Isolated in a lullaby of seclusion, to what breadth have I been set to drift? Consequently, a distance equal to the hair grown upon my chin. That slow drip, sustained salt twisted through precious pepper, it became the final defense for a conquered soldier. Completely absent, was I to be pardoned for my surrender? After all, an exponential mind could not possibly disregard an endless reservoir of magical thinking. Uniquely, the driftwood of my forsake had run full circle, crashing widowerhood against what appeared to be a premature shore. It was there, in that final moment; utterly vulnerable, in which I stood. And then came you, glimmering grace through your kaleidoscope of hope; the girl with the dragon tattoo.

I wanted nothing more then to fill a thousand journals with boundless words of devotion, but Barcelona ended up a hair shy then what my dreams had pictured. The only essence that lies beyond the iron curtain now is faith. No more promises, just ideas; and ideas can be just as beautiful. Will we ever build the fallout shelter to our imaginary apocalypse? Self-numb in the lush of our own translucent exposure, then perish hand in hand? Alas my darling, we all have our crosses to bear. Mine stands slightly tilted towards the west, driven as deep as my word; pressed upon those very shores in which you found me.

Dusk is approaching, my sweet entrantress of the setting sun. Loan me your elasticity for just a little while longer, for I grow weary of bidding farewell to things I love.

Some things are better left unwritten. An introverts prospective, but courteous enough to remain silent until something of interest can be said. Although, I cannot argue the possibility of a decent argument. To remain bound and wound, tighter then a jar of flies; is unpleasantly so. Timid to the flighty final moments just before it all goes to hell in a hand basket. The secret antidote may very well be to let it all go. Notoriously, that can often be the most challenging part.

Adjustment disorder? Seems logical enough, considering the only thing I find consistent is inconsistency. I’ve learned to carelessly accept, just in case it does hold merit for enjoying the simple things. But even after all precautions have been cast aside, we eventually find ourselves humming along to yet another restless tune, “near the end and just ain’t got the time”. Sounds vaguely familiar, as I am perpetually waisted and can never find my way home.

So, what are we so petrified of? A future copious of anxieties based off of our remote past? Surely not a way to live. Uncanny to a sadistic pattern that blocks the purest existence of the present. The now, this very moment; it is the only reality we can ever exist in. All else is false, make believe; the unobtainable silver screen moment. And even that moment has just preciously pasted.

A fine-tuned instrument; this body may grow frail but if I keep my mind keen and salient, the endeavors of the kindred heart may eventually prevail.

If the verve of permanence is one continuous line, then why do we fall victim to our own pre-marked intervals? Time will assiduously flow, no breath shorter than the last. A pause in this, virtually impossible. However, imagine for just a brief moment; if we could. What then? And in which space would we seize our true sanctuary; the one between the tick and the tock or the one few and far between? Consider it then, this unutilized dimension may very well occupy the most elementary of explanations. All in all along little choice, we all abide by the same physics; repeatedly collecting the milestones of our own anthropomorphic achievements. The definition of a transpicuous ego? Perhaps it is the notion of self-worth that keeps us tiptop and at our moral best.

Are we ever fully rehearsed to grow senile? Foreboding thought, but why stop now? Implied that life is an endowment, for whatever ecclesiastical reason. Think of all the beautiful things one would have missed if they started out a miscarriage. To what unknown fragrance are these mysterious roses capable? But unfortunately, there is no yin without yang; and never do hardships run sparse. Death and betrayal bares mind; enough to spawn a hatred that exudes from our turbulent skies. Perchance unjust, but a balance none the less; existing far before birth and perseverant millenniums after our demise. Half empty or full, we can always take pride within the context of our own free will.

My thoughts, howbeit absurdly obtuse; fester within the privacy of my own mind. Has the sense of self gone completely awol from sanity? I have been breaking my teeth on the ideals of a consummate life; reprehensible for chasing a heart draw in a deck full of spades. But enough dampish wallow, the brakes were purposely never installed. With linchpin securely locked, we’re off to the next decade. All the demission and even more revisions; we can’t imaginably stop now. The unappreciated privilege? Do what you will with it. For me, I feel I am just getting started.

