A Vengeful Tangle of Thread

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The page sat empty; full of its property to be,
An equation appeared, solve it to be free,
Discuss. Solve. Explain. Understand. Know.
For full marks, all your work you must show,

A pencil scribbles symbols, meanings, and truths,
An alphabet of day-dreams abandoned in youth,
Cognisance amongst those who comprehend,
The simple, diligent task of making amends.

As memory eats our heart-ridden sleeves,
One paces, lusting for a last-minute reprieve,
Words unsung, songs unsaid–a silence to hear,
Rethink our days, nights, dreams–tremble with fear,

Is it God’s revelations that we search for in skies?
For I’ve seen God’s truth in the glint of your eyes–
Of death and of life, I sigh and moan their beauty,
Caged together, wrought by love and by duty,

Slumber’s cold breath rattles my spine,
Restless thoughts abate as we entwine,
Like swimming deep in an endless sea,
At first we fear our path to timeless serenity.

When words become chess pieces across a board,
Prudently spent, a censored life is flat and unexplored,
Shades protect our eyes from too much light,
Withal, be wary, lest ye forget sight,

Look at the page with the equation on it,
Not one step in its solving do you omit,
Logic and training bring forth its solution,
Annihilating binary affinity in favour of one,

The formula untangles anatomy,
You become You and I become me,
The result conceals, rather than illuminates,
A vengeful tangle of thread littered by the Fates.

–fin
WordPlay Xx

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On Privacy and Narrative.

unnamed-6The act of reading is an intimate act. You sit alone in your flat. You become alone in a crowded space, as your mind submerges into the text. You hear the author’s words resonate from the silent paper as waves of sound pulsate through your body. At the perfect harmony, you are shattered. Reading allows for a personal intimacy, an intimacy with the text, and an intimacy with the character. Whether or not the narrator is reliable pressures our ability to trust our access to characters’ private lives. Part of us may let go, most of us may cling to the edges of the newly bound or ruggedly aged book in our hands. In my own experience, there is always a sense of wanting privacy and self-freedom, whilst also wanting someone to, omnipotently, understand our own narratives. We don’t want to have to explain ourselves. We want an empathetic audience to our lives, but on some level, wouldn’t that just be insufferable? I’ve been thinking, today, about the need for privacy and space whilst reading Oliver Twist. Of course, many narratives do not give the mundane reality of a person’s day. For instance, not once has Oliver had a wee. Am I the only one that this bothers? (haha, please don’t run away with the idea that I think about this and this alone). But such mundane acts are the building blocks of life. A narrative takes the reader through the character’s movements–as much as we can see, as much as is pertinent to the narrator and/or author’s articulations. Reading can seem especially invasive if we are reading a memoir or a memoir-styled fiction. It seems quite perplexing, in a humuorous sort of way, that to escape this world and slip into a quiet sanctuary, that we, unnoticed by the cast, emerge into other peoples’ lives. Of course, I am also going to claim that, although some might argue the observer effect is null-and-void in this context, it is at the forefront of our engagement with the text, story, film, or television show. We always bring our own biases and knowledges to a book. We each have our own particular strengths. I, for instance, can recall quotations from theoretical texts, but I find it much harder to recall lines from literature. I am incredibly envious of people who can memorise these quotations. I’ll have to work on it, I suppose. Back to my point, we always bring our own state of mind (at the time), our own set of knowledges, our own abilities and lack of ability to empathise, and our own interpretations to what we are viewing or beholden. Our observer effect does not effect the ink’s immutability upon the page, but it is key to our understanding of what we read. We cannot change what happens upon a screen, but how we engage with it is our own observer effect. This may be dubious in other areas of life, ‘research’, or writings, but our nature to engage with things on nuanced and varied measures is precisely the (abstract) beauty of reading. Thus, in our own small ways, as we escape into these worlds, you can align or malign with a particular character. The books become about us, inasmuch as they are about other things. Perhaps, that is why in cases of extreme emotion–it is difficult to lose yourself in a book. But, I’ll always remind myself. The lustful craving for privacy and lack of intimacy is willfully and beautifully undone by the power of narrative, character development, and/even the deconstruction of narrative itself. Those silly post-modernists; shucks.

