Orchestration.

There are days, and then there are days like today. When it seems like everything is symbolic of my life and my entire existence, for better or for worse, and it makes me smile. Or frown. For better or for worse? I do not know. I don't think I ever will.

Walking, head bent, with my mind filled with thoughts to the brink. But managing. Somehow managing. And the wind blows, for the longest time. Watching the wind blow the leaves in little dances around my feet. Watching the world, in the cold, shivery way that it has, come alive. Watching as the trees sway, back and forth, like some kind of giant metronome. Watching as what I thought might stay, goes. Watching, watching watching, as my life happens.

Watching, doing, or making? And I wonder. My ideas are running around. I feel as though I could write pages and pages and pages of stories and plots and adventure. In my head. Onto the pages they would go, and make a masterpiece.

And I've been thinking. All throughout the night I thought, and drew mental images. Of people I know and people I don't. My head is full of strangers I've created whom I'm sure have interesting stories to tell if only they I would tell them. And people that would tell stories if only I could bring them to life. They are everywhichwhere. One of my biggest disappointments is that nobody will ever be able to see the things in my head as I do. I can never hope to create the art and the ideas I see and do them justice and make you understand that I think in colors, big and bold and loud and everything is Exciting. And you just want to stay because it it breathtaking.

I don't think I'm living up to my potential. Instead, I've found little potentials and I've been chasing them into the deep dark corners where they live and sometimes I forget to turn around and see where I've been going. Perhaps I am lost, but I am having an awfully big adventure. Shall I find my way back? What will I find? What if we could meet ourselves in the past and see how we'd changed? But perhaps that is for another day. Another day that isn't so blisteringly cold. So terrible and demanding. So fucking cruel.

Untitled #7.

I took a walk tonight.

It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.

I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.

She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.

The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.

And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.

Invocation.

The clouds burst into pieces, small sharp shards of shrapnel piercing the air. The sun cascades in through the window and shuns away from the sky. It darkens outside. The temperature drops. Ice crystals form on frosted window panes. Breath vapors cling to the air, visibly shaking in fear.

The swing that I'm sitting on begins to shake as well. A rumbling begins to shake the very earth itself. I draw an aegis of courage from somewhere deep in the depths of my soul and try to face what is bound to come.

The ground splits open. A yawning chasm opens. Blinding darkness spews forth, enveloping the sun. The rainbows are covered with dark, heavy tones. A prismatic spray of darkness issues forth from the gash and begins to send runners towards the swingset. I inhale the frozen air. My aegis is insubstantial, founded upon myth and legend, and crumbles like dust. The tendrils begin to creep up the poles.
Where is the light? Is it sobbing somewhere, surrounded by shadows?

The rainbows have become tainted with brilliant shades of black. The chasm has fixed its signs on the earth. The darkness has left this place in ruin.
Black clouds pool on the edges of the chasm as the slash of a mouth overflows with chromatic ink.

And so it was there, sleeping dormant deep inside of me.
It lay there, bubbling silently from the gash, shrouding the entire city.
They retreated back into the netherworld. Gone, but not entirely gone. The sun isn't quite as bright as it used to be. Those rainbows aren't as prismatic as they should be.

And that playground has never been the same.

Untitled #6

And the broken man sat down at a table and hung his head in his hands.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.

He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.

It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.

And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.

And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.

And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.