Just in the nick of callous deadlines, a delinquent penalty would have equaled yet another unwritten year. Although, within what words would one of this stature deserve? Details graciously spared from audience, as lack of clemency was upon me. All evidence would have suggested, or even foreshadowed it; mindfully forgetting any given time in which I had ever claimed ownership. It was merely the most basic of promises, simply just be there; by heavens split, I surely was. Still and all, never would I deny the intimate right to faithfully soul search. Although strut lightly thereupon my dearness, as one may be surprised of what they might find.

All just thoughts, midst an exorbitant time of masterful gathering. I suppose a fair method of figuring things out. Inconspicuously amongst many, there is still one that eludes me. It is the validity of our own discreet and private indulgence, that I brave to question. Theories widespread, but what exactly governs them? I always liked to think it was something more than just a self-serving Darwinian instinct. Yet the frailty of being human will heedlessly do what it does, barren of any constraint or consideration. Then again, these observations come from a man living beneath the shadows of a fictitious devotion. Exhaling life and honor unto his personal Sistine; proudly painting homage to the one and only one, whom never strayed. 

Have I become detached in this? Some paradoxical faulty life-way, proportionate to that of a godless priest; unfastened from biologies that spawned our very existence? With zero capacity to judge or even pardon, I unavailingly search for any ulterior. An incessant mission, furnished in scrupulous vows designed to render all else buoyant; self excluded. Is it altruistic or anarchic? One could never be too sure. Any glint of vacancy dims on reasonable thought when it comes to my Achilles heel; the tender spot in which a youthful heart once beat. 

River ships, loosely wound, playfully jitter and playfully jounce. Concave in shape as lentil in color, a blind fleet surrenders to the rhythm of liquid vibrato. A pond to occupy their safe passage, all dismissed by the touch of a gentle finger. First in growing circles, as waves of expression are soon to follow; like curtains of foliage revealing all in which it has been preciously hiding.

With watery drapes fully undrawn, the new days stage is nearly set. By submerge view, image is only conceived in flicker; on the contrary to underwater silence which is always perfectly audible. Hereafter amidst bubble and foam, an anticipated audience awaits. Somewhere between the beneath and the all encompassing above, the moment has finally proven itself to be just right.

Encore to another inspiring escape? I bet you had them all captivated, even if just for a little while. For all the world’s preparation and practice could never hold candle to the naturality of your luminous artistry. Notably convinced by my own distant listeners; as they shall always graciously applaud. However in the same measure, they are apologetic all the same. Forgive me for my invisibility, as for my price of admission was not yet fully paid.

A kodak terrain for the timid, we walk and they follow. Step by step, as we crush the blacks of our playful contrast, they still follow. Through expired film, we shift landscapes of an auburn sky, and yet they still follow.

Underexposed however picturesque, apertured enough to sense their bashful presence. A mystery in motive, shadowed by the sluggish taffy of a distant past. Withal if one had to guess, perhaps it’s the aromatic trail they pursue.

The one of friendly fresh fallen cinnamon.

A man of considerable intellect once expressed to me, “I am not afraid to die, I just prefer not to.” Never short of repartee, he was a particularly interesting fellow to say the least. Open ears always captivated, unsurprised to his contribution towards profound words spoken, even while circling the drain. Although I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting his kin, one could only imagine the bits of clockwork shared, reflecting upon a lifetime of empiricism and given with warm hands. In affinity, on sorrowful thoughts of my own beloved matron, to the same defective and challenging illness he was not long before taken.

The wife of a sheltered neurotic artist and alleged toper, she did what folk had to do, or at least the ones who gave a shit. Wavering crosswise the burdens of life and all of its inequities, she figured it out. A rest was invariably assured due to that very sacrifice, and somehow magical all the same. Call it a guardian’s intuition, the attentive nurture of our basic continuity; or perhaps its just a raw understanding for the people to whom we belong to.

