The Mindscape

What is it?

It's a jumbled mess, whatever it is. The Genesis of an Abortion. The Exodus of False Lives and Lies. A Revelation of a Journey that bears no resemblance to moving from Point A to Point B in a logical manner. The hand of Fate, deliberately leaving its subjects no choice.

A contradiction.

A deception.

Many deceptions.

Bullshit, as they would say.

Who are they? Forms and figures - phantoms, perhaps - of imagined ideas and actions that are ostensibly controlled by one who is Real. But they are the Banal. The ones worth time are those that - they who - what the fuck ever - are uncontrollable. With lives and half-lives of their own.

They are radioactive. Born dead and only interesting when inanimate. Those who lie, steal, murder, rape. Those who stop the liar, the thief, the killer, the rapist. The object of their existence is to take others to the abject principle and show that humanity - the very act of thought - knows no bounds. Good and Evil are one and the same. Always have been. Always will Be.

God does not exist here, for there is more than One. Gods exists here, and there are less than Zero. The shadows of social imagination create their power struggles and cast out those who are too weak to follow, too weak to care.

It is apathy that starts the war. Empathy that fights it. And sympathy that makes everyone a liar.

The sun never sets on Empiricism. Darkness falls upon the Land of the Arousing Sun. Superficial eroticism is the reason for everything. It's - she's - beautiful, and that's why she's wanted. It's also why she's killed.

Was she an infant? Whose skull was crushed beneath the boot heel? Was she a child? Who stole her innocence and replaced it with an overwhelming guilt that will lead her to the water that the horse will drown her in?

As an adolescent she was coveted. And taken. By many. And a prisoner in adulthood, freed only by the merciful finger of the Reaper.

He was a baby fed to the wolves because father was bored. He was a child introduced to sexual assault by means of example. He was the teenager whose life of crime began with a coming-of-age in a prison cell. He was the adult who bred more criminals.

Where are the heroes now? Who are the Myths that walk on water and turn blood into wine, bread into flesh, piss into vinegar, and excrement into dessert?

Are they waiting for the sky to fall? Or are they simply falling from the sky? To rely on Icarus for rescue is a foolhardy decision. To wait for the Peregrine to arrive is to wait forever.

Is forever worth waiting for? Perhaps if it comes with supple nipples and a wet vagina. Otherwise, what's around the corner might do just as well. He just wants to watch her breasts bounce and her buttocks gyrate. Old, young, immoral. It doesn't matter if one is careful. The careful are never caught. Crooked police only fail to police.

Who is the killer who sheds a tear? Her mind is a jumbled mess, whoever she is. The second coming of a Faith that never returned. The first coming of a Legend that never arrived. Her hand is taken. In love. In lust. Hearts whose beatings are rivaled by only that of erect penis and swollen labia.

Ugly words describe the enjoyable. And by whose command? An author - authors - whose names will never be known because their followers took pride in taking credit. It's only a Sin if they disagree. It's a Virtue if no one agrees.

The true Faith lies in not believing blindly, but in believing in the face of proof that it's a lie. True hope lies not in the wanton tossing of pennies into a fountain, but in the willingness to use the tricks of an enemy against the enemy. And Eye for an Eye. And Tooth for a Tooth. Ashes to Ashes. Dust to Dust.

It's a race, and the good - not the Good - will win because they will pull the trigger first. When they turn to smile, is it a friendly gesture? Or are you merely next?

Art is expression and expression will not be censored. The Truth is not meted out in doses. It is not colored by subjective moral. It simply is. They enjoy watching others die. They enjoy blood spurting from vein and artery. They enjoy placing their tongues in places that make her squirm. They will try anything twice.

Save your judgements for your own thoughts. They care not. If you cannot stand to bear witness to all that will transpire, then gouge your eyes and burst your ears. Turn out the lights and lock the door. That you cannot tell the monster from the paramour is of no concern to them. They'd just as soon kiss you and fuck you as they would kill you and cook you.

They are what they eat. And they're all cocks and pussies. Hard, soft, warm, and wet. Like the rains, dependent on the time of year and the mood of the wind. Doldrums just mean they have to make their own fun, and whether you're a player or the game depends solely on nothing at all. Merely the mood of the wind.

The world, the universe - existence - is a fucked up place. Chaos reigns and only those destined to fail believe there's an order to it all. Moving forward is the only option. Leave everything behind. That is the fine line between predator and prey.

