I lie listening to the lie
- bah-boom bah-boom bah-boom -
that sound is an old window pane
flapping in the wind
hitting it’s frame
the owner is locked out in the rain.
Inside the chambers are vacant
the functions set to automatic timers.
words fall on empty ears
echoing from the depths of a Carpathian cave:
“The heart is made to be lived in.”
There are so many ambitions in this world and yet the only one I seem to adhere to is the ambition to follow the wordless and incomprehensible musings of my heart – whose muffled and distorted signals tend to drive me to make bold and drastic decisions to compensate for a lack in overall design.
Perhaps I am on the scenic route to my own inevitable end, and perhaps that is the material point!
On the other hand, perhaps I’ve got it all wrong and the point is to build an empire; a family legacy that will provide the means for my many (so far unaccounted for) descendants to do literally whatever they can dream up. Compromise my humanity – sell it to the highest bidder – like the Rockefellers, Hiltons etc – ad nauseum.
Does success amount to a bronze plaque somewhere Important with my name on it?
I muse at times on what I will have I accomplished with my life when I die. At this rate, my headstone will probably say -
Here lies Jozel, a floating philosopher – she didn’t succumb – she didn’t commit
If only she could have bottled the air she was living off of
If I could get a famous poet or two to write on my headstone, it would add intrigue… or poetry… at the very least…
In any case, it definitely will never say -
Here lies Jozel – who succeeded in living 98 years without ever holding a lit cigarette
But by 2081 there won’t be headstones anymore, who am I kidding? They’ll probably be disintegrating my remains to fuel the newest wave of Alternative Reality Social Interaction devices. or something.
Mistake porch lights for the stars
And sometimes they are
her constellations lead me home
ten thousand shades of open
and if there’s one thing in this world
I’ve ever known for sure it’s that this girl
is gonna crush me like a small bug,
leave me so fucking broken there’ll
be body bags beneath my eyes
from nights i cried so hard the stars died
but I’m like, go ahead, I’m all yours
I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean
during a lightning storm
‘cause I’d rather be left for dead than left
to wonder what thunder sounds like.
— Andrea Gibson
all of the above via loveyourchaos
“The dark night of the soul is a profoundly good thing. It is an ongoing spiritual process in which we are liberated from attachments and compulsions and empowered to live and love more freely. Sometimes this letting go of old ways is painful, occasionally even devastating. But this is not why the night is called ‘dark.’ The darkness of the night implies nothing sinister, only that the liberation takes place in hidden ways, beneath our knowledge and understanding. It happens mysteriously, in secret, and beyond our conscious control. For that reason it can be disturbing or even scary, but in the end it always works to our benefit.”
The timeless moon,
gazing down on her,
filled her once again with faith
in the inexplicable mystery of existence.
She was revived
for the time being.
From their lofty seat, the Salisbury Crags admire the city of Edinburgh, including the Queen’s Palace and the great fortress, mortal-built stone legacies which pale in comparison to the 340 million years that the crags have been here.
Like a great cloud of ancestors, the crags watch the self-important actions of those below in detached amusement.