On the surface of a true essence, that very rose, the one amongst so many thorns, it now sets adrift upon a different kind of poppy. Within the passing rasp of murmurs, the fragile grip of brisk beginnings has begun to slacken. However introduced, never a more impeccable time to just exhale it all and release everything. All rationale may lend ear to those deciphering instances, that of which we question our own faith and morality. Just promise me to lay hindrance upon ever looking back again.

And even now in our darkness hour, as I watched the heavens split above, within that whimsical moment I knew, it would be a better place for having you.

Restlessly I declare, the very fine line between floating and drowning. Perhaps it’s the tonic talking, but we could agree upon a minute difference at the very least. Alas, these bartenders have it out for me, buoyant above another damp pour. Deleterious to my dismay, embarrassingly admitting I’ve mistaken them both for twins. Speaking of double vision, do you miss the old downtown skylines? Apologies, my subscription to nonsense expired ages ago. I swear, introversity comes naturally for me. Slightly impressed however predominantly surprise to hear the sound of my own voice. I’ve actually acquired a story or two in my time. Now would you be so kind to share with me one of yours?

You will have to excuse me, I’m not the type of person to whom organizes his pocket squares by scent. Nevertheless I still feel a ride home is in order, chivalry pardoned for there is no door to be opened. My sobering thoughts are glad to be seeing only one of you now. Although the face I see is a little too unfamiliar for my taste, the pleasant company has been enjoyed all the same.

In metaphor, pure as New York snow, turns out faint flurries weren’t amongst the only things absent this fair winter. Enter stage the alpha, an honor society gal and her jovial encounter with courtship. For him it was the denouement of his social gamut, an enduringly winded expedition of random occurrences. Much to the contrary to hers, the dawn of a precocious floret on awakening and curious flight.

I may not be the sharpest of pencils, but I do know casual casualties were never meant to be taken. No matter how teased or uneased the atmosphere, we inclined ourselves aboard moped chariots and the city became truly ours. Sinuously through harmonics, the minor third, the fourth and the occasionally augmented fifth, curving upwards and back down again. Fashionably tuned, knowing just what it took to make even the darkest of crows blush.

All I ever wanted was to get to know you a little better, powers that be knew I really did try. Now that lengthy park strolls equal closure, we can take refuge and surrender to the place that is anywhere else but our overactive minds. Another empty canvas if you will, unhinged and unbounded, void of all form and color, widely bright and pale as Bette Davis eyes.

All things must come to pass. The good, the bad, the aesthetically challenged. Speaking of unsightly, better days seen for what lies before me. Septic, pneumonitic, anemic, a poet who didn’t even know it. My father was always a cinephile of classic horror over the old spaghetti western. Perhaps comfort in the thought that nightmares couldn’t be all that far from familiar. A second opinion? I’m still awaiting the first, and at this point I’d fair better chances obtaining my own physician’s degree before I am given one.

May I suggest for a moment, that lacking the will to live could very well be a facade. The artistry it would avail for executing such a perfect con would be astonishing. But what does your science say? Any clues to the human condition and its continuance, even within the most withered frail states?

Discovery may lead you to the innermost workings of a gentle man, one whom overflows with all sorts of possibility and surprises.

Another fortunate year for the unlucky, or at least that is were the popular consensus has landed. Not to shine light on stratagem perspectives, but the engineering behind ordinary day dualities can be rather confusing. Best defend your predetermined side and wash all the dirt off your intuitions. Perhaps an obtuse point of view but a view to point at nonetheless, astonishingly self formulated opinions have become infinitely scarce this day in age.

Through today’s faceless glass, I gaze down upon an overweighted post apocalyptic population, all rabid with unrelated symptoms. Mercifully, it is nothing short of what a good coiffure and shave could remedy. However, questions can’t help themselves to still arise. Was extroversion the going fare for feeling semi-human? Could I have possibly been the key to unlocking someone else’s loneliness? And if so, was it the distance that kept us truly together?

Now, what does one do with this sense of yearning, a suspiration to the mere thought of anything prior to my own personal immunization. I thought I was insusceptible, but I was wrong. Now I am dampened with a sentiment that even all the scarlets in Bedstuy couldn’t cure.