.. and these are the salad days with which we live our teenage idyll by- subjected to serendepity and surrendered to the chimera of gloom should we one day be dutifully whisked from the sojourn. Such is the sardonic quiddity of things, almost like a sacrosanct ruling that destiny plays us so that we lose the things we grow so accustomed to. Perhaps it is nature's lesson we catch a glimpse of heaven on a nightly basis through the myraid of stars- should we be robbed of the priviledge and deprived of, how endless the fall into quiescent numbness will last. So beguile in anything alfresco and unrequited loves; etch your superfluous elegies and bittersweet goodbyes on old oak trees; read poetry by twilight and a beach- in the ides of your life should you choose nostalgia over praticality, you would be doing so with a smile on your face.
Alongside other venial things, in sporadic instances, dreams deliver lachrymose sighs. In a recent reverie i imagined us in Tuscany attending a lesser known stranger's requiem. All morning the funeral knell was tolling and the mourners being all fin de siecle were beating the floor with their mourning sticks. For a day i was your cavalier who revelled in the irony that above the grievings and imbroglio, in that very room sprung a quaint longing for life. They mourned death as we celebrated love and life-we blatantly denounced the lacklustre culture of tears. Then it dawned upon us that we too, would be seperated by Death. Only then did i wake given to shedding a tear. " She was heading to the Galapogos . And i had already set foot for home. " Macabre dreaming is really quite frightening. I'd rather we be puritans in Mauritania.
Unfortunately, not knowing who set the rules of who one should love and by how much, we unwittingly allowed ourselves to be driven up the invisible wall. On whether nature carries the color of spirits, though, i am quite certain. Today smelt like the clear-skied autumn day- basically entitling you to a full frontal of things to come but without the assuagement of the strangely familiar apprehension should a falling leaf brush your face on its descent. And yesterday's swansong was heartbreaking it felt like snow; snow it was that paid homage to the subtle remembrance we each harboured in the secret places. Life is still beautiful.
I want to be the bluebird with the sky on my back. I ask to be melted. You can only ask of the metals that they be tender to the fire that melts them. To nought else can they be tender. I tend to manginfy the moment with incessant rantings and beguile in an inexhorable fashion. A poem would not pen itself where paradise befalls. We managed a 'hello' with our eyes and an 'au revoir' with our hearts. Today we spoke of love. ".. and waved our feather boa goodbyes." I reckoned it was foolish to be afraid of making our ties too spiritual, as if so we could lose any genuine love - but lamented otherwise. There are no fixtures in nature, however; and unless there is an irrational and superfluous god, hardly nothing happens for a reason. To Chatres' cathedral and amphetamine pills; sophist schools and the lilac heart, today i let love pass me by. Hopefully all waters flow into the creek one day. Someone must have been mistaken, but we never seem to get to Rome.
One could relate my dreams to an absinthe shot, but the travesty is not exclusive. As we are worlds of woe dispatched in a little space, we too, are liabilities to ourselves. Five point five million people with five point five million dreams of glass- Elizabethan, marvelous, little kingdoms which would inevitably sputter out like fireflies but with an afterthought. A satirical rogue would label us fools. Then again all your life you are told of the things you cannot do; all your life they will tell you no, quite assuringly and quite brazenly. And you will tell them yes. How pertinent indeed. To keep keen, poignant agonies from shooting down from your neck, and to the chanteuse hopeful.
The alabaster sky at dawn dictates the ambiguous ambience. One clear-headed bloke would wonder whether these are dying lights of the sun or of the moon. This particularly pure morning, basked in half twilight i awoke to a suspiciously played out xerosis. We were speaking of Christmas Island the night before- perhaps the sobering effect does take its toll. Like two spreadeagled lovers only on different beds in seperate rooms and the seemingly endless corridor between us, mother and son spoke for the first time in a long while- quietly at first. I'd imagine ourselves in an avant garde silent movie. The camera would loom from the overhead, through the eyes of a buzzard circling some miles above us, far-off but close enough to squint out the closed eyes and the tensioned skin and the pursed muted lips. Transparent walls, roof, doors, everything. Transparent. We were already shouting. The house was incensed with a secret morning breeze. Other than that, lucidity. Nothing would have buoyed the sunken feeling of nothingness. She accentuated on my unaccomplished life and times. Whimsical. I listened to her every word and got acquainted with the rhythm of her breathing. Sometimes we find the strangest places to hide from truth. The concept was romantic, nevertheless. It was cerulean with a tinge of gold, the backdrop. But unlike the perfect moving picture, there was the fervor of the ensuing day.
