In negative spaces the truest form of existence lies.
All things that are
eventually are not.
All things that begin
inevitably must end.
In this, leaving only absence and emptiness
on a universal scale.
This vastness however lonely,
from a particularly human experience
is in and of itself
and awe inspiring
in the same moment
realizing that one is nothing
but holds within that nothingness potential
it’s potential that those negative spaces contain
and a blaring flash of existance occurs from that.
All the stars and worlds and dimensions
that are or ever will be
are blasted into an unyielding form
that holds strong upon each fleeting second
with talons sharp at first
to the withered, weakened claws
grasping for its place in time
the cycle repeats
but the constant is the lack
and the potential
that which all humankind and its works fall under
we are from nothing
yet within us
everything is possible
Thanks to John42n8 for the photograph.
I saw before me a field spread wide. Winds pushing gently through the grains, moving them suddenly from stillness. Each day I wandered the land, exploring every slope and hill. Finding every crevice. Each evening I would return to the highest peak and look upon the paths made by my wandering. Each path; I dreamed, led to a different life with different tales told. And through those dreams I felt alive, no longer trapped within this paltry field of never changing grains and sky.
One night as images danced across the skies of clearest stars, I told the heavens my silent stories. Those stories I like to believe were told and retold across the stars themselves. Behind my eyes though, looming clouds of black hail rolled in. My paths, beautiful and innocent were battered and beaten. Pummeled into a listless submission. When the storm had cleared I stepped into my once grand dreamworld.
Where once my childhood lay only a dense fog remained. All the trails I’d grown to love had gone. As I stood in my ashen state among the quickly decaying possibilities my only thought was the paths. Not where the paths led me but the feel of the lush grasses and the soft touch of the grains as my hands passed over. Each path a new path of chance. Of choice. I grasped in my small hands the sharded fields, trying to put the pieces together. I look out only to see the storm rolling into the distance towards anothers field. I pity the soul for their dreams are soon to end.
If sunshine could grant wishes and breezes bring rains. Both would I need to be whole again.
Thanks to gizgad for the photograph.
When I close my eyes fog fades fast. Revealing the subtle hills and paths well trod by kings and peasants. Strong oaks hold lands in stillness. Stopping it from quickly moving down to valleys below; filling slopes to a flat sameness. In the redwoods stories silently sound out eons of joy and strife rolled and romped together creating tragic awe before calming for a perfect moment. When the fog cleared in the morning sun, dew glistening on a new world. On yet untold tales. I breathed in deep for what must be my first true breath.
A gust buries the sunshines’ warmth as chilled, the clouds roll violently in. Covering beauty with a shadow of unforgiving passivity. Gray worlds imposed over the vibrance of one that feels somehow lost before me. Fingertips grasp memories and hear the stories passed out, pleaded by the trees. Gushing through the branches the forests prose is broken with howling temptations brushing aside the fires of immortality that exist here.
Instead the infandous appears before me draining all with sinister flames licking at the world and reaching for its origins high. Thrown down it was- heavens retribution full of honor and hate striking out at a world that moved too slowly. Change occurs gradually no more. The montivagant tales cease to be told. A broken plain tattered and berated by enantiodromia spread softly on plumes of ash across time, reaching out as warning of other worlds that the sun may bring beauty to by moments end and the clouds may take it away.
Thanks to gamehdwall for the photograph.
There are moments in time where flashes of memories trace back to our origins not as a body, but as a soul; rather as a being of independent thought. Those memories with which we choose to define ourselves: first kiss, first crush, last words, lost friendships, small kindnesses. Obscure moments we don’t know why we remember so convincingly influence our decisions and push us farther into a transparent sea of dreamless experiences. No pretense of imagination nor new information presented – our memories, static and unchanging to our own perception. They are fallible as such. Though still move forward feet fumbling, memories pushing pushing pushing. “Onward” its said
Thanks to AnhPo for the photograph.
Tired, piercing, green eyes stare out at a sleepy world. Soft features darken as shadows push over drab surroundings; an attempt to overwhelm her beauty. A looming sky with clouds that contrast her fire red hair; rain beings to fall, lightly wetting the path along a cracked and beaten sidewalk. Lamplight flickers and flashes in an evening gray. A loosed dog digging through rubble looks at her soft pale features intently for but a moment before returning to his search. Her pace quickened at the strength of the rain increased. Looking up she breathed slight in wonder and question. Before her stood a statue of marbled magnificence; an angel whose wings spread out as an invitation to enter. Holding a chalice and a sword that looked as though it was gilded once. But no more. She pauses for just a moment, standing in a rain now pouring and this is where peace exists. No one can see her tears. Moving forward something has changed. The sidewalk seems less cracked and the sky no longer seems to be flooding with sorrow. But bringing an opportunity for new life. “Those tears are now behind me.”
Thanks to The Beachwood Reporter for the photograph.
I like to people watch and I watch wherever I go. I see habits and quirks of people I know. Interesting nuances of people I don’t. Since we all interact in our own unique ways there is so much to watch from people each day. The people I watch; I give names, histories, stories. I make up their lives in my head. Am i escaping my mind to live through my imagination? Maybe. But I am nothing without my vivid visions of the unreal and my observations of the existent. I enjoy my world and those who I am most fortunate to have in it- from the most impactful to the least. I sometimes wonder though…
What stories were told of me by another watcher?
Thanks to LaGasse for the photograph.
I remember often living farther north when a child. An imposing pecan tree shaded my youth in the summer and grew my imagination into adulthood. In the winter that shade receded; greats winds blew across the cotton fields of my home. With their brown eyes watching a sea of clouds tied to the earth, they reached up in hopes of touching the heavens. Alas hanging their heavy laden minds down and down and down holding the position of persevering servitude. Each mind an individual unknown to the collective they soaked up their wares living in perfect harmony. I saw these fields grow into blooming airs; that robust and vivacious health that so was so sought by that land. I saw them grow and stretch. Then age and fall. Always replaced. Always forgotten. No longer did I see this land as filling as I did when my eyes were clouded by a virgin enthusiasm. No longer was this land something I was proud to say was me. I dreamt of my anger boiling over and burning these prisons that held down natures true self. The self of nature that pushed forward and upward. The nature that moved our instinct to become the greatness that we are. We have forgotten this in ourselves. We have shamed the world which spawned us and we spurn the soil that feeds us and the clouds that cool us. There beneath that tree my eyes were changed. To see it in the winter bare.
I knew it would grow again.