on time’s bosom

Wednesday, December 30th, 2015

What is eminent in our time being on Earth is the strength in singularity.

To myself, the promise of expansion towards another day comes to mind in the dire hours of the morning. The sky, in its brilliance, transfixing to meet the shade that comforts the beholder the most.

To the woman at the jewelry shop, who sought to hide in display and quicken her step at the sound of interest; the color was of a rose left out in the frost. It is not sad. It is only draining. It gets the most of us in our better days.

What is to happen when the escape taken becomes the peril of the outside?

It consumes at the inner ticking of the brain, and it consumes on the walls. Take a look again at the cracked corner on the wall. Watch it again. Again. Look towards it as if it were 2004 and the wall spoke to you of the opportunity to make a fool of the constrictions of space and time.

Touch it again. Recall how effortlessly it all went away. And so it goes once again.

Do not listen to the clock.

Housekeeping was the most curious of the bunch. How to plug holes of the wood floor because the popcorn of my ceiling kept dripping into the seams. A bit of my grandfather clock was stick on the wall and the cuckoo bird took my finger again. Time and Space became a companion of mine.

Never once did it speak, but it was alive. It would seep into my eyes– where the pupil and the iris met. It told me to rid of my friends and stay on the edge of my bed.

They were not always There.

When i was Here, i was never here. I was There, but over Here. When i am There, i am on the frontier and i am Alive.

And so i did what any other explorer of the worlds would do, I took upon a voyage of the familiar. Remorse was found in the thickest of books. Length, however, was not always the most dense of the matter. I read of men in power that seemed to hover over the third dimension and want to conquer the fourth. It was not enough. These were concepts of Here and Now.

The Companion of mine beckons on the horizon and I have always answered.

I seemed to have found There while i am Here. Stories of the small and immaculate; of the grandiose and meek, where there was no need for the Here. On the platform of catacomb theorems and quizzical angles of observation I made my stay.

And I loved it so. (do not speak of it so loud)

It was then that I had discovered that the most evil of our own is disguised in our own version of paradise and the colloquial. No longer was my Companion on the shores for anointment.

It came Here for me.

The stones crack underneath the solidity of my heels and winter leaves its flirtation on my virgin cheeks. They clack at the frequency of the grandfather clock.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

It made a home of the continuous and it left me in peril. The stones have groaned on the heaviness of my soul. My feet dance wickedly on the cobblestone street of There. Here, however, they stumble and scream coarsely as a beggar for realism. The painting above me no longer is a stream of the doings of vagabonds and scholars.  It stifles.

The pivotal merry of sadness is a maiden to the impending anguish of joy.

here and there i was.

here and there i remain.






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