***

Additionally, I am setting myself a goal of Five Books in March. I’m trying to whiz through Oliver, but so far, I’ve been a little slow with it. My own narrative continues to drown out Oliver’s. But, if anyone is intimidated by Dickens, do read this book. Dickens has such a beautiful way of phrasing things. tumblr_nkpcm0aFEe1sb2oz2o1_1280 Have you read any of these books? If so, what did you think? I’ve read P&P, and if I don’t get to it this month, I might save it for early spring (Canadian weather). To me, it is a spring novel. Maybe, I can bring it forth sooner through literature? Also, I picked up my copy of Northanger Abbey today and was gently perusing it. This might also contribute to my slow pace with Oliver. Woopsiedaisy. I hope you’ll read along with me and/or let me know what you think about these books or a book you’re reading. Be the courageous ones I know you all to be. I wish you peace and happiness.

Heaps of Love,
Word Play Xx

On feeling all the hues of blue.

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I wanted to write a post about feeling blue. I wasn’t too sure what I wanted to say. I didn’t want to say I was enveloped with sadness, and I didn’t want to say I was feeling depleted. Neither of those things are true. Even when I was selecting the image and text (above), I wanted something that piqued curiosity and inspired love. I had a tinge of the blues, but in their complex entirety, my emotions were far more than one bristol blue hue.

For instance, I just had good news that my doggy is doing better than before because of the care we give her. Every time I look at her, my heart fills with this incredible fullness and lightness that makes me feel like I could float away to the moon, with the appropriately fitted NASA gear, of course. Additionally, I am reading two books at the moment: Oliver Twist and Torn Halves. Both texts inspire different feelings, emotions, responses, and intellectualities. I am making that word up, like personality but for your little firing synapses. Haha. One is fictional, and so deliciously written. The other is literary and cultural theory, and I feel like my brain is a jumping bean waiting to explode with joy, curiosity, and, at times, mild confusion over newly learned words. Such as,

aporetic, meaning: ‘an irresolvable internal contradiction or logical disjunction in a text, argument, or theory’.

Hum, what an awesome word. I’m just going to repeat that a few times to myself. Aporetic. Aporetic. Nicely done there, with that lovely word.

But you see what I mean. There is this internal desire to just say I’M DONE. TTYL PEOPLE. RUNNING AWAY (with the no money I have) to….A HIDDEN PLACE (because I couldn’t go anywhere farther than my closet). At the same time, I have this extremely overwhelming curiosity. And this is making me think that our brains like the challenge. Reading is sometimes slow and loopy language is clouded with the metaphoric or analogous, but it so beautifully sends our minds whizzing in so many perfect directions. Even if those directions lead us no where physically, we have grown spiritually. I always refer to my inner self and well-being as my spirituality. For each of us, it is different. And that is perfect and infinite.

That’s why I won’t say I’m feeling sad. I have moments of insecurity and self-doubt. We are meant to. We cannot have all the answers. We should want them. Maybe that’s a westernized concept, but I think it’s okay to hold your hand to the stars and wonder and feel in awe of the universe or multi-verse. It is okay to let your imagination dream in numbers, sing in riddles, and fly in miracles. It’s okay to dream of being held tight by someone to whom you don’t really talk anymore. One time, and I still laugh thinking about this, I had a dream that it was super sunny and a friend of mine was tickling me. I am pretty sure I was joyfully laughing from sleep. Sure, to the person who had to see it, it was probably pretty creepy…but I am grinning bigger then Cheshire Cat right now. And, I have some negative memories about this person, but I also know that there are so many happy memories there too–a jouissance, if you will. (Don’t read too much into that). I find it comforting, that, although we’ve had this negative experience, my sense is to recall the joyous times and let that negativity become overwritten by peace and bliss.

I guess what I am saying is that…I’m giving myself permission to explore those moments of sadness, but I am no longer going to categorise them as the same feeling. Those moments are so nuanced that they need to cover a spectrum of colour that far outreaches my feeble visible colour spectrum, known as ROYGBIV (red orange yellow green blue indigo violet). Haha, also, I remember in grade 7 not remembering that infrared rays were slower than the visible colours, and my science teacher totally yelled at me. I’m pretty sure she thought I should know better. But, come on, it’s not like I had met with all these rays and timed their speeds. Since then, we’ve ran laps, they’ve all creamed me each time, but I got ultraviolet to do the timing, and she’s pretty reliable… Newton was proud.

