem owed. In hope it is forever. In reality it is but a breath. There is no sweeter or fuller air to breathe so deep. The perfume of a new summer's life lives in bloom, reaching for everything around it, the sympathetic concert of life embraced in life. You put your hand out the window and let it fly in the breeze with your spirit, cupping the elusive rushing warm wind in your palm. In the rear view the tall grass bends in waves behind, settling still with the weight of seconds passed. It all just seems to not only fit but wants to. It reaches for more and pulls you forward, wanting for a tomorrow like today or a today like forever. At the same time you don't want to be robbed of sharing a new sunrise and a new sunset. It's a precarious balance of holding on and letting go all at the same time. I don't want to think that I had my last. I don't want to think that I let go when I should have held on. It might be worse to think that I was let go of. Somewhere in that release lay the real being. |
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| Monday, May 17, 2004 |
| At Least Living (by One Account) |
| posted @ 00:06:00 MDT by bryn |
| Within these strange moments there's a break in the indifferent curtain and just barely out of the corner of a wanting eye's turning are glanced the fluttering folds of the heavy material settling the moment after their holding hand from behind has let go and let it fall. You wonder not only if it was that particular hand but even if it happened... A moment blindly and irrevocably spent. What is the worth of knowing over wondering? Why is hoping so empty in it's painted beauty? Is there something to be gained by closing the back cover of an unwritten book? I already know the empty pages by broken heart. Denial may just be the internment of the inevitable by willful ignorance and foolish hope in protest of reality... At least it seems to masquerade as hope and lies to the hopeful so cruelly, and deeply. So, is having the map really that bad even if the landmarks are unfamiliar and strange? It's already so wonderful next to wondering if that Something even exists, yet the trailing edge is deceptively sharp and quick to follow. At least it's a motivation based upon sweet intention without malice and held in the embrace of hope. At least. That's it's simple but muddled value at very least, boiling it all away to the barest root. It's no less than the spark that life shines from - a shimmering star of hope in the absent blackness. It may seem like the wrong type of desperation, but maybe it could be, and why else are we? There must be something to be... At least that's the hope talking. |
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| Thursday, May 13, 2004 |
| Spending a Life without Living |
| posted @ 03:13:00 MDT by bryn |
| The empty end of whatever holds nothing, and, not lives, but exists for nobody and nothing... Because manufactured deference is falsely shelled by it. As we risk it all on our own safety the only gain is hollow hope for a step closer with the sight of our true eyes and a sheepish reach with an honest and plain, open hand... And a heart of suit. |
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| Monday, May 10, 2004 |
| Conductive Translucency |
| posted @ 00:50:00 MDT by bryn |
| Did you ever notice how sometimes a tree grows right around a streetlight and at night the entire tree looks like it glows? Moving on... The thing that puzzles me most immediately about the conundrum is that there's no amount of effort, discipline, or logic that can solve it. Anything worthwhile - love, happiness - must just happen on it's own. While there may be work to be done in keeping it and appreciating it, there's no way to make it happen. It will be on it's own if it is to be at all. |
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| Monday, May 3, 2004 |
| Flow |
| posted @ 01:25:00 MDT by bryn |
| All is momentary, temporary: Brief flashes of being flow by as our river rushes downstream, carving deeper into the banks of our remaining time. What is important? Those few beautiful moments you share in shell of a smile with someone who cares about you. More so, knowing another such instant shall come, and when it does, doing your best to fight the current and hang on to that place as long as you can. |
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