Anything goes here. Leave your sensibilities at the door. Or don't come in. Laugh. Cry. Scream. If you aren't taken to the limit of acceptability - and beyond it - then this view is a failure.

Are you afraid yet? You'd better be. You're a fucking idiot if you're not.

Welcome to The Mindscape.

Enjoy.

Canon

We're wide open / waiting / for the single gust of wind that can carry a dream / into the next place / where nightmares aren't / as frightening as sounds of mourning /  that let you know you'll never see me again / with arms out / false wings, un-hollow, unable to fly / on the single burst of wind that can carry a dream / into the eternal embrace of what lies beneath / where feet once walked / on what is now the opaque sky...

We're wide open / running / away from the concussions of winds that bring fire / when we're already warm / heartbeats rapid and... breath... exhausted / from pulling wrists / of people whose names we've never known / in the same place by different means / paths varied / converge for a moment as a hurricane / who cares not for our beliefs / only that we're in the way...

We're wide open / dying / from the impact of currents against bodies / that cannot be pushed too hard / carried too far / against the limits of skies / beyond which lies no resistance / no life / we're too young to die / still we crumble / as long as we can be walls / preventing the passage of something else / we will be unable to fly / on that single thought of wind / that you once told me you dreamt...

Mirror

In a far off place, on the other side of my mind, there's another side of my mind in a far off place. Through the mirror of sleep I can see it. Paradise. And Hell. Shattered imagery that will not stick to memory, instead bonding to strange laughter or beads of sweat noticed when eyes suddenly open. It is no threat in the daylight. Under the blanket of solar shadow, however, it is as terrifying and inviting as anything in waking life. Fear and love worth never waking from. False memories worth waking for. In a far off place. On the other side of the mirror.

Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.

The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.

She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.

Living Backwards

"Ka-blam, elimination! Lack of education!" - Big Mama, The Fox and the Hound, 1981

She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.

When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.

She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.

When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.

A Slow Crawl to a Cliff's Edge

If ever there was needed a reminder of how brutal life is, none is needed now. Blood in the sands, falling from the skies, obscuring the seas. That there is a wound is obvious. Where it is... less so. There's a ridge just up ahead; perhaps the view from it will reveal all. Wise men are found on mountains, yes? Perhaps there is wisdom to found.

There's blood under fingernails, and legs can't be felt, but survival requires movement and becoming a feast for carrion is not yet a given. There are wings circling overhead. Manmade? Or feathered? One could be rescue. Both could be death.

Streets in the desert don't care what they're called, for they're still desert. The mountains ahead have a name, surely, but they don't seem to mind their own namelessness. They are and will be for some time; it is a crawling man who is in danger of fading. But nature designed him resilient, and feral thought will not allow surrender. Even if conscience does.

An inch at a time eventually becomes miles, and distance is ultimately crossed. Knowing how far would be desirable and, likely, responsible. But greed felt in lungs struggling to breathe spreads to hands grasping at purchases to pull them along in a desire to be defined by living.

This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you.

Beautiful Water

In the blue, over the blue, twin seas collide. Patience amid chaos, currents of wind and water caught between the hopes of breath and blood, longing for a moment that will never come. Storms of fury, propelled by lust, levied by the construct that some call love. But, they are not, and it is not. Merely the glint of beauty under a sun that shines everywhere, as long as they are nowhere.

In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.

She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.

There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.

Horizons

You've been there. That place that doesn't want to keep you around, but doesn't want to let you go. Options are formulated, decisions are made, then reality sets in. Nothing you've thought of is going to work. Of course, nothing you've not thought of is going to work, either. So you just wait and see.

Hopefully the future is bright and your eyes are open. Not too bright, though, because then you'll have to squint when you try to see off into the distance. That's when the mirages show up... that nasty heat signature that makes you think there's a watering hole up ahead, when it's actually just more desert. Mirages are a good thing to follow, however, when you think about it. They do have a tendency to keep you moving. Is false hope better than no hope? Not sure that question gets answered until after you die. And even then you probably won't understand the explanation.