For me, when I feel blue, it is because I feel like I have no where to express those feelings. I try not to give into the stigma of shaming sadness, but I was pretty hardcore shamed by some people when I was younger. I still fight against that. I do also think that because of that shaming, it is easier for me to label my sadness in the same box of my undoing. [Of course, none of this can apply to anyone else but me. It is not meant to. It is my experience. Others may share it, but I don’t try to speak for them.] Like I said, I am going to try and work at not having that reflex which automatically traps me in a mood of sadness. I am going to learn how to communicate, even to just myself, my discomfort. For me, I think that will be the start. It kind of reminds me of when I don’t feel like doing something, for any number of reasons, and when I start to work through why I don’t want to do it, I am able to articulate that there is some fear at the bottom of it. I don’t know that I can promise to be fearless because I will always have a spider thing. Instead, I am going to work on mindfulness and deconstructing my aporetic.

Heaps of love,
Word Play
Xx

Definitely within the Madding Crowd

Warner bros / tumblr

God, Thomas Hardy is like magic. So innocuously placed, these phrases paint a landscape of subtlety and delight. Loving my current fling–Madding Crowd and all. 

The hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and decaying plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over the crest fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane. To-night, these trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest blasts, which smote the wood and floundered through it with a sound as of grumbling, or gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened moan. The dry leaves in the ditch simmered and boiled in the same breezes, a tongue of air occasionally ferreting out a few, and sending them spinning across the grass. A group or two of the latest in date among this dead multitude had remained on the twigs which bore them till this very mid-winder time, and in falling rattled against the trunks with smart taps.

Between this half-wooded, half-naked hill and the vague still horizon its summit indistinctly commanded was a mysterious sheet of fathomless shade–the sounds only from which suggested that what it concealed bore some humble resemblance to features here. The thin grasses, more ore less coating the hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of differing powers, and almost differing natures–one rubbing the blades heavily, another raking them piercingly, another brushing them like a soft broom. The instinctive act of human-kind here was to stand, and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the trees on the left wailed or chanted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south to be heard no more.

Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd (Toronto: Penguin Classics, 2013), 8-9.

Absolutely beautiful. It reminds me of when I go for a walk, by myself or with my dog, and I just stare into the distance. The way I notice the trees that line the variegated sun-setting sky. All you can do is breathe in the magic. Hardy’s lines are such beautiful examples of being a crafter of words and the subtle experience of existence. It feels like breathing. It feels like fresh air. It gives life. 

