Friday, July 3, 2009

Quenched, Salvaged

Familiarity tastes so sweet in this realm of despair.
Further, what s familiar is not always true.

What is a familiar face but a reflection of light?
Closeness, shared affliction, a connection that is never the same.

Love is only a piece of it, if it is a factor of it at all.
The intimate touch of the memories
to the warmth of a singular moment in time.
The feeling that a familiar face can bring about is necessary for love, in fact, it may be more comforting than true love.

What is more interesting is the passing of time
and how it quirks the view of what was real.
Realness is never true, but only emulated.
So perhaps there is no such thing as real.

Maybe we can be familiar with those whom we wish not to be.
Perhaps this can mean more than it should.
A connection between the human psyches of two people.
Any two people, this is the relation that holds us together.
Then why do men pursue death?
Perhaps they get lost.

Perhaps they are scared that they can connect with someone with such intimacy.
They are unfaithful.
Haunted by their relation to people in excess of one.

Who should worry?
Why should men not indulge in this metaphysical state of love?
The idea of passion can be pursued in a dream.
Even in consciousness.

Until the threshold is met, where familiarity turns into the Forgotten.
A transformation ensues, until one can no longer comprehend.
And then all feeling is lost.
One is alone.

But there is hope for man.
Familiarity may turn to truth.
Perhaps the emulator can become reality.
And man can worry not to the Forgotten.

A feeling so real cannot be altered.
A man will stand strong in his faith.

Monday, April 6, 2009

eight...

and perhaps it is in fact other humans that make you feel alive.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

i wish i could jump forward, fall back, and stop in the eternal moment.

================================================

perhaps life is not a journey. perhaps life is a dissarray of random events that coincidentally seem to relate. |perhaps love is not a feeling towards another. perhaps love is feeling unconditional bliss amongst yourself in the presence of a friend. perhaps being in love, and loving are the same thing. |perhaps sadness is not feeling a lack of contempt. perhaps sadness is when it feels as though you are being rejected, unaccepted, let go; by people and by the world. |perhaps a heartbreak is not your heart being in pain. perhaps a heartbreak is your heart preparing to be joyful, training so hard that it hurts. |perhaps light does not break darkness. perhaps darkness dissipates in the presence of light. |

perhaps.

==================================================

Sunday, July 6, 2008

savor the sun

savor the sun

small, small child,
don't you grow up.
the world is big, too big.

remain in your innocence. remain innocent.
sleep tight, converse with your angels.
dream a dream with wings. big wings.

dance when your heart hears a melodic melody.
laugh with sincerity; cry when you are sad.
smile loudly. smile because joy overwhelms your soul.

play and play and play until you tire.
share your toys.
they're just toys, in fact. only toys.

paint a picture. a beautiful picture.
color outside the lines.
show the world your art. your heartfelt art.

squeeze so, so tightly when you give a hug.
kiss without shame, so light and airy.
love with your whole, whole heart.

savor the sun. and the moon. and the stars.
let the sunshine shine, and fill you with warmth.
and in the silence, savor your silent peace.

sing so sweet. so sweet like sugar.
your voice can overcome mountains.
don't act. act on your will

be free, child.
dear child,
be free.


-
j

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Emily Dickinson

She dealt her pretty words like Blades

She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
How glittering they shone —
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone —

She never deemed — she hurt —
That — is not Steel's Affair —
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —
How ill the Creatures bear —

To Ache is human — not polite —
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom —
Just locking up — to Die.

-Emily Dickinson