The differences abound in all that has come unwound from what has been and perhaps may always be bound to the core of me. So often I fill a blank page with blank letters forming blank words and so oft I destroy them in their insufficient reflections of my insignificant interjections, to the fluid flow of pure expression, which exists only in the present's moments of the here and now.
Hope is quite possibly the most powerful, futile thing this world can know and yet it seems as non-existent as the god that created it. Ah, that hand pointing toward the luminous clouds with their shadowy lining, not made of silver, but of dust water. Why would I want to seek it out? Give me the freshest boiled stuffs, please. I want the distilled honest elemental forms of gases combined to awaken my senses. Keep your clouds and keep your stars, they are n ot my stuff though they may serve to serve you well. May they learn to serve you better, or may you at best, learn thing with to best learn from them better.
Hope. It exists only in the future and because the future is as reachable as the past in desire and in longing and in regret turned to fear, I'd rather have gratitude than hope. You see hope leads to expectation and expectation as even our dearest Shakespeare has said, is the root of all heartache.
My friend... he said he was soul sick, I feared it might've been contagious. I needed it though, to bring it all up. Like a peroxide wash bubbling all those impurities out. The festering infection fighting its way out after only a year. Or... after the entire span of an earths orbit finally spinning out the regurgitation of all I've been holding in the center of the pit of my void spewing forth into the world, fallen on the ground before me, radiating it's loveliest bits, glowing a myriad of color, before turning to hardened coal-like masses of memories and dreams.
The one thing I think we can agree on, that we have always agreed on... that love is an unstoppable, unmanageable and reckless force. And for me it has been dreadfully so much that truth to it's very end. And I struggle to learn to control the internal chaos to remember how even the best dreams end with a stiff neck and a need for coffee. Striking a stick of sulfur against my teeth I set fire to all the ultraviolet still pulsing through the ground, through the roots of all matter, and I watch the snow drenched landscape become engulfed in a flame held by my infrared gaze.
The fuel of this burning a beautiful surrender to reality, feeding the soil at my feet. Another obstacle turned opportunity by my inevitable optimism as I empty my entire world to fill it with a fertile, hopeless joy. Love is a choice! Love is the percussion, and the strings, and I dance to both, looking like an epileptic in mid seizure, seizing it for my own.