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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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True
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