The Bad Dream ; The Night Mare

WB / Tumblr

It was an island. A temperate climate may be assumed. Caribbean? Perhaps. Maybe farther north? south? east? west? Perhaps. But there were no people there. It was warm, but that’s only unnatural in the extreme climes of the world. A sandy beach shrugged its disillusion with the world. If the beach were full of people, the sound of the waves would be drowned by the sighs of relief gasped by its patrons. As it was, I lay there alone. Like a stingray, I buried my body into sand enclaves waiting for movement to pass above me. Everything seemed safe.
Lonely, yes, but very safe. The sun hung in the sky, but I was not bothered by its presence. I felt neither burn nor squint affect my being. The generous mist from the water did not cling to your skin and burrow into your bones. It generated life and feeling, but it did not overwhelm you with the beingness of living. I lay my head back and allowed my head to mould into the sand bed around me. My arms extended and nonchalantly buried, as I opened my hands to the universe absorbing its micro-vibrations.
Pulsating through my body, I could feel life. I was alive, but it was the second thought. First I felt life, then I felt alive. They are two different feelings. Their order depends on your connection to your inward being. Life stirs in you, gently nudging you into existence. But feeling alive, those are the explosions that abrasively thrash you into being. The sweet pleasure of biting down on a sore tooth. A sour orange that causes you to shrink your face in delight. The feeling when a lover lingers over your face, slowly, tantalizingly, teasingly leaning in to kiss you. The passion. The delight. The love.
It was calm and slow-moving. An eternity had passed, yet it could not have been so long. Without clock, calendar, or sooth-sayer, time was immaterial—as it always is. Hah! I could not awaken. I lay there feeling that eternity within me.
A disturbance caused me to stir. A small beast, asleep nearby, hiccoughed in sleep: yelp! yelp! yelp! The frightened being twitched at the resonance of each yel- and fell into deathly stillness at the p. I rolled over, hair falling into my face, sand raining from my body, and I placed my hand gingerly upon the heart of the beast. Suddenly the fear was snuffed and a small smile could be felt throughout our bodies. Gentle, operatic snores replaced the fear within the beast. Smiling, I moved back to the imprint of my body. In a mock outer-body experience, I smiled at the negative space. Appearing much larger than my form, I confronted the duality of the space. Here I gazed; there, I no longer was.
As I nestled into the comatose reality of being and non-being, a sound recalled me to the world-as-it-is. A familiar voice called my name. Ah, the friend-of-a-friend, for whom I nurtured a soft-spot. His mouth curved over my name and butterflies soared. Actually, they soared. A canopy of them swam from the sea and entangled themselves in the affairs of our hearts. He ran deliciously across the beach towards my unrealities. Suddenly, questions of being and non-being were throttled back as the physical world of doing overwhelmed the tenses that confused before. A new verb, if you will.
He grabbed my hand. “Hello!”
“Hiya!” I softly cooed, happily.
“I didn’t think anyone else was here.” He said. I didn’t reply. Sometimes, when you have a lot to say, nothing can be said. He looked at me, expectantly. Still, I said nothing. “Hm,” he mumbled, “so, have you heard from Agatha lately?”
“Actually, yes. We spoke yesterday about this book I was reading. But, I’ve been changing books faster than a race car driver shifts gears. Only difference is that I never finish one. Weirdly.” It was a poorly statement. Indeed, inside, I had retracted my promise to live in the present. Before my eyes Huysmans’s Paris swam before my eyes, little cafés filled the air with the merging scents of frosty white wine, freshly ground coffee beans, and petite madeleines. How does one share those thoughts? How do they become communicable?
“Right,” He said. “So, do you want to come run an errand with me?”
Compelled, I responded in the affirmative. He guided me towards a vespa. We climbed upon it and began our journey at a comical pace. Yet, now that our bodies were so close, conversation flowed easily. Is there a relational proximity that dissolves self-awareness, inhibition, and fear? Does physical presence reduce the desire to slip into the cognitive abyss?
Recently, he had been on an trip over the hills and under the mountains. He detailed how his travels had shaped him, changed him, altered his senses of reality. Now, he was different. Before, he claimed, he had just been a shell of a being. Of course, these claims always sound so mystifying and intoxicating as the speaker says them. Magical. A spell is cast over my soul because I covet growth. Growth shows passion and love for the world, an intrinsic curiosity that sparks my soul.  
I gasp at all the right places, laugh and giggle, and flatter. I share my own stories of my travels, unsure that I’ve grown at all. I feel slightly un-dertraveled, un-knowledgable, un-worthy. Occasionally, I discuss things I’ve read. Is it still my life if I’ve read these things from another’s mind? No, stop it. Pay attention.
The scenery unwinds into luscious valleys of trees. Gentle and rolling hills push and pull our bodies clumsily into one another as we drive on. This all feels safe. We arrive at a set of storage lockers. The island felt uninhabited, how can there be storage lockers. As we dismount the vespa and check our teeth for bugs, we walk towards the lockers. A key glimmers in his hand.
He looks down at me from his tall, graceful stature. I lift my hand towards his with the key, but he pulls this one away from me. He opens his palm and shows me the key.
“We have to deliver a package. We’ll have to go into the waters and swim to our destination,” he says. I do not question this. We walk into the centre of the maze of lockers. Fearing a minotaur, I keep track of the twists and turns. It would be ludicrous to start unravelling a ball of yarn now! We arrive at the locker. He attempts to steady me with a meaningful look, but I am not prepared for what is inside.

A sea of white.

Package upon package of what seems to be a drug. “Cocaine,” he whispers. I am not sure I can back out now. I swallow and, eyes wide, I nod. He does not tell me that he has to do this to save someone. Nor does he tell me he is doing it for the money. He just does it. I do not question it. Remember? We changed verbs. He lifts the package and places it in my arms. He grabs another package. I sweat and suppress a soft chuckle—the yarn seems less ridiculous now.
The journey back to the beach seems less easy-going. Of course, everything has changed. That is glaringly obvious. A cloud of being trapped eclipses all earlier feelings of freedom. To be or not to be is irrelevant. He tells me that we’ll both swim with a package to the next island. The waters are free from any threat and not cold. In fact, he says steadily, they’re quite warm. I don’t ask how many times he’s done this. How many love-sick friends he’s tricked into this. But I wasn’t tricked, I didn’t ask. I never asked.
I dove into the water. The warmth of the water immediately warmed my soul. One cannot continue to feel overwhelmed by fear and anxiety when they reach their element. Submerged, I swam. The water parted and played with my hair. Gentler than wind, the water kissed my skin and urged me forward. Swimming was beautiful. Fear was an unrecognized concept.
We reached the next island. An island surrounded by choppy waters. Inhospitable. I wondered how cocaine could serve anyone on this island. But the thoughts were short-lived. The water powerfully jostled us as through we were in a bowl of jello on changing fault lines. We arrived, and he took the package I brought with me. He left me, and he disappeared inland. He returned. He brought coconut cookies and coffee. We sat in silence.
“So,” I choked out, breaking the silence, “are we going back?” He studied my face for some time. Perhaps it was too indefinite a question—leaning towards abstraction. How do we go back from that? He answered my question in the practical and literal sense:
“No. We go home.”
***

We arrived home. It felt broken. Everything. As I walked through the front door of my house, hair tangled and free flowing, I saw them. The police had camped outside my door.

