The Only-- MY Edition

She's like that story you heard when you were little. That feeling of something familiar that was with you from the beginning. Like it was important. Like she's important. And as you grow up, you find yourself unable to remember HER, only parts of her; the story, her book cover, her text. But you find her, pieces of her, lines and pages and the familiar scrapes of your fingers and palms of every day... and smell of her... And you chase them. Chase the pieces. Hoping you'll find her again. But what then, can it mean? Is she out there waiting to be my story again? Or has she really gone out of print... is she just an idea for a book I'll never read... ever again?

A premise

A bird lands on a mound of dirt and pecks at a few bugs. Then lays down and dies. Melting downward into the dirt it was once pecking at. The bird becomes the dirt and a green bulb grows from the dirt upward out of the door. Growing quickly, it becomes tall, a foot high, twice the size of the bird before it when it landed. The plant blossoms into a flower and opens up into the sun. It's petals withering quickly and dropping down into faded shards of itself. The petals on the dirt below pair up with help from the breeze, and lift up, fluttering, into butterflies. Yellow orange and red butterflies. All fluttering away till they land on some grass at the edge of a prairie. When they land, the grass erupts into flames. The once green grass now whipping into yellow waves. The waves melding together, covering the entire prairie till it's a lake of fire. The waves slow, threatening the treeline but all the flames leap up into yellow birds, each taking a direction, spoking outward on their small wings, leaving the prairie a blackened bruise on the earth.

"Halcyon" - Mono

Myles : I used to say...
Myles : Honestly...
Myles : That i'm not me.
Myles : And that Mono...
Myles : And their songs are like... glimpses at the true.
Myles : The thing we're all supposed to grasp.
Myles : That true full potential.
Myles : But we know we can't.
Myles : So we only enjoy the small view through the keyhole...
Myles : Through the chipped paint on the window...
Myles : To that world that's complete.
Myles : That place that doesn't need the guidelines...
Myles : That place where it's safe.
Myles : Where we have no winglets on our arms for reality...
Myles : No death.
Myles : No life.
Myles : Just that place.
Myles : And being in it.
Myles : And longing for something we could never have...
Myles : Because we're not put together...
Myles : But in others, like people, like Mono...
Myles : They're all trying to get together...
Myles : Like raindrops from clouds.
Myles : We're all diving from it...
Myles : But never at once.
Myles : Never at the same time.
Myles : So when we get to the place we're belong before the transition...
Myles : We're alone.
Myles : We're scared.
Myles : And we eventually find a pool.
Myles : Or a puddle.
Myles : And feel like we belong.
Myles : But it's never enough...
Myles : Or for long enough.
Myles : Because we go back up into the cloud.
Myles : But there are those few who find a lake or a pond or a river all going to that place...
Myles : And I think they're lucky.
Myles : But us.
Myles : We have to find a way...
Myles : To fall at once.
Myles : To get there together.
Myles : To piece ourselves together truly... because it's not impossible.

My favourite painting.

The Wave.
By Hokusai

Because I am a driftee.

Fortunate, very fortunate.

It's a fortunate thing to have faith. What I have faith in... I can't describe through everyone else's means. I need to find my own way.

I don't seek the wizard behind the curtain. I don't seek the bottom of the pond for the pebble that created the ripples. I don't seek the pen that wrote the story. I don't seek the eye that shed the tears. I don't escape the end to find the beginning. I seek, I search, I am pulled toward the pull and the path it has me on, and all I observe: the curtain, the ripples, the story, the tears, and the beginning--are just understandings that I am pulled through. There's more to the black between the stars. There's more to the silence between conversations.

Why?

The waves push and pull and give no relief, or pictures. Something to see the horizon with, to never forget that it's there with a reminder that that's what we're all moving towards and the music between the waves crashing against the shores of each of us make the playlists that take us ever closer to the horizon we seek. We're the artists and composers of our compilations and soundtracks to our lives, and the different people you meet are featured in many tracks, so you're never alone.

But A Cling For Which Another Can Grapple

Love is a word better writ than said...

Saying so says there's someone for whom to hear love said.

And hearing-said love spoken can only say they mean it when they speak it.


But however bleak it seems in the seams of breaking dreams, love said

is saved best when love is presumed dead... Because hoping to hear and hearing hope undead

in "love" being said is love then alive and resurrected.


It's easiest to love and speak it and mean it, but harder to write it and believe it.

For love spoke opposed to writ, is a love requited tenfold. Yet love writ is hardest still,

as waiting for love returned is the steepest hill. Time can pass or time can stand still,

"love" writ is just a word waiting to be filled.


For it's those who love and wait for love, the willing who shall prevail.

Because "love" is like "no love", when you have love without fail.

No Graplings with which to cling...

I am declawed, for Love. Of Love. By Love.

I will not allow myself to Love. I may be Loved. I may speak of Love. I may reek of Love and surround myself with children of Love to which my scent of Love is sweetest and sweetening still, my Love. I Love I let I lost I gave I took I lathed Love from sturdy pillars of hope and into figurines of sacrifice. Heart held keepsakes proportionate to the hearts holding; for those large and grand are those born to Love and have the greatest possibility for knowing Love as Love is known to know those who Love It, but for those whose souvenir is light and intricate are those who've seen millenniums of moments where Love was Hero and Villain, for those who's hearts have little carapaces clutching hard to what minor beats beat from behind such guard... know that their proportionate portions of Love is the epitome of the grandest Love Lovable--"The little things matter most".

To the stars that Love, the giants and blues, we are minuscule to Love.

So Love your hearts holding figurines in blood-glass cases for all to see and collect moments of Love between everyone you meet, and someday, some day, Our Love will Be Complete.

