Musings

I want to express myself, and allow the emotions and passion to flow freely.  Yet, logic keeps it all locked away in a closet.  How do you express yourself, when you yourself, are your own sabateur?  Why do I try to force the words out anyway?

It's a need!  Logic may find irrelevance in emotions, and Logic may try to  rationalize it all away. However, those emotions still remain.  There is no escape!

Muse, my muse... where have you gone?  I feel something, a slight tremor of longing.  It's locked within the confines of the inner chambers of my heart.  Dramatic I may be, but you are inspiration itself.  You awaken, and brought forth the rebellion against Logic.  

Yet you left, and returned me to a state of boredom.  Passion has gone into a coma, and I'm stock focusing on facts... interesting as they may be, and helpful they are... they still don't let out the pressure that builds within.  Logic stuffs it all down, as illogical as that sounds.  Logic does not truly know how to deal with emotions, powerful irrational emotinos.  Logic wants to keep it's grasp and not slip away into realm of dreams.  

Where does happiness lie?  Is it inside the heart?  Is it inside the mind?  Is it  during a sunset on a overcast day?  Or a smile upon loves face?  Perhaps it's even in a simple laugh?  I've seen it in a glance, within eyes, within a voice, and with a touch.   Happiness is not perpetual, it's rather finitite.   Limited to moments, that should be treasured. 

Inspiration.  Oh, the lack of it brings one into the depths of despair.  Why though?  What is the point of despair?  To open ones eyes that Hope should not be let go of.  Pessimism haunted me for far to long.  Optimism is way too naive.   Candide followed the philosophy of optimism, and I shall not blind.  However, there is always hope..  I hold on to it, belieiving that inspiration shall be breathed into me.

I want to express myself, and some day I shall.  Instead of struggling and fighting within myself, perhaps everything will join forces to illuminate a balanced truth, and create a brilliant piece of work that would be admired for the ages.  Perhaps it will never be admired, at least it would be written.  Expression complete, pressure relieved, and I blissfully retreat into the night.  

I can dream. :)

Pity Party?

Why is it that everything seems to be slipping through my grasp?  Why do I do everything backwards? Questions that need to be asked and reflectwed upon.  This  is not a pity party, this is a transition into a new era.  Just put an end to the drama.

Love rips through the heart like a flash of lightning.   Is disturbs and distrupts everything, leaving you standing there in shock and dismay.  How unromantic, I would assume one would say.  Quite the contrary, this is why the romanctic always has unhappy endings.  Think about Romeo and Juliet, ahh... why does romance always have to end so tragically?  Is happiness really only found in fairy tales?

I doubt that highly. Not withstanding cynicism, because I know plenty of people with self-focused hearts.  Maybe we all are, but happiness can be touched here on earth.  I have touched it, and I have seen it.  I've tasted it, and experienced it.  That's what makes it so special, the absolute finiteness about it.  Not that happiness couldn't less, it's just that it has it ups and downs.

It's a cycle of life, right?  Joy comes and goes like people in our lives?  Even our lifes have an end, but we live!  It makes our lives that much more precious.  Am I wrong?  I don't believe so.

Love, it's out there.  It's waiting to be grasped, to be held, to be treated with gentleness, and  shown sweet affection.  Believe me, it will return to you a feeling of absolute bliss.  Even if it's only momentary, your heart will forever be enslaved.  Yes, I did compare love to a slaver.  Afterall, we don't always willing give ourselves to love, it just "happens."  We're "blindsided."

Whatever the excuse is, love happens.  Then time goes by, and then someone in that relationship questions the other.  Perhaps time passed by and boredom sinks in.  Maybe it's just love does not last?  Oh, but it does... I know it does.

There is a mark it places in your heart.  It forever leaves an indentation, or better yet, a scar.  You'll never be healed from the affects of love.  If you graps it with another who feels the same, it may last forever, or there may be moments where it vanishes into thin air.  Have you ever tried holding onto anything that you can't really get a grip on?  That's what it is like when it dissolves into air.  It just slips through your fingers and you fill up with anxiety trying to keep it from falling away.
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What is the moon but a muse?
Shining pale white inspiration,
Bringing forth imagination.

The moon sails across the sky,
Black ocean night reflecting
Glimmering dancing lights.

Tonight the moon stands alone,
Crescent before it fades,
Lost and erased,
Starting anew.

What is the moon but a muse?
Inspriation in perpetual motion,
Beauty and awe in the sky.
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Love is the moon.  It marks it place in your heart, captures your imagination, inspires you to conquer and live.  Love is the moon in the sky, lighting the darkness of the night.  It helps you see what you can barely make out.  It helps you feel the currents within your veins.   Feel the roar of your heart, crying out like the ocean. Powerful, yet alone... filled with things that seem impossible.  It's there, inside you... feel the moon, feel the pull... gravity can't stop love.
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Only you can stop it.  You can prevent it, or you can sabotage it.  Yes, it takes two to make it work. Yet, it's you in control of yourself.  Love is a powerful magnet, and if you reverse polarity of one, it will push the other away.

Why?
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To cry out, and hear no answer. To shut down, and feel no power.  There is no drive, there is no force, there is no pity.  There is only silence.  Unbearable, heart wrenching, destructive and sincerely cruel silence.

Silence, there is nothing worse.  It strangles the imagination with doubt and second guesses.

Writer's Block

It arrived with the wind.  How else would random events come about?  I sat there in the warmth of a still winters day.  Strange weather it was, but the beauty of the setting sun was breath taking.  It would one hour before the tow truck arrived, but it didn't matter.  I wrote, and I wrote more, and perhaps one day I shall share those words.