Time and again i mean to rant on photographs and memories; Time and again it falls beyond my grasp to capture the aesthetics of the subject matter in true splendour. Funny how a still-frame can depict humanity. The enormity is startling- how she demeans nefarious Death and the longing it evokes. As i child, i took pictures. Florence and i with the windmill sifting air; Lake District and i with the most breathtaking oak trees; some of which i had no prior recollection of, like the biggest carousel and i somewhere in Rome's playground. I am wearing an oversized beanie and wollen mittens. I have pink fluffly floss in my hand and a genuine grin on my face. And i am flanked by my parents. My mother. Few things allow me to reminisce. Photographs do just the trick( and light is the flawless artist). I remain agnostic and skeptical on the issue of friends. L and i used to be tight. There'r pictures to prove it. Somewhere off the Gold Coast, i reckon. DreamWorld for certain. We were on a particular joyride, repetition was not nauseating. It was as good as it got. Twenty and two, goofy caps, wag-the-dog faces. Yet somehow in the disarray, we lost each other, and were misplaced. Like the picture in the attic.
On cigarettes and alcohol , i can only say they are amnesia inducing. The little things that adorn life; alike the aphorific maxim, being able to relate to, but incomprehensible nonetheless. I hear the tolling of bells sometimes and its funereal gloom lingers long after half past four. I see amiable people shaking hands and dictating stories- my stories on ocassion. I imagine myself in an akwardly boisterous situation. The quaint yet familiar faces, the fake sigh-smile, the fake smirks, the fake hand greetings, the fake stuff-between-your-teeth. The politics is gone, i feel. But why am i still faking it? One day we will look back at teenage behavioural science and let it all out in one swift earth-shattering laugh. Funny how you forgive and not intuitively receive closure. Where exactly then, does the problem lie? So we partake in all things sophorific hoping to dream elaborate dreams and wake to a better day.
Picture the ephemeral kiss as you would the short-lived dawn; a fleeting quagmire of sorts efficacious of rendering you mired in a deep malaise. Therein lies the paradox. Time which transcends relativity transfixed in the abysmal memory. Dolores is a beautiful name for a child. Foucault, strangely mechanical and sullen. Yet Foucault is the charming misanthrope while dolorous, blatant grievings. The euphemism is heartbreaking but so is the naivety of something precious. One in love with life would bashfully testify that the best things are free. Therein lies the paradox. A stroll down a withered stretch one autumn evening is a priceless revelry. When life is good, words then, would cease to serve their purpose. I will apologise to a girl. For teaching me, and for forgiving me time and again.
Her secret was this: Most people spend half their lives searching for the needle. She enjoys the hay. In bed one evening, it drew upon me an epiphany- our dreamworks are moulded by the times of people, and upon ascending unto a higher phase, we discard whatever existing hopes and give birth to new ones. Perhaps we all have short attention spans, perhaps we all have cowardly spirits. On her epitaph carved in stone would write 'A sunbeam briefly lent' in wake of every dying ossature a dream will leave in her passing. I'm afraid to have even established the slightest aspirations. I fear it'll suffice to nothing, like all my tragic endeavors. Thus begins the joyride to decadence, slip-sliding all strains of morality. Question: how many hours have you wasted thinking how many seconds you've wasted?
To make matters worse, glory is temporary while obscurity is sadly forever. When and how will we bury malicious ghosts of has-beens and what-ifs? I am hardly intelligeble- i speak what is left of me. And i can honestly say philosophers lead accomplished lives. Sometime in our waking years it dawns upon us that we feed on the desire of self expression to live. In turn, we savagely embrace the trait and embark on a somewhat less idealistic quest for something practically unacheivable. Such is the extent of the denial visible but unseen. A canopy of affairs, experiences, issues, changes. So predictably different that we adopt explicit mindsets- that all of us are different and one. Of course you've thought of how a worm feels about being a worm, but have you thought about how humans feel? "I chanced upon your heart- the most beautiful thing."-Someone impeccably whorish.