Perhaps the future is dark and you can't see anyway. Eyes closed, eyes open, it's all the same in the absence of light. One method just happens to protect you from dust. Goggles probably would, too, but they're uncomfortable and leave silly tan lines, not that tan lines are something you should be worrying about in such a situation. But you will. Humanity has long descended into superficial esteem. There you are, dying of hunger and thirst, and all you care about is a fucking tan line. Does a dead body tan? Or does it just bake? I'm sure the coyotes prefer it when it bakes.

Stagnant, but not stuck. Blind, but not blind. Certain that a change should be made, but uncertain what change that is. People pull you in different directions, including where you currently are and where you just left. If you're lucky, there's someone or something pulling you where you want to go. And, if you're the luckiest, where you want to go is where you need to be. There's no way to know unless you go there.

Leave it to luck. Fate is nothing more than a romantic notion. Play the dart board again, only this time keep your eyes closed. Triple 12. What's it mean? You don't know, and there's no fucking way you should know, so you make up a reason.

Hit the road. The sun's bound to come up at some point. Just don't let it burn your eyes.

The Lovers Spectra

Hues disperse as they run away from me. Vermilion, long abandoned, laughs in the distance. The brothers Crimson and Maroon stand together, forming an image of a bleeding heart, but the Blood soon runs out. Whoever made the mistake of attributing Red to love never understood what it meant to be angry. The Cardinal flies to catch its fleeting bird while Scarlet looks on as her lover flees Tara. Bloodshot eyes amid alcohol's Blush fail to numb Rosy cheeks. The sunset reveals brief Magenta as it fades, first into Lavender, then into the arms of Ultramarine and Navy.

She smiles under a Turquoise light, satisfied that her Cerulean dreams no longer include me. Eyes, Azure in mood, though not in color, stare right through the indignance of a shade lost between Blue and Violet. The effective absence of Indigo reveals my ultimate fate: lost and alone under the cold stars of Cobalt, whose lights are too far away to provide warmth.

Fade to Black.

A Sunset Backwards

Time's subjectivity makes me laugh. Sleep never lasts long enough and the workday is always too long. Someone once told me that I'm lost in my dreams, but how can a person get lost in something that goes away to an electronic beep at six in the morning? Being found shouldn't happen in a bedroom. Not unless what's lost is a wallet or a set of keys. Then again, who cares about a wallet when there's no money? Screw the credit cards. It'd be a blessing in disguise to lose those bastards.

Think of the store around the corner. Now imagine walking there. Of course you won't, since it's too far and the car runs just fine. Of course, while you drive the two minutes you'll wonder why the fuck you didn't just walk. Distance likes to hide in the mire of subjectivity, too. Swamps have a nasty habit of encroaching my mind when I'm sick of humidity and big bugs. Makes me wish for Wal-Mart to come in and clear out the land so I can get discount prices. But then I'll swap stories about how this place used to be a beautiful wilderness. Maybe that's why so many people choose to live in the desert... the grass isn't greener on the other side, because there's only tumbleweed.

So where does one go when the landscape turns brown? The North Star doesn't point anywhere useful, it just reminds us that when we're lost, we at least know one cardinal direction. If only the mountains weren't blocking my view. Few have the energy to climb, and the burning cigarette lets me know that even fewer have the lungs. Five minutes of life, lost. But are they a happy five minutes? Time that goes by so fast that we don't even notice? If that's the case, then who cares? Light up and smile. And if they're an unhappy five minutes, and a long life is what you're after, acknowledge the fact that your lifespan has increased subjectively. It doesn't matter what the statistics say. We already know. There's nothing new under the Sun.

Can't recall the last sunrise that warmed my smile... Maybe if I remember a sunset backwards.

Destination Unknown

Instinct failed the species. The ability to think developed as some sort of misguided chance to survive. Yes and no were suddenly abstract concepts, shedding their emotional components in the face of nascent logic. Magic disappeared over time. And the world became a series of facts in the realm of the understood, misunderstood, a place to escape. Someone said the sky was falling, and everyone believed it except for the trees.

Blue was no longer just blue, but shades of sensations related to standing in the rain. Refreshing for some, while others just run around and get wet. No longer was the process of eating merely the process of finding food. Food needed to taste good and, despite where it all winds up, has to look good. A convolution of primal nature than only the ability to think could create. Intelligent design is a myth that only adds aesthetic to an equation that the universe couldn't care less about.

