Eighteen januaries later, discovery instilled within me a yearning for the sea. Without scientific ado one falls short from understanding how the glass is clear and the body is blue- tritely speaking it is a concept romanticised by ignorance.
The human whole however bureaucratic is governed by two organs- the desert of a mind in which all thoughts are meticulously laid out to dry and the ocean of a heart in which all thought subsequently drowns. Therein lies the divine parody in which all men have a part to play.
There is something sorcerous about the snowglobe and how it surrenders your life in short takes- that a jingle would throw its world into disarray; that a disarray should spring into view its world. What magic suspends the glitter and glass is the watchful weightlessness of water.
It is believed that paint on canvas is the universal expression free from translation and open to intepretation; that writing is flawed in language and imprisoned by cultures, subjected to perspectives and warped from fear. For this alone I embrace her.
Among the hypocrisies of maternal love there exists a largely secret, often uncompromising trait which would transcend consciousness and later make one cry- that of the capricious longing for acquittal or closure attainable only by dictating unto posterity some failed or broken dream. This malignant hope will birth a false righteousness and eventually sow discord through one's impressionistic teenage years- It is a wilful, unapologetic drought.
To break the tide, I am sorry:
London no longer speaks to you;
Should Spain surpass you;
For establishing myself under inappropiate light;
Mostly that you are impeccably perfect;
Your eyes no longer enthrall me
With Love
Let it be concurred upon that we are many-hearted monsters having loved so vividly so vicariously with much or less aplomb; also allow yourself passage for nuance- blue with bated breath from expectation and strife because a life of action, decision then mediocre consequence is fertile beyond doubt; give yourself room to breathe, grow and enjoy the view not forsaking inevitable error, rampant silliness and sometimes gloom for these are the facets which encompass this gem of merely being.
One.
On a sidenote, one aspires to take the far side of humour seriously and everything sombre further than forever.
Two.
There is one person in the backdrop of your life who will make an appearance twice- firstly to leave you, the other to incidentally destroy the world.
Three.
The gravity defying stances we assume are all part of the experience.
The sweet entrapment of faith's endurance is two birds perched on a bough in the spring each knowing not what fall might bring for there is always summer to come and christmastide subjects one to a hopeless assertiveness whose only drawback is that of dreaming with harpsichord eyes.
December is a month of baritone singers. You listen to loneliness blaring through supermarket loudspeakers and perceive a plethora of better things. The truth of the matter is visible but unseen- we are merely pining. This yuletide, only at year end, there will be discontented people smiling.
The fountain head of literature that is writing is a vehement entrerprise- nothing else compares to the fortitude it musters. This is the kindred sentiment in which poets and playwrights are bound to alike. Words are the rose which maims you; turns you ardent, whimisical and whole. Adversity is the muse who spurs you- what better tool than predicament to coax your threadbare livelihood? Normalcy can only estrange you- it blunts your senses and frowns upon chance. Whereby the greatest of tragedies end with Ever After, truly the writer is a taciturn visionary in which art takes upon life.(the noblest gift of all) So we are sheltered in the revered tutelage of these martyrs of fate and forvever in debt for baring their soul. Only then is life worth the price of death- one lived in conviction and heart.
For all the melee, the coy yearning for her pallid imperfections and every gramme of liqueur bourbon but most of all for the sojourner who passed me by- I have no manuscripts, no apologies, no travesties to mime.
"We could have shown them all. We should have seen love through."
(If you had witnessed that confetti skyline or the blanket of mist over the charming highland city, it was real and you would have felt it too.)
