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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| A series of incoherent happenstance moments strung together with the grace of a rock swirling to the bottom of a lake.
That is life. That sinking rock. Swirling. Caught in unfamiliar currents and dragged further into the dark recesses of unexplored beauty.
That is life. Unable to skip across miles long lakes; just sinking. Accepting the truth of an honest fate.
But then, strange inconceivable moments arise and the pebbles of life catch the wind and glide across glassy surfaces. And we breathe the wonder of flight and free air.
But that's just a dream. And the rock will sink. But that's the beauty of it.
It's truth. Simple. Strange. A true voyage of discovery.
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| Fog hangs thick in the tiny city. It's still early and the world around me is just beginning to stir from a restful night.
It feels like Winter's icy fingers are tracing their way along the streets, teasing us with the cool. I welcome the extra layers and the chance to enjoy a hot drink and good company. There is a mysticism to the chill and fog wrapped around the newly exposed trees. Melancholy and beautiful as nature retires its colours for a restful few months.
Yet, it's a contradictory season for me.
There is a growing sense of purpose along the sidewalks as people hope to get a jump on their Christmas shopping, on the third day of November. Early to rise, to beat the coming rush. And I just stay steady. Walking like I always do, and always will, with only the urgency required by my soon to start shift at work.
I will not rush through the season. It's so much more than new sweaters and toys. It's so much more than a consumer's sense of purpose. It's the cleansing of another year. It's the chance as a mortal to come to understand that, like the trees and frost-bitten pavement, we all have rough patches but another year will follow.
Respect the Winter to welcome the Spring.
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| It's that daily grind that leaves room for escape. Escape from love and life and beauty. Escape from pain and hurt and truth.
Swimming through tumultuous seas, cresting on waves that reach unknown shores we strive. We aim to please; to exist in a place where we matter. To exist in that daily grind so we can escape.
But I'm tired of running.
I'm tired of a never ending swim along the violent currents.
And so I string words together. With each passing phrase I am more honest with the world. I am more honest with myself. Chasing dreams and ghosts trapped in well-phrased passions; this is where I am meant to be. Every word, well-chosen or foolishly penned, is a part of my being, etched into permanence with simple keystrokes.
Words will not allow us to run away.
Words will not let us hide our truths or intentions.
Our words will allow us to ascend to the stars, and maybe, just maybe we'll be lucky enough to land hand-in-hand on that brightest star.
But until then, I'll keep writing. I'll keep trying to be honest with the world. Because in the end, it's all that I've got.
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| I am the city. Ever growing changing breathing evolving.
Streets as numerous as the thoughts the drift between cold and inspiring buildings.
Wonder captured in forgotten leaves on sidewalks too busy to clean.
Despair and chance walking hand in hand through carved out sanctuaries of litter.
Yes, I am the city. A rusted penny reminiscent of hopeful times lost in overflowing pockets.
And I'll keep changing with each passing season or selfish glances of eager developers.
I am the city. A blank canvas. Growing changing and so alive.
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| Memories flood back rushing like the miniature rivers formed in cracked pavement. The welcomed melancholy pours down washing away Summer's transgressions; the relics of too many hours outside. This is my season. This is our season. This is the memory of pain ending only after it reached its zenith. This is rain and wind and abandoned leaves. This is love swept up and out of the way tucked safe for another year. This is when we met again. Yes, memories flood back with the rain. Because I can never forget. You can never forget. I am but a ghost and you are my angel.
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