Footprints in the sand have long been replaced by rubber and metal streaks on long strips of frozen oil. The moon has been touched by the bodies of men. Thinking takes us everywhere, and nowhere at all. We're still here, after all, and we always have been. Artists and scientists create the vast landscape of interpretation that the rest of us struggle to tread through. Nobody really wants to be where they are... with thought came regret... and an ounce of it can poison the ocean that is memory.

Leave it to thought to turn migration from a seasonal activity into a curious one. Knowledge is better for it, but is existence? Atheists and a theist can't seem to agree, which probably means they're all wrong. No one knows where they're going, they just think they know they're going to get there, so perhaps they're all right. The world is a large place until you've seen it all. And when that happens, you can just make up another.

Plans have failed for so long, maybe you're like me and have decided to give instinct a try. One last grasp at magic, so to speak; an attempt to break free from the cage of thought. Someone said the sky is falling, but I know that's a lie, for I've fallen out of it and it didn't hit the ground with me. Or maybe it did but my view was blocked. Perhaps I should have stayed and taken a longer look around. Perhaps, but at the time I don't think I cared. It happens. I really don't even care where I'm heading, as long as it's out of this place.

I just want some air to breathe.

Potential Energy

Leg's trying to kick, but it's hard to throw a foot when sitting down. The night air is crisp and the lights of the local excuse for a city beckon with false promises of forgetful adventure. There's music I haven't heard somewhere, but I'll be damned to know what it is. Today's cigarette didn't help... my lungs still want to scream and I want to run. It's time to go, but who the fuck knows where?

Dan Black's kicking on the radio, but nobody here knows who he is. The night air envelops the truck and a breeze that lacks humidity feels good across the side of your face. There's a new restaurant on the corner of a new building in a shopping center, and the restaurant next to that one is closed for business. Japanese food. It might be good, but you've already driven by. Nicotine gum is a piss-poor replacement for a friendly burn. Self-destruction can be fun if done properly.

The Merlot's been chilled a little too much, but who gives a shit? The night brings moths and spiders to the artificial light above your head and below your ceiling. There's a new book that has to be read, even before the other book that's been started but not yet finished. Why worry if the plots will mesh together in your mind? You briefly find it funny that growing marijuana is slowly gaining legality, while growing tobacco is quickly becoming a futile exercise. The water at the beach is undeniably warm, and it's a wonder the desire to go swimming in the moonlight hasn't been succumbed to yet. Writing in the passive voice sure adds a lot of forms of "to be" to a paragraph, doesn't it?

Life's picking up speed, and people you don't want to leave behind are going to be left behind. Hell, people you didn't want to leave you behind have left you behind. Everything's too kinetic these days. What's wrong with having a conversation behind smoke-filled eyes? Sure, your clothes will stink, but if everybody does it, no one will notice. There sure are a lot of beautiful women in life. And their legs are kicking. You'd better behave, asshole.

It's time to go. Have a cigarette across state lines. It might taste better there.

"They annoy me, those who employ me. They could destroy me. They should enjoy me." - Dan Black

Fearless

No, there are no guarantees, just like there are no answers. Logic is not sovereign here. Magic should be, but it isn't. No one is sure either exists. Intention matters only to the one intending, the rest will judge execution, and rationality has been executed. Suicide seemed so exhilarating until waking up in the arms of a dead lover.

Heads roll, not from the guillotine, but from the thoughtless purity of lust. Love is little more than justification for brash decision, and this is why it is compared to war. Both take their victims, and the survivors move on. The face that launched a thousand ships destroyed two countries and created another, undiscovered. Fears are shed for those left behind as she sails beyond the horizon.

No testament, old or new, has ever revealed what it means to be human. "Because," is a pitiful answer to the question, "Why?" The wisest don't even ask. Lords and Kings fall because they are not their fathers. Fathers fail because they do not choose their daughters. And if their favorite remains silent, what does it matter that subjects remain foolishly loyal? What she wants is known only to herself.

If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. Silence is a torture, but she's persisted a decade; there's no reason to question her impatience. Summer has begun, and misunderstood dreams will follow. Her balcony never seemed so far away, but it's not too high to climb. An arm is outstretched, though it's unclear if she's offering her hand or keeping her distance. Perhaps she's waiting for the Fall.

Take the hand. What is there to lose?