Reality. A real location. Real consequences. Cops stood in lines…endless lines of donut-chewing cops. Coffee cups littered the street. A true crime, I thought. Surely, not what I did.

I walked into the kitchen—sobbing. Barely able to breathe, the pressure of the truth collapsing my lungs. I tried to explain as my parents stood around me. I could not speak. I saw it all spiralling into nothingness. Negative space triumphant.

Again, another outer-body experience. The scene played before me. The music of the scene was full-bodied, like the taste of a rich-flavoured chianti. The actual sounds of the scene muted, as the violins wailed their truth over all. Slowly angelic voices cried their sorrow. Their implicit judgement over badness telling the audience how to see the scene before them.

She deserves this.

Where was the beast who would awaken me from this nightmare?

—end.

Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars

Source: Buzzfeed

Recall the words you’ve read, well and true,
For, one day, they’ll be asked of you,
Chime them back with zeal and truth,
Memory is a frivolous quality of youth,

She enchanted lines and sang with grace,
In her, words sweetly dance and deeply embrace,
To memorize the words of those before,
Was something she had little, anymore,

She hid in fear of being found out,
Imagining they’d wonder just what she was about,
But, to her, phrases were not so easily memorised, 
For, they oft took on many a subtle disguise,

And phrases are not just words stacked together,
There are letters that are joined and tethered,
Sounds and magic combine to depict,
Those rascally words that you’ve picked.

Beneath those letters matter is revealed,
Elemental truths, spiraled and congealed,
Sup at the table of earthly delights,
There you’ll find words oft lost in the night,

Like stars appear bland in the sky full of clouds,
Words seem silent until they are shouted out loud,
Swirling in murky desires and forgotten wars,
Droned and confused by many a chauvinistic bore,

Beguiled by journey and distant arrivals,
Penning words to challenge and surreptitiously rival, 
Climbing over letters only to stumble in brambles,
Choosing slow contrition over which we amble,

Blow away the fog before your eyes,
Reach and look towards the night skies,
Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars,
For these particular words are ours.

Fear; A Love Story

Source: Tumblr

Our feet moved slowly through the centre of the road,
Our eyes stared star-ward, we watched as they glowed,
The moon hung, suspended in our deepest belief,
As the signs of autumn wore away with the last falling leaf,

Darkness engendered the fear that tugged us to stop and glance.
Wondering, if, in the face of danger, we stood a fair chance,
Apart, but together, our minds crawled doggedly on,
Inwardly guessing how long those stars actually shone,

A stalemate of stillness awaits the mallet to sound,
Withal, reticence persisted as, in silence, we drowned,
Onwards and inwards we search for nourishment, 
Sought after dreams of smiles and encouragement,

I cite history as the source of my displeasure,
Awaiting the sign, which, of course, is your leisure,
Recall, that time flees the scene of the crime, 
Just as the poet chimes perfectly posed rhymes,

Intellectualize and sexualize the words on the page,
More often than not, this is our calamitous plague,
Equilibrium vets the provocateur and jets the esoteric, 
Monotonous ages of desire, thus, eclipsed by a titillating philosophic,

The brightest body we see is a reflecting body, mostly cast in shadow,
Reminding us of fairy stories told oft once, long, long ago,
Truth is obscure, abstracted, and loftily denied,
Morals are clear and craftily contrived.

Once upon a time, they reached their happily ever after,
The crowd cheered, resonating their lust to the rafters,
Fairy stories make-believe the love we wish to be,
For, only young artists sing songs of such courage and bravery.

Scenes laid before the humble philosopher-queen,
The jouissance of questioning what it is to have been,
To be, to we, we are, I am–the syntax, the grammar, the allegory,
Couplet and Capulet, troubled and toiled, tell this duel-householder story,

The visions collapse as sisters disperse to quaff coveted goblets of brine,
Whilst, above, the suspended apparition of the sandman shines,
Reminded of the laboured movements that idle our hearts,
Wondering, still, if it is us, who Eros eternally thwarts,

The noise in the shadows leaps forth from our throats,
Equal in horror to no other sound this author had wrote,
Fretted in terror by things of the hoary night,
Reminded, in banality, that this fear, I did write.

