Always

“Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.” 
Wallace Stevens

~

His home is covered in snow and he can't get inside. He thinks tonight is the check we pay in the morning. And his gray wolf is covered in white, howling for a non-existent remedy.

Imagine the light in their eyes, brightly burning out.

Now fix your self on the resolution to embrace the brokenness of awe; fix your self. And as the stranger within you silently whispers a graceful breath, caressing the tomb of your undying dream, it sends a thunderous frisson down your spine - an unfinished arpeggio chews off your vocal chords.

Now the wings of the phoenix are set afire, and the wind is hanging on these broken wires. So we sleep tonight beneath the glow of snow and night, covering cortical flow with disharmonious blankets, sweating in the darkest shades of flares and glares.

Death is upon us dearest wolf - the supernovan star we enfold within us is due. This symphony of delusion will be ending soon - and as the ghost of yesterday takes tomorrow's train, we live and die today. We live and die today.

There are no maps in this revolution. There are no bulletproof hearts in this fight.

What you thought was gone is becoming livelier than honored blood. The child returns - the lady of the lake made an exception. His astral courage no longer exits at dawn. Ocean and sky may, in the mind, disconnect, but his core remains unbroken.

Get out of my head.

Look at yourself. Look underneath the layers of deception. Look into the dark and cut your shadow into pieces of coal - and swallow them whole. I'll pour this starlight in your drink and we'll split your dark side on the brink of this dot. So breathe out these words that emulate your scent and breathe in that venomous perfume. Know that the penultimate edge is never a line. It is that empty space between rapture and insanity. And know that the essence of knowledge lies in grasping the divide between why a forsaken moment can sometimes be momentous and for what the momentous must, sometimes, be forsaken. However, in the end, you must forget everything and listen. You just need to listen - listen to the music.

[...]

The mind extends beyond skin and bone, resting on the mirage of private property, projecting scheme and schema in the form of quantum energy onto a reality it cannot understand. So you see it there, paving the broken way with purple metaphors that smell like the eternal aroma of a dying flower; the morning glory.

The heart finds what it had lost - a pen. Yet this paper onto which we're supposed to write will not cease to be immaterial until the correct heartbeat frequency is set. The frequency depends on a few variables yet it is not your job to know them, it's your job to be all of them, all at once. Until you manage to do that, you can watch the foreign lines strolling down, down the script, waiting for you to act them out.

I wanted to tell her that she needed to lose the gift wrap because I could see the ribbons of her ego suffocating her soul. I wanted to tell her that it's not her fault. I wanted to tell her that I've read that the darkness will never comprehend the light, and that I have yet to realize which side I'm on. I wanted to tell her that I figure out illusions in the blink of an eye because I am one.  I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be alright because that's what I'd learned from my favorite songs - but I couldn't because I didn't want to lie. I wanted to tell you that no matter what I say, it will never be enough. I wanted to tell you that I, too, wanted you to know that I love the way you laugh. I wanted to tell you that you are both my remedy and my home, that whether you're covered in snow or moonlight or tears, I'll be right there with you. Always.

~

“How did it get so late so soon?” 
Dr. Seuss

Wolf

"Tout ce que tu ne sais pas donner te possède."
André Gide

~

...that the roads lead to nowhere when you have walls around your heart.

There are outer obstacles and inner scars, wounds at the surface and fractures that tear you apart. There is the decision or a lack thereof, the drive to authenticity or a falling to pieces, the will to build on goodness or a forgotten painting about forgetting - forgetting what?

Then there's you and you and everything stuck in between.

Then there's me and it feels as though I've lost all my pens, as if the words perceived my thoughts as unfair taxation laws so they drowned all the instruments of expression into the realm of immaterial ink and then wrote themselves off. Thus, I now find shelter in words that describe how the old ones used to arrange their letters in me. I know that my eyes have been closed for a while, and that none of this will open them because the roads on my eyelids are flooded with apologies that never made it out of my head - unless dreamworld counts.

For now, the dot follows the patterns that match the mysterious code of identity. The dot can't always see the dot within. The dot breaks itself into symbols under which obscurity hides meaning and meaning hides light. The dot sees itself in other dots and, sometimes, the other way around. The dot has no understanding of scale because it has never met a unit. The dot's favorite geometrical concept is the infinite line it can't wish into being by itself. The dot knows of the third dimension but pretends that it doesn't exist while it enjoys the two-dimensional labyrinth. The text, the paper, and the pen, they're all predetermined. But the dot is free. The dot is how much love you're freely willing to give. The dot is the handwriting.

Different people feel different things. But perhaps my void and yours are the same. My void compares itself to the empty center of a spider's perfect web, the eye of the secret storm that sees the Nothing in everything and feels the Everything in that Nothing. Perhaps that's what I hope to understand, the calm infinity dwelling in the nothingness of this beautiful song, the calm song in everything and everyone.

But the words don't always fit the music. For between the point where symbols fail to carry the feeling and the point where the heart can no longer beat off that feeling's weight, there is a line of lonely letters living lovelessly in the blind lavender ink spots of the imagination.

I watch and wonder, wonder and watch. I watch the games at their fingertips and wonder how aware they are of the game inside, the one between the hero and the villain, the victim and the pretender, the warrior and the chess-master, the composer and the lyricist, and my personal favorite at this moment, the ego and the anti-hero.

The game is won when the big antonyms become synonymous. I don't know them all. But for now, I can recall that sometimes unreading is reading, covering is uncovering, giving is receiving, unlearning is learning, breaking is mending, dying is living, doubting is suspecting, growing is a return to the child and, more often than not, I am you and you are me.

For now, in the seemingly perennial distance between being and becoming, I see a child riding on the back of a wolf, a grey and white wolf that was born in the snow.

I wonder where they're going next.

~

“Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone.” 
George Gordon Byron

Ghost

"Time's forever frozen still."
Ed Sheeran

~

This auburn autumn leaf, torn to pieces in the snow, shares its broken structure with my tired mind. And though your snow had melted ages from long ago, replaced by legions of purple orchids blossoming in cardiac weather, your seasoned mind still thinks it's autumn, anticipating the fall.

So run as fast as you can in this frozen hourglass of melting seconds. Run quicker than your skin until it falls off and you become a ghost. Run and leave everything behind. Run and don't look back.

But before you start running.

Remember.

Remember those who fixed your compass.
Remember those who tied your shoes.
Remember the girl who fixed your glasses
Remember the boy who gave you his food.

Remember and know that without them you wouldn't be able to walk.

Play the memories in your mind on the scarred surface of the wall and watch how the cracks slowly and magically fade.

And forget me. Forget me but please stop running. Forget me and remember who you are.

[...]

Today, I couldn't see the color of your ink. And, today, my voice is the echo of a broken record.
And every word was an arrow shot to the secret mirrors I'd kept hidden inside.
And the arrows have hit their target.
So, today the glass is broken and the only sound is silence.
Today, you are not here and I am a desert in the desert.

Today, you are not here and here is gone.
Today does not know our name.

[...]

Now, I wonder if tomorrow is an empty circle of soundless movements of lips painting heartbeats that have fallen out of sync. I wonder if doubt is the greatest warrior that has ever lived, the warrior that has never died. I wonder how vulnerable I've become on a scale of 'void' to 'full of love'. I wonder if tomorrow will be as empty as my hands feel right now.

[...]

I wonder if our hourglass of sun and snow is running out of moments.

~

"And we’ll never be the same; 
Never, forever.
Like ghosts in the snow
Like ghosts in the sun."
My Chemical Romance