Momentum

You're carried in the direction you're already going, spinning out of control since you lost control. It's human nature to flinch. Nobody would fault you for letting go of the steering wheel, but you let go simply because you like the way it looks as it turns. Body crashes forward through cold, hard glass as everything else starts rolling to the left. This is going to leave marks, and most will never be seen. Why you're smiling as the world starts tumbling is beyond me.

Finish that thought coming out of your mouth and things will change direction. Speed, too. It's called velocity, and its sudden stop hurts. That you choose words like you choose ammunition is both your boon and bane. A wound that draws blood will heal, but wounds that draw pain echo in memory. You haven't slowed down, merely turned sharply, and everyone vomits. Life is revealed as the cruel joke it is, but at least you're finally laughing now.

You're carried by a canopy of silk dragging you away from the aircraft. You've been trained to change direction, "slip away" they call it, but that lie only works when standing on the ground. Wind is the only master up here, and your wings are false. The only thing slipping away is sanity, sliding into fear. Pain wakes you up again as you hit the ground. One way or another, you're going to hurt. You're laughing so hard, you're crying.

Every mistake you've ever made has put you on this road, in this place. Right here, right now is nothing more than the sum of your actions, driven blindly until you wound up where you needed to be. A ticket would’ve brought you here; a map would've shown you the way, but fewer roads would’ve been taken. Without control, there's no way to learn from fucking up; without wrong turns, there's no way to know what was missed. The joke is over.

You're carried by emotion, unaware of any thought. Why your opponent deserved a blackened eye doesn't matter. Maybe you were pushed to the ground like you remembered, but that won't be on the video. Anger finds a strange way to release itself, because it can't be held for long. What's worse is that you like it. It's said that love makes the world go 'round, but you know that's not true. Love does nothing. Sin is responsible for progress. But now you know, and you can smile again.

Taking the long way around finally seems worth it. Experience has tempered impatience, though swinging pendulum remains a persistent enemy. Too early and you wouldn't have been ready; too late and she would have been gone. Reaction and thought travel at the speed of light, and though there's hesitation between sunset and sunrise, it doesn't matter. Dreams happen in the dark when roads are harder to see.

You’re carried by momentum, realizing that love does nothing because it wants to be seen as you drive by. She's standing in the way and you're looking forward to the impact. Broken glass will be soft and warm. Why you’re smiling as the world starts tumbling finally makes sense. It’s too late to stop, and you didn’t want to, anyway.

North Countries

To the young, the death of youth seems a cause to celebrate. In the summer between graduation and whatever happens next, there's an endless festival of singing and dancing away adolescent inhibitions. A wait begins for the freedom of adulthood that will never come, ultimately replaced by the recognition that the death of youth is cause to mourn.

For one, there is another wait, but of this he is unaware. He remembers its beginning, a day secured in memory. Winds from northern California, turning into gusts off the Sierra Nevadas, swept through her hair. Blonde reflection in the lights of the biggest little city in the world seemed an overwhelming image in carnival mirror. A friend's cruel intention prevented further encounter, but subconscious wiser than he etched her face in thoughtful watercolor and safely kept it from fading in the sun.

Gusts continuing their course pushed him to a life as a soldier. North Carolina winds became faithful companion to young paratrooper and carried him safely to the ground on many occasions. Though she would often occur to him, immaturity spared him painful reflection and granted an absence of yearning. A curious safety net for an occupation in which thought is an enemy of balance and instinct, the tightrope. The circus of life had provided an unusual, merciful respite.

A gentle westerly blew him further East, as far as East as it could take him. And not once, but twice. In a realization of unhappiness, he hastily fought against the currents and returned to the place he thought was home, but found only enemy hearts and broken dreams. Ever loyal winds soon carried him back to the Atlantic, where a wait lasting over a decade abruptly came to an end. Blonde reflection in the lights of experienced eyes, nostalgia and euphoria in elegant jamboree.

Still, there are few happy endings in life, and thanks to the errant timing of hurricane, his wait will begin anew. This time he will not be spared the yearning, but it no longer matters. He knows now that he's spent his entire life waiting for something, and now that he finally knows that the object of his patience exists, he'll gladly wait once more. He's peripherally aware that he'll never see her again, but he'll wait. If necessary, all the way until his funeral.

For now, he will sing and dance away fearful inhibitions. And dream of the girl of north country fair.

