It was a chilly day, a day where the wind pierces your clothing and bites at your bones. It was an average day in the city though. Everyone was bundled up walking through the streets, always busy, always in a rush. Everybody seemed to be outrunning life, trying to do as much as possible, leaving their scarves and lives trailing behind them- well all of them except her. She flowed through the crowds towards the fountain, inhaling the crisp air. She had the grace of a ballerina and the innocent curiosity of a child, the beauty of a goddess and the powers of a siren. He couldn’t help but be captivated. He couldn’t feel his fingers, but he couldn’t stop sketching. She was the muse.
Graphite etched into the paper almost as perfectly as she was etched into the canvas of his mind. It was cold, but he couldn’t stop.
The wind picked up and lifted his sketch up into the air, gently carrying it away like a raft of waves. It floated towards the park, towards the fountain, towards her. He tried to catch it, but was too late, and maybe that was a good thing. It floated near her and to her surprise, through her arms, into the water of the almost frozen fountain. She stared down at it as if mesmerized by her reflection and its submerged equal.
He stopped running and could do nothing but stand there catching his breath, waiting for a response. He wanted her to reach into the water, to ignore it, to ignore him, for something, anything- any sign of acknowledgement. She reached into the icy water, picking up the smeared and fragile thing. She lifted the saggy mess and with her back to him said, “He’s handsome, who is he?”
“My drawing skills must be horrible, that wasn’t a guy” he said as he laughed awkwardly. “No, your drawing was beautiful. But I was talking about the artist” she replied, turning to him with a smile.
If someone were to ask what had happened to the rest of his day after that, he would have a hard time trying to find the answer. He became a stranger to place and time, as he took the drawing from her hands and crumpled it up, throwing it aside. They waltzed through the crowd of everyone hand in hand as a couple- the artist and the muse.
It was dark outside as only the dim streetlights illuminated my way as I walked through the flurry. It was snowing again. The cobblestones were covered in a fine powder, and it was starting to lightly fall. They weren’t snowflakes this time, they were flowers, thousands of flowers, spinning and dancing with each other to the ode of the wind. There were so many of them; roses and lilies and carnations. Around and round they went, lightly gliding to the ground. My breath was a cloud of fog as I exhaled slowly. Carefully, painfully, I reached out to touch one of the roses. It dissolved from my touch into a puff of snow; it was as light as air, crisp and cold as a bite of frost- cold enough to wake me.
I laid there in bed for quite some time thinking about the dream, about the flower of ice and how fragile it was- how beautiful it was. Shouldn’t I have been the one to implode from the prick of the thorn though? Is all beauty so easily destroyed or I am just good at destroying the beauty in this world?
After all, I have frost in my veins, ice for bones, frazil for skin. Everyday I would wake up to your warmth, and I would melt by your side. You took all sense of time with you when you left, so I stopped waiting for tomorrow to come and I just lay here from daybreak to noon waiting for the sun to defrost me instead of you.
Darkness has become my friend, but he is so quiet and so cold.
We made constellations, saw falling stars, and walked into the nothing.
Rise was fun.
Through the good and the bad, a principio ad finem.
Thomas, you really made an inspiring point. Don’t give up on your dreams- when you fall down dust yourself off and keep climbing.It’s a conversation I’ll never forget.
Another Icarus plummets on his way to the sun.
That makes 2 friends, and 2 acquaintances.
Rest in peace, Alexis, Orlando, Jared, Jalen- you won’t find peace here.
Is nothing more than a rose. It’s most beautiful when in blossom- the petals bloom and the flower opens showing layer upon layer intertwined in a torrent of intimate awe. How else can one describe the allure of the muse of simplistic complexity?
It’s beauty is intrinsic, immortal, inspiring.
Language amplificates the senses, it gives meaning to the meaningless and sound to the silent.
Too long in fact. It’s been ages since I’ve written. I’ve been nothing but a sponge just reading and analyzing, but I haven’t been writing. It’s good to be back.
To be a beast or a god, but how can they differ in the eyes of man? Do to stars look any different to a grain sand?
Your tears flow as rivers do, winding through me and out past your shores; I stand staring out at the sea I’ve created, waiting as it judges me- as you judge me.
I fear, I loathe, I betray- I am the vicious cycle of defects, yet you stay. Why do you punish me so? Leave me to harden, to crack, to shatter.
I should be dust in the wind, I should be scattered; break me- break me! I need to find solace in my mistakes and progress from my disgrace.
I stare into the abyss, the darkness invites me. Enticement and envy become me, but something cannot come from nothing so I only stare.
It reaches for me- a hollow embrace. Do I dare reach back, touch the nothing, hear the silence, taste the cold? Do I dare introspection?!