But not for me... I am the pathway for Lover's feet, there to catch those tears that Lovers weep while on their journey for the sakes of Love's keep. And that which gives dreams of Love as those who Love Love to sleep.

Pencil...

I haven't written with a pencil in a very long while. Especially not in a journal. Admittedly, it looks and feels very different than pen. The words look kind of the same as they would with ink but have a sloppier feel to them. As though the pencil would rather have my hand move wildly across the pages, disregarding the lines and edges of the page and grind down the synthetic lead till it's just a whittle of a memory of that time I could have scribbled all over this page, these pages, with the abandon that a pencil glows with... because the entirety of the pencil itself stands for a simple phrase: "All possibilities with me, through me, are not permanent, nothing is serious." With it's hollow mechanical shaft and lead tip and eraser for a tail...
It fits me... as a driftee in the push and pull of this universe. The burning of the lead constantly at the tip scorches what few surfaces it does and represents itself through a karmatic impermanence of fate, as though the greatest love story ever told could be scribbled somewhere rare and the right eyes at the right moment will read them... finish the last line and the "the end" before the lead disappears into the oceanic oblivion known as "once upon a time".
I have a new found respect for pencils. For this pencil.

Music: Swimming through the abyss...

Floating on the waves of an echo to a sound of a melodious sound long fallen silent to the shroud of chaos and pure certainty of eternal light not-so eternal... it makes the environment bearable. It's better to drift than choose which direction to propel yourself into. Drifting... is how you go with the flow. You can't choose, to go with the flow, you just have to go with it. It's not a choice. That's freedom. Freedom isn't the right to choose whatever you want, freedom is not putting yourself or being in the care or need or want to choose this or that. Nothing is ever this or that. Drifting, let's you be a part of everything, yet not apart from anything. You are free.

Drifting allows you to understand that you are very insignificant in this universe, but even in that it's very clear that the insignificance you feel is the most significant thing imaginable. At the core of it is the hope of possibility and reason to everything; and undoubtedly there is. How far and how willing you are is all it takes to know it.

And music is a guide and a method, an open hand and a hug, a kiss and a cheek caressed. It's the breath you don't breathe but feel along your neck in the blackness and comfort of covers and your favourite posters. It's music. It's been a part of you since you were conceived however many times you have been or since you're first time here in this universe. It flows and resonates deep within your soul, even if you don't feel you have one, it calls and pulls and pushes you along the corridors as you drift. It comes through your fingers as you play an instrument or voice as you sing or hands as you build. It's there guiding you, showing you that all you need to do is drift... and listen.

Hope your visit and the music playing was pleasant.

The spaces in between...

Stars.

The darkness doesn't blink or waver or take time to tell you it's there like light does. The darkness gives the stars places to drift in and through. The dark is forgotten and taken for granted by many a stargazer. Everyone clings to the light that bends and creates illusions and distorts and causes glare or can't get around objects so it creates twilight. Light shows you the flaws in reality while making it acceptable so that beauty can be found, that is if it is still common practice to say and act as though beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I've beheld beauty, and it is dark and in between the twinkling specs of dust on the ceiling of my perception.

Lines.

Just as deep as the darkness enrapturing stars, the off-white of notebook pages give words a place to shine. I love writing. To me, putting words together on a piece of paper or the white body of a blog just satisfies me. It feels as though I'm mantling the poetic residue of a pen's barrel to the tip of my imagination and painting upon the vast emptiness I've so much come to appreciate. The silence and serenity of the white and the off-white and blue lines calms me in a savory way that I won't always write often. I wish I did. But I wish I found the right words a lot of the time to actually give my respect to the white and off-white of paper. I've so many notebooks with so many white pages, it's like I keep them to cherish the fullness of how empty they are as though the pages themselves somehow keep all that I want to write and really care about while waiting for me to realize my ability to do so and finally do it. And even to that, I have to be grateful for.

Silence.

The perfect silences... sitting across from someone you hardly know or know very well... the silences aren't golden but they are the greatest thing about conversation. It's like you can hear yourself and can tell yourself it's going well or that it isn't. It makes me want to point the silences out. Just stop the silence between questions and comments about whatever and say, "hey, this silence right here..................................... This is great." It feels like a pause in memory. It feels like something you've waited for after saying something you probably wouldn't have ever imagined yourself to be talking about till now. Silence fits everywhere and I like noticing it. The silence between words when a person speaks as you pass by or as someone announces something. That very evanescent and brisk silence keeps time with the rhythm of syntax a person uses which as to the gratification of being able to notice silence. Wow. To just be able to understand that I'm the kind of person that doesn't exactly need noise to survive, or that I'm very capable of surviving silence and calm and feeling alone. Mmm.

We all start somewhere...

My somewhere is a floating zepplin caught in the eve of a dawn of darkness yet to come to fruition on the edge of a slim and sleek mirror that only reflects what is happening always five seconds slower than now, and I don't think I'll peek over that edge.

I'm not afraid nor disinterested, I'm choosing not to. I think it an adventure I feel I've already done and don't need to relive, not because I don't regret, but because I choose not to. I sit on the precipice to something beautiful and encompassing like fog or the shroud of a bridge as you pass beneath it in the middle of the afternoon, as though you miss the sun yet dread the return of it as you exit out of the other side of the tunnel; but instead I'm waiting for the beautiful and encompassing sensory overload to cross the precipice to find me, staring at its cue and mark to welcome it.

This somewhere is worth it. I drift from it and to it constantly. It's like feeling something new yet familiar but it feels like it fills me with a deepness that's empty of void and full of infinity. As if good as a word and description fades as I reach higher for a grip on a grasp to hold onto the new state of euphoric transcending bliss.