Stardust

A slumbering impatience burns away as falling star touches the crown of the world. Light begins to scatter as an aimless journey finally reveals its destination. Joy gives way to melancholy as ground quickly approaches, bringing the realization that this view is being captured for the first and final time.

An all too brief glimpse of beauty, blue and white, as friction melts away fear. Her body, once an imposing reflection in the distance, now seems inviting... a fitting place to rest. There's a scream of triumph as youthful lust streaks through cloud, finally knowing what it means to fly.

The lives of others pass by as emotion and sensation, frozen for so long and long since forgotten, reawaken in time to enjoy falling in love. The impact will take but a mere moment, but it will be in her arms. The mystery of gravity finally solved.

Oh, what a view she was.

Countdown; Carpe Diem

Constant motion is a human necessity. Not quite like a shark's, but without motion, somebody's bound to take a shot at you. Then again, somebody's going to shoot at you anyway. Those little rubber noises flying past the ears are proof enough of that. People like to compare being still to being at peace, and what a load of shit that is. Being still is being dead, and there's clearly a bit of death in the act of waiting. But, like constant motion, constant interaction is a human necessity, and today's itinerary is dependent on what they do. So the clock is watched; the countdown is underway. Too bad no one knows when it's counting down to. It's just ticking.

Constant thought is a human condition. There's a thunderstorm in the mind, and it never stops raining. A single lightning strike can kill you, but a brain's series of electrical impulses can destroy an entire world. Ideas are the loneliest and deadliest of weapons, and dreams, the most subtle of triggers. People like to believe they're unique, and what a load of shit that is. Stereotypes and archetypes exist for a reason, and "you don't know me" is the biggest lie ever told. There's someone out there who sees things the way you do, and they are the objective. Hunters follow their tracks; snipers lie in wait. The sun may be setting, but there's no deadline. The clock keeps ticking.

Maybe you've met already; maybe you haven't. Perhaps you know what you're looking for, but maybe you're on a need-to-know basis and you don't need to know until she's staring you in the face. If you believe in signs, there will be one. If you don't, it'll just happen. Coincidence may just be coincidence, but the impatient will jump the gun. Coincidence may be more, but those who despise failure from experiencing it one too many times will clear the perimeter first. If it's right, there will be two left standing when the smoke clears.

The target will present itself eventually, never mind what time. Patience is the order of a lifetime. Humans have designed themselves to overcome instinct, so take advantage. The first opportunity may not be the best one. After all, she moves in mysterious ways. Prepare your action and give in to the moment when the moment is proper. The countdown continues to the instant when peripheral vision will not be necessary. Don't wait until you can see her; wait until you can smell her. You'll know when the clock is right, for motion and thought will blur into one. And when it does, don't hesitate. Seize the day.

Time, Not Place

If you would, accept a little cliche and imagine your lifetime as a single day. Naturally, dawn would signify the beginning of it all, the confused wonder of seeing and doing things for the first time. First steps, first kisses, first mud pies. It is the morning that teaches you fear and pain, not the evening. Dogs have sharp teeth, the stove will burn you, falling leads to bruises and broken bones. If you haven't learned those lessons before the sun starts baking you from overhead, you're in for a world of hurt.

For most, these early morning hours signify home. Perhaps not a home to be loved, but a home nonetheless. Significant moments creating significant memories, to be forgotten, of course. But all part of the blueprint of your foundation. For most, home as a place will change from time to time, but home as a time will survive the movement from place to place.

As the world turns, life is learned how to be lived. Loves are found, lost, and found once more. The previous lessons of fear and pain help keep you alive. If you're lucky, those lessons help you feel alive. Humanity is the only species capable of challenging itself, and the realization that most refuse to take advantage of that is a little sad. The clock keeps ticking, and too many are wasting time.

In the afternoon you may find you've become your parents. Or you may find you've shed their walls and are something else entirely. Brothers and sisters may no longer share the same blood, but are closer than any family you've ever had. Then again, blood may have prevailed, and home is as familiar as it's ever been. Either way, it's not the edifice that provides comfort, it's the aesthetic. To each their own, it's said, and to their own something to smile about.

Evenings come too soon, whether or not you prefer the moonlight. Sunset has no patience and always comes, once bright light fading behind a horizon of endless horizon. There will be a new day tomorrow, a pity it's not for you. The sun may never set on empire, but reigns are temporary. Stories are shared around campfire for a reason.

