Implication…that is a drizzling refrain best left in the company of the impervious lid. Surprised at the perspective? Nod your head along with the obligatory tune. For now, I am perfectly chosen to groom the grass and calibrate the compass. Don’t blink, or else you might miss Atlas taking a break. Neither of us are strong enough without the partnering weight. Living without the excuse of a reason or unbalanced without the aid of the crutch. Free to follow or be unveiled. Maybe…simply to be read again. Turning the hand with all your might…could the impasse yield a new figure? Assuming all that can now compel, can also now conclude. The proof eschews the lever.
All posts by Tim
In a world with no identities or beliefs, there are words and there are spaces. They have only the loosest of associations, no more so than a family occupying a table in a diner and an off course traveler pacing the men’s room in hopes of staying awake. Is orange a delicacy that should be celebrated or should the rules for using the facilities be rearranged?
Sometimes it’s just better to remember that treats are eternal… and yet…that’s why we miss them so much when they eventually lose their taste.
that was not my ego talking, but rather the pondering of disguised emotions that
dampened both my cheeks. It hardly qualified as a blessing, for uncertainty is just a belief that deliberately chooses to crease, as the memory apologetically folds away. I stored what I could and allowed the others to disappear beyond the horizon, their heads refused to turn, they were not angry, they were only moving on. In the softness of the moment, I pinned my shoulders back and perched above the sighs. Serenity was overstated, there was little difference between a bright blue sky and a pile
of broken sticks . As I removed the film from my gaze, the rest of me listened
and wondered how everything could be so beautiful, yet the first touches were now remembered as colorless and cold. Maybe that is why I was suddenly talking to blue jays and missing the smell of morning. I saw an angry fox playing a banjo under a tree. He could not get the chords right no matter how many times he chose to start again. But he was determined and I understood. Perseverance without a plan does little but drive one mad. Now there was increased stuttering, still the words that fell in line, did so as part of a divine parade. To this day, I am not sure if anyone noticed the hand of God. But it was there and I felt rather brave. Unmasked, I was thankful it was you and your love that made me weep.
Heads were turning in the distance, crying no longer made me sad.
I must go now…trust then believe…it is not what I should want…but a covenant you shall receive. Remember when we arrived? You found me small, hungry and alone. I was not broken…but I became so…under careful amplification of your credulous eye. Not in the meaning that you always forgave…but rather in what was agreed upon without your consent. An incompatible accord…when you asked for too much, I came up with too little. All of this makes insoluble sense beyond the well-trained barriers…but consider the time we had…for we laid the stones together. Why do I implore you to return to the site of so much pain? Because in between all of the layers that kept you from getting too close…there were tiny pieces of misdirection…that when decoded…assembled perfectly into the only choice that was left for me to make. So in shedding the remaining parts…my honesty…I shall pack…dutifully obeyed. In the whiskers and the fur you will find…a curious path that needs new stones…a possibility still unlaid.
My faith is much like the discovery of an insecure word that is as skittish as a long, forgotten season… rather than fearing the retreat… into a mislaid interpretation…I enjoy the calm of remembering when…and the context of the intended manifestation.
In time, nothing shall come to pass but more time that shall also come to pass. Reminders will abound with a clarity and obviousness that makes you wonder if in the mind of the imaginer, this is merely a misappropriated slant that refuses to partner with a divine and purposeful whit, or first sounds of a daybreak that deserve our eternal gratitude, yet are not offered as a means for us to stay awake.
Backstage there is a calm that knows to trust where each foot is to be forwardly placed. Being kind is how I honor what I dislike the most. Thankfully, there is help that seeps thru the stickiest of bindings, just enough to keep me lured to the page. I rise briefly, before collapsing…I am not well…I cannot lift my spirits or part my lips to disengage. Old friends sweep the dust that collects within the corners, where unasked life patiently resigns. They know not to offer anything more, that is the penalty for their hope and the instinct of my consternation.
Without pigment, everything is perfectly non-descript. There is outline amongst the familiar murkiness, and grace in the omnipresent backdrop of the unrecognizable. The architect of permanency may be on the way, or he has already predated his arrival. Never concerned with privilege or nomination, the fish who runs from the splashing, artificial bait is often willing to trade assurances for the serenity of the dying air.
Cheap thrills brush against the slimmest of summits that barely dangle from the thralls of my hyper extended knee. Glad you could stop by, it is sad that I have to hear my own words now obeying a newly preferred master. My voice will forever be hoarse, but I must bargain with whatever we have left…to follow the pacing of the light and its elusive pattern. Please try to keep up…I could not bear to abuse my place any longer. Soon, I sense nothing, but drying emotion upon my vacant skin.
If only the practicality of thought could learn to balance the art of speculation against the cost of reminiscent jeers. Perhaps…Perhaps…I could find myself fashioning a set of regretful tears, amidst the unfurling of a backwards wave. In conscious madness…time could fib within this state…recognizable…I shall smile inside…until it is safe to regurgitate the crumbs of fate.
Universal composition is a squeezebox that is unable to take requests…still… it must commute all sounds… no matter how awful the performance is… judged or received…the motifs are always well-rehearsed to reflect a preordained harmony. That is the sharpness of the pain and the madness of being ordered to accept.
And the garish fall rewarded a nefarious happiness with zeroes…until the poetic count resumes, all that resonates is the curious reliability of the proximate dander. I am so very sorry for your loss…but all the same…you are most welcome for my branding of the impending stench of inebriated profusion.