My Freedom on Wings

<<Read here>> (click here to hear me read it)

I used to sing out loud, waiting for you to hear, 
I used to write sweet words, to draw you near,
I sang a song that only your soul should have heard,
Even so, I was lost in myself, gravely self-interred.

It took me time to push the daisies from this earthy burrow,
Rising stiffly, just under the surface, from six feet below, 
I stretch and groan, a song to salute the sun and skies,
Slowly opening long-closed and sight-forgotten eyes,

The world is new and full of rich abstract colour, 
Awoken from a deep slumber, where senses were duller,
Apprehension and anxiety that once burbled steadily,
Dissipates as my mind eases to the calm of the slow sea,

Infinity may not be compromised from the mortal abode,
Endlessness consumed as digesting time slowed, 
You delicious curls rivalled the Odysseus’s godlike brow, 
And you snarled and hissed, face resting in scowl,

The tears that flowed from your eyes were laced with hate,
For a many an age, I deluded myself to lust after fate,
When we danced, my hand met your hand, your hand on my waist,
Always expecting, always demanding my smile remained chaste, 

The years past us by, dust settling like snow on those curls,
Tears dropped from my eyes, more precious than pearls,
You pushed me and pulled me, I was a doll on a string, 
But I’ve finally grown them, my freedom on wings,

In, I breathe, Out, I breathe. Snow melts at my pyre, 
Spring suspires life from the putrid, festering mire,
Towards the depths, I feel my body contract and inflate,
This is the choice of a lifetime—a pearl or fiery gate.

I am free now, after all of this time; 
Saddled to lyric and many a rhyme;
I bellow the fires that alight from within,
And cradle the pearls as I begin again. 

Storm’d Heat

Scratching the graphite into the page.  Stomping your soul into the earth.  Dreaming your essence unto an universe of an unravelling infinite expansion of a helical dance.  Driving your soul downwards and your essence upwards and outwards.  Feeling energy surging from your fingers and into the day-dreams that soothe your wayward mind.

Lapping oceans clammer to hug the shore, “just one more inch,” she cries as she forcefully reaches to hug the earth she so desperately loves.  Mother Earth crumbles unto the ocean floor circumventing her waves.  Rains fall and mists away from broiled earth.  Falling and rising; cooling and heating.

Purposeful desire aches in his soul as he holds tight to fortune’s cruel wheel, over which he has little control, but he still holds onto it desperately.  Fortune spoke, one, two, three, four, five, six.  Fortune speaks, but her voice is graveled from having, for so long, been engaged to the earth as she rolls onwards:

The body and mind and essence all unravel into different territories.  Connected to the earth as she walks; sway, sway, sway, sway.  His eyes draw her being into his being.  Her love is hidden, far beneath six feet down, but much higher than heaven’s highest mount.  When her heart is stirred, she feels her heart race from all its hidden places, and her head becomes light as euphoria overtakes her.  Still carefully treading the road, wary of fortune’s lines, she closes her eyes as she breathes in hot, wet air.  Her lungs are filled with heavy air, but she is not made bloated by it; instead, her lungs release breath by breath through her nose, ears, mouth, and eyes.  Her lips give long-lasting kisses to dreams as thoughts pass by.  Her eyes gently hug each vision as they hop away like young puppies in a field of daisies.  Her own world is filled with feeling and heat and emotion and dreams, ever surrounding her being, ever clinging to her as burrs bite wild hair.  The world shuts off, but remains.  The world is her.

He cannot see what she sees, for it is the unseen.  He cannot hear what she hears, for it is the unheard.  But he breathes what she breathes as they breathe life into each other.  He feels what she feels as they meet in space and time.

Words into being.  Words blend thoughts and worlds as the graphite nestles into curves and lines of life and death.   the muse breathes.  the muse thinks.  the muse be-mused.  the muse is power.  the muse is statuette.  the muse blinks.

the muse sways as her body sings the melodic delirium she was lauded to whisper once more.

 she is unto a world of her own.  she feels the vibrations of the world below her and the sensation of the heavens and stars above.  she feels the clouds of emotion and wonder and imagination and curiosity.

he knows not what to do.

she knows not of it.

whilst she regards the stars, and her mind amongst the stars; ad infinitum.