For the road

The farther away I go
From the ‘burnt-out ends of smoky days’ of my city,
Along the curving asphalt lines,
Whereupon white dashes mark a disregarded divide,
With interminable rivers of gold and green on either side:
The closer I come to believing,
Believing that I will do the things I want to do.
I will do the things that I want to do.

For the sea, shore and (sinking) sun

The colour of this setting sun, gold to tangerine to crimson:
How its reflection paints the surface of the waves like a child with water colours.

The clear sky, blue to indigo to black, streaked with wisps of snow white clouds:
The softness of which I can almost touch and taste;
The shapes and patterns of the clouds somehow remind me
Of the flowing hair of guardian angels freed from the shackles of watching over our chaos,
Of shooting stars, and of
Bottoms of used-up transparent glass bowls of paint.

The waves kiss my feet:
The long overdue sweet reunion.
The breeze envelops me in its cool embrace, and
I it.

FotorCreated

The world and I are one tonight: A single speck. An infinitesimal unit.
Everything else and everyone else is somewhere far away behind while I am here, in the midst of an artist, that is the sun, and its canvass that is the sky and the endless water.

There is no horizon in sight as the sky melts into the ocean, and I am here.
Everything else is far behind, where the land is, where the cacophony is: white noise.

The sun traces such delicious colours in the sky as it sinks.
How do I find the words to describe this?

I know this now: that I must fill my life with moments that equal or surpass this, that everything else is redundant; that unless I feel this profound sadness-happiness-emptiness-wholeness every moment here on, that unless words and music stand terrified to articulate what the sense organs perceive although they whirl in my mind at the speed of light (as they do now); that unless I drown the noise, the restlessness, the fire and the anguish in my consciousness with this sound of the relentless gushing of waves; that unless I realise that life is not a static water body, a still lake, but is akin to the waves, the oh so very restless waves that move back and forth and back again, tenaciously persisting, changing course, crashing, expanding, leaving behind impressions on the sand as they come and go – life will not be lived.

For the good sir

If I could convey to you through words,
Mere words of mine,
Swirling in my mind,
Slipping through my fingers,
Reaching you.

If I could convey to you without any graphic aid
But just the written word.

If I could imprint in your mind this resplendent work of nature before my eyes
With simple strings of letters.

My life shall have been lived well.

There’s a jet plane skiing across that blue sky, leaving trails of white fire behind, as it goes. I longingly look at it. A stream of unwise (?) thoughts filter into my mind: I think of pressing into the warmth of your body, ramming it against the wall, running my fingers through your hair patiently yet urgently, down your neck and drinking in your smell until I drown in it and in you, letting it obliterate me for one solitary moment as I treacherously threaten my right to breathe and exist. I think of this before I give in to sleep.

‘Is it a good life?’
‘It is not good or bad […] it is simply mine.’

For the stars

The dizzyingly clear black night sky seems sweet reward for all the other times that I looked for stars and did not find them.

The celestial blanket of stars that arches over me overwhelms me.

All those words and the ramblings on guiding lights and ‘stelliferous’ nights, on the stars, and on the magic that they hold and our secrets that to each other we never told:
All of that is thus encapsulated.
In this night.
In the twinkling.
In the constellations that I hungrily trace.
In the eerie manner they seem to talk to one another.
In the way I almost believe that ‘up above the world so high’ there must exist a heaven: something nice.

I lean back as far as I can and try to trace the Big Dipper and thence to Polaris. Beneath the dark sky I can only see the white foam of the waves in the distance, rushing on and on, collapsing into the arms of the shoreline, and I can only hear the wind weaving music with them.

And I am here.

For the sea, shore and (rising) sun

Dawn.
The crack of light tears through the silently sleeping sky.
The crescent silver of the moon lingers, stealing the last bits of light that it can.
The sun, majestic, crimson to tangerine to gold, slowly sets ablaze all.
If the waves could speak, would they ask me to stay?
Just a little bit longer?

For the road

The farther I return to the ‘other masquerades/That time resumes’, the more I realise that I leave behind something of me.

I will always leave behind something of me.

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