I felt free for the first time, sitting there in my car with the door open.  The battery completely dead, and nothing but the wind bringing forth a peaceful sound.  It was a true moment of awakening, and quickly I fall back asleep, returning to the every day routine of life. 

Where is the creativity?  Between school and work, there lies nary a small amount of any.  Hard on oneself is a necessity to refine, and cleanse one to become even more, right?  Or does it just beat you down until you no longer know why you created to begin with?

It arrived with the wind, and with the wind it left.  Silence, it remains.  A recurring nightmare that will haunt every night for eternity. Where are the words?

There is a man upon the sand, 

That falls through the hands of time. 

He patiently waits for a friend,

Who never was, and never will,

Help him while he's ill.

There is a woman in the sea,

She drifts from here to there,

Doesn't have a single care,

She never was, and never will,

Be anything but an empty shell.

The two once met upon the shore,

They listened to the ocean roar.

Smiles came upon their face,
Both their pains seemed erased,

She felt full, and he not alone,

Then the tide changed, 

And she left for home.

No message did she send, 

The man cried out again,

And again, uselessly to the wind.

No answer was returned,

And she floated gently with the current.

Will they ever meet again?

Doubtful, for there are no friends.

Only empty shells in the sea,

Floating aimlessly.

There is a woman in the sea,

She drifts without sincerity.

Desperate, she is alone,

Reaching for her home,

Only to find nothing there.

There is a man who once stood,

And is now is upside down,

Sinking deeper into the ground.

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I wandered into the sea, searching for what was once me.  

Seeking the truth that I had held, and the integrity that had failed.  

Somewhere along the way, the waves grew and blocked my view,

Lost and confused, I struggled to continue through.

I thought I saw a Dove appear, but it quickly disappeared -

Vanished straight into the sun, and I wandered here,

And I wandered there - there was not a place my mind did not dare

To venture to and fro, there was no place I did not go.

I awoke upon the sand, listening to a man -

Telling me that I'll be alright, just not to give up the fight.

I looked around, and could barely see -

Accept the image upon the sea. 

The Forgotton

"I wish I was normal," Writ said. "I just want to be normal, like everyone else."  Sadness crept in him as he stared outside through a darkened window.  The sun was creeping up over the hills revealing the truth of his difference.

Indifferent towards the world outside because "they" mocked him with life, by living in the light. He fled from it by staying in doors.  He peered out to watch people as they went about their days.  He lived vicariously through his neighbors, dreaming that he too, was among the living. 

Once dusk fell, Writ would wander out into the busy city streets.  Unable to relate to others, he kept to himself, and stayed as quiet as one can.  He would sit in restaurants and listen to conversations.  This was his favorite thing to do, as it gave his imagination ammunition to create characters for his dreams.  Story lines for what could be, what might be, and what really has been.

He was observing and listening to a couple argue inside a restaurant.  The woman accused the man of having an affair, and the man was denying it with an immense passion. The man stood up, yelled some vulgar words,  shook his head with an absolute look of disgust on his face, and then admitted to doing everything he was accused.  The woman sat there sobbing into her hands.   The man had confessed his sin to the whole restaurant, and he walked straight out the restaurant door. Everyone stared in disbelief at the scene that just unfolded. 

A waitress came over, handed the woman a tissue, and told her, "Everything is on the house."  The owner walked over next and gave the devastated woman a shot of whiskey.  He sat down and began to talk to her as if he knew her.  Writ comes here every night for a cup of coffee, and the owner acts like he knows everyone. 

It was all a real spectacle to Writ.  He couldn't relate, especially when the owner became a little too comfortable with the broken woman. It was twisted to Writ, that a man could be such a vulture in that situation.  There was no real compassion.  "This is the norm," he whispered to himself.

The norm, why was it he wished to be normal again?  Heartlessness seemed to be the norm, and it was disturbing to him.  Writ paid for his coffee, and took off into the night.  He wandered the streets, wondering how people can be so cruel.  Is it just a natural human characteristic that leads to self-serving?  Is it a survival mechanism built into humans that cause them to behave in such disgusting manners. 

This was a mild scene he witnessed this night, compared to other nights. He walked the streets for hours, and always made it home before the sun rises.  Writ did not understand his purpose, nor why people avoid him.  He was a good looking man, but it seemed to him that he must possess some type of demeanor that kept people away.  Never did he suspect that he should approach someone and begin a conversation, as he never felt he knew what he would say.

That changed the next night at the restaurant, when he saw a a dark haired woman wearing sunglasses at night, and she was oblivious to everyone else in the restaurant.  He couldn't really tell what she was doing, it was either writing or drawing.  That piqued his interest, so he stood up with his coffee, and sat down next to her.  

"What are drawing," Whit asked. 

She responded, "You."

Whit was shocked.  There, on her pad of paper was a drawing of him.  She turned the page, and there was another drawing from him the night before. She turned the page again, and again... the drawing pad was all images of him.  He was taken aback.  

March 2nd, 2014 - Impromptu Beginning of a Short Story

In shock, in utter silence, and a completely alone I stood.  A pool of liquid was gathering upon the tile floor.  It was dripping from the ceiling, which didn't make any sense as it hasn't rained in four months.  All that was above was an empty attic, so I stood over the liquid to investigate.

It was thick and red, as if it was blood.  I stood over it, and saw a vague reflection of myself.  My nose felt like it was running, so I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and wiped.  Blood begin to pour out of my nose quickly, so I ran to the bath room.  I stood there looking at the mirror, and the whites of my eyes had turned a deep dark red.  My lips cracked into thousands of pieces, the skin on my face paled over, and my nose stopped bleeding.