Of whims and indulgence

From neither malice,

nor that which is bitter,

to embrace the chalice,

catch a spirit set aglitter.

Not of payback,

nor of anything cruel,

to chase a whiff of lilac,

grasp the elegance, an alluring jewel.

Not of the wicked,

nor a place of spite,

to clasp a wild orchid,

or unchain the night.

 

 

The bleeding soul.

There are no gods,

There is only the bleeding soul.

Eternal hemorrhaging.

Old and cold,

far beyond measure in years.

Icy to it’s essential root,

like frozen and distant Pluto.

Battered and torn and worn and bruised.

Lacerated and scarred and marred and contused.

Eternal soul,

timeless it seems.

Until the last breath,

and the end of dreams.

A simple glance.

A single glance,

simple and quick.

A shared recognition,

a curious connection.

This moment,

this fleeting glance,

adrift within the washing waters of time.

Pulling forward to the surface,

the primal being.

A cognizance so basic,

so true, so pure.

A calling to the instinctual,

to the human animal within.

Within the span of two breaths,

it is gone,

yet only begun.

A dying beacon

Within the blackest of dark night,

black and sightless,

A slight and distant spark glows boldly though the abyss.

Exploding forward and outward in all direction,

Banishing the darkness further into the great void.

Even the weakest of flicker can appear awesome in contrast to the black of the dark night.

Even a pale and dying glimmer that never should have been  can illuminate the open blank space, creating shadow and form out of the nothingness that surrounds and walls this well of emptiness.

Haste, reckless and imprudent, is the fuel that feeds the scramble  for refuge within the warming radiance .

Brilliant and blinding it seems.

Casting the dark and black of night away.

Elation and exaltation.

Jubilant and full of ecstasy.

Blinded by the luminous glowing and sedated by the comforting warmth.

Unnoticed, the regaining and creeping blackness moves even closer, like a thrown blanket falling from overhead,blotting out the sunny skies on summer’s fairest day.

With a near silent whisper, soft and gently subtle, the wind breaths a faint sigh.

Suddenly, without the slightest shutter or a fleeting shimmer, the light is gone.

Extinguished from existence.

Devoured by the coveting dreary gloom.

It is gone.

Alone and black once again.

Frigid and striking to the bone.

The chill tightens the skin and constricts the breathing.

Once more, it is black.

Hello world!

Hello world. This journal gives voice to the elevations, yearnings, and sorrows that swirl about together within the vortex of my inner thoughts as they slip down the dirty drain of consciousness. Sometimes though, it’s more of silent spring. Feed with a slow but constant wash from well within the deepest subtle depths of purity and joy. Escaping only in trickle from beneath the hard packed mount of ice and frost that envelopes my soul.
In one word, it’s a diary. A diary left open to the eyes of strangers. Every brutal defeat and crash as well as all euphoric exaltations and pleasures will be keyed for anyone to see.