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| july 2007 |
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| Dagger Mine | 12:14am sunday, 29th july |
My dagger is a word that cuts through punctuation. With it, I have carved my name in the atmosphere, and scratched a hymn into the dust of the ground. Like a character in a far flung fiction, blazing with a passionate drive, I once proved myself worthy of what I am; or was that just an illusion? My dagger is cold in its sharpness, which could penetrate the walls of oblivion, slice in two any manner of concept. The fires that forged it cannot be lit again, and there will be no blade as that which extends to a point from within my hand, that extends into the unknown in the most piercing hello. One day I will lose it, and they who discover it will not be able to understand that it was a magical familiar of mine, but I imagine they will see it in ways I do not. It matters not, for it is in my memory; it has a home forever as a heft in my hand just so, even if I never see it again, and I swipe the air with an empty fist.
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| mine | 12:10am wednesday, 25th july |
my dreaming drifted in the breezes, an aroma pleasing to the process
my thin breathing to exhale strands of words lighter than atmosphere
my wondering floated through the smog, emerging a dirty hope
my hands quivering from the desire, what we know of the universe
my eyes traveling into the infinite horizon, the epiphany of angels
my thought pouring into the world stream, wet with creation
my light is a poor candle, and cannot illuminate my reflection
my life is a curious leaf, descending from a tree that forgets
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| Pain | 1:36am saturday, 21st july |
We are never too far from the pain. Turn the corner, and we can never be sure that tragedy does not await us, or that that which gave us so many happy lifts will not let us descend into the sadness. This is life, what we must understand when we grow out of childhood — it happens to the best of us: growing up. Sometimes we make more of this living than making do, but there are times, too, when we must do our utmost to keep us from scraping our knuckles against the rails of our traveling. How contingent, our living and our livelihood, how makeshift, our happiness. It is this way from the most grandest, most hallowed of sentience, to the barest of the humanness in this weary world. I have thought this before: the barest of skeins divides the greatest of us from the least: the beggar and the king share more than they differ, and it will always be so. Time and chance happen to us all. Do what you can, when you are able; this, no more than this, can be expected of any of us.
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| The Past | 12:12am tuesday, 17th july |
I can almost touch the past — it is not so very far. Not even what is the most ancient in this world. It is merely a few degrees of separation away; you may have even touched stone that had its form forged from fires of a billion years ago. We all had our beginning from the primordial singularity, as the story goes; the elements were just shuffled around, compacted, and formed to make us, us. We are all of us not very far from the origin of all things. There is, too, the chain of life that must have existed from the first single-celled organisms to the complex beasts that we are now: if the chain did not stretch all the way back, if it had been broken, we would never have been. The warmth of bodies now cold — they were real, this world was theirs, and it takes only the smallest of dreamings to conceive how time stretches back, back, and unfurls their stories. The experience of it all known, the wonder of everything.
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| primal | 1:11am friday, 13th july |
it is strange to think we all had part in the primal fires
that behind our mundane eyes, the blast of the supernova lit
though life is fleeting, our energies, all of them, immortal
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| end second | 4:05am monday, 9th july |
i remember when the stars fell from the sky
i, the knight of the second chance
breathing in the forms floating in the darkness
i walk the precipice of a dream
about to plunge into the deeper unknown
it all vanishes, to awaken to the emptiness
the still clear void beyond reason
the end was like the beginning
a wondering about things that were not
a breath of life inhaled as the moment balanced
upon a single sliver of destiny, like yes
within an infinite nothing, blank, like no
the superposition of all things, about to collapse
to fall upon either the every, or the not
it wasn’t rigged: the coin fell where it might
just as He said it would: “Let there be light.”
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