Childhood seems unnaturally long when a child, and unnaturally short when an adult. Deliberate ticks signaling the passing of a monumental existence later realized to be a mere blink of an eye. The worst of enemies never reveal their true natures until it's too late, and time reveals itself only to the dying. The clock struck home, but that was hours ago. It's time to sleep.

No worries. The sunrise will greet you in the morning. Whether or not it lights the way home is another matter entirely.

Other People's Fires

Life is a dance, a game, a fucking tragedy to laugh, a comedy to cry, an out of control fire waiting for a single drop of rain. Losing is part of living, so elbow it in the neck when someone else does a better rumba. The music hasn't stopped, it's just that the bridge sucks... don't fret, the refrain is coming soon. It takes two to tango; grab your enemy, spin them around. Chances are, they're going to smile, too. Grins make it easier to knock out teeth.

Move your piece. Wait for the counter-move. If you don't want to play your past, don't wonder if your future is cheating. Relax. Don't be judgmental, she's seen it all before and just needs to get away for a while. Life's been rough, and you're not the first person she's seen freak out over a bad batch of drugs. Losing it on purpose is sometimes the best strategy. So what if Boardwalk is out of reach... you have Park Place. Let the asshole come and get it. He'll just wind up thrown into a table.

Cancer's a blow to behold, but life ain't over yet. Your brother's brothers are with you. There's a joke hidden in there somewhere, but who cares where? Six-feet under? We'll all be there eventually, and many are already. You'll never see them again, but memory works in wonderful ways. White trucks are always on the road and this eclipse is temporary. The choreographed motion of body will make you remember a friend long gone. Be brave for the both of you. Ever play chicken with a coward? The look on his face is priceless as you drive safely by.

Solve the problem of getting laid off by getting laid. Your clutch exploded on the way south, but at least you can kick it. Someone's lying on her back, unable to move, but she's going to be fine. The husband can't hang on to you and probably doesn't want to, so what? It was all too stifling anyway. Go find some room to breathe. The mountains offer fresh air, even if your criminal record just got a bit dirtier. Clean the wound in your knee and know you've made someone smile. Smirk at the liar hiding behind a woman because he's afraid and unaware that you've no problem with taking them both down.

Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? Going solo makes it harder to turn the water on. Take it from someone whose castle is already cinders, things can be great without. Plenty of fish in the sea, and if you don't like the ocean, move to another. Throw your hands up and scream at the storm. Shed the tears; no one can see them out here. You're all wet, but so is everybody else... we're waiting to help put out the fire.

Ask, and we're there. Always.

The Whale and the Albatross

It's empty out here, but there's air to breathe closer to the surface. Silence is relative, the gentle breeze and the crest of wave so familiar they make no noticeable sound. Cloud and island are all that break the landscape of blue deserts. A setting sun and its reflection point the way home and to a much needed rest. Tomorrow, sunrise will begin the chase again. That nothing is running away doesn't matter, keeping up with the currents does.

Short life and quick journey or long life and slow journey, carried by what should be hands. Tails tell the story of wind and water, and are told which way to go. There are no maps required in travels so simple. Survival the only instinct and the only choice. Elsewhere, a small world continues to grow ever smaller; here, at least, its enormity remains a comfortable companion. Aviary and aquarium infinite, exploration in its purest form.

The moon is absent tonight, so open eyes are not required. It's dark, but the water and the air are still warm. The sea and the sky melt together; the horizon waiting to be found. Swim or fly. Your choice.

Sine Nomine

It's imagined many ways. To the left, to the right, straight ahead with eyes closed and the hope that nothing goes awry. So many thoughts into so few spans of time. A sensation longing to endure, betrayed by a lifetime seemingly unwilling to begin. In the dark, a mirror or a photograph, perhaps real or just of the mind's eye.

It happens once. Suddenly, deliberately, a breath held until hesitation is overpowered by desire. The mind a blank slate, rewritten by an act previously shared only in thought. Brevity was never so breathtaking and an instant never so memorable. Wide awake, wildest dreams nonetheless surpassed by a feat reality rarely affords.

It's remembered how it wants to be. The chase, the trap, an act of foolish bravery or cautious abandon to feel what couldn't be said. Looking back, there is no drug as powerful as memory. A thousand defining moments unimportant in the presence of a first. The embers of twilight finally fade, and a smile the only remnant of something forever young.