Musings 2

No one loves the sunset the way I love the sunrise.

Only in the moments that the rays slowly graze upon the wrinkles of the ocean do I realize its depth. The hidden mountains that lie still under its covers conceal valleys of life that stir and slumber simultaneously. Even the strongest caresses cannot reach the crevices where darker, more beautiful, secrets lie quietly. Whether in sleep or in sun, those secrets lie for the brave. Perhaps I am not brave enough, but I am persistent, and try.

These golden fingers smooth out the wrinkles creating new ones in its wake, turning the world over with perpetual waves. Crossing the soft sea to solid land, the soft photon fingers run gently through the fields of flowers, tickling each of them with sunshine. Dancing awake at the slight stimulation, they sway with the winds carelessly. Gilded meadows become thick brush and tree. The ashy wood is rejuvenated and given second life. Pockets of light pick through the forests, and a quiet intrepid peace eases the dream drunk creatures to witness dawn.

In these moments, where the potential for power and the pursuit of peace lie passively, I am  at ease. In these moments where the easy warmth wakes the weary world, I find a calm drowsy daze. In these moments, these in between times, do I love you most; do I love you best.The virgin soil untouched by intrepid adventurers, beast or bark, quivers expectantly. The clouds swell gracefully over deserts and peaks awaiting release. Life faces death, teasing each other in their play for pawns.

Even as I tickle you gently with kisses and fingers and breath, i know your darkest self. In the dark shadows created by the rising dawn, I find a fearful curiosity of what those spaces hold. Light never stands still for very long and those secrets will reveal themselves in time. But the potential for those secrets, that's boundless and infinite as the power of the sun.

If only every angle of you could be illuminated, then I could appreciate your whole radiance. The potential for each seedling and each sprout and each tree,clinging to the soil is realized in this moment. No matter what the day holds,and what power and destruction lie in its path, the potential is unbound by the finality of each action done unto it. Even as you turn and the sea rolls with you, no potential is greater than the roots that have yet to grow and the land that has yet to be touched. In the sunrise, where I cradle you, you are all the possibilities that sleep in the soil, all secrets that lie in the sea, and all life that stirs in this warmth. I don't know what the full day holds, nor do I care.

All places between ravenous sea and boundless sky, finite earth and shapeless water, is where I find more reasons to stir and love you more.

No one loves the sunset the way I love the sunrise.

Musings 1

It's running, like a giggling child ducking behind the racks of clothing in the mall; or the unbridled horse running past the houses and the forests with the wind in its face; or the fearful victim in a slasher-film whose fate may be sealed by indecision alone.

My dreams make music I can't remember with adventures that I certainly can; both disappearing with the fluttering of my eyes against the morning light. They say that you only have 30 seconds to remember your dreams or they're gone for good. If only I didn't spend those seconds fighting the creeping sun, prying my eyes open with its rays. Silly sun, peeking through my curtains. It's like that giggling child, playing through the clothes; hiding from parents who may or may not be playing, trying to convince me to join the same game.

My imagination changes the images with each sound and sight and smell. The product, a synthesis of the overwhelming sensations that I experienced doing absolutely nothing. Something I'm an expert at, I promise, my sedentary lifestyle taking a toll on my experiences of the outside world and its richness. While I eat my bags and bags and bags of Ruffles: Sour Cream and Cheddar; the artificial tasting flavorings accumulating on my fingers, moist and chalky, my brain races that horse.

It covers a million more miles than this mere equestrian mammal can muster. It travels from the ground to the tips of trees and rivals the might of mountains and scours the skies and untangles unimaginable universes until it is exhausted having received stimuli so overwhelming, it collapses in a fatigued ecstasy that rivals, and may sometimes even best, the physical union of two people: fucking, having sex, making love.

Love, of course, like those horror films, is scary. Not in the presence of indecision but the consciousness and awareness of the exact opposite. Love is the equivalent energy that should be invested into each and every single idea that should grace our presence in our clouded, and often oblivious and arrogant minds. Making love, here, is not the union of two bodies/hearts/minds/souls, but making love is the union of everything in me for this one expression.

If I were to do it now, for any idea that fights for my focus, it wouldn't be love. It would likely do an injustice to the incredible might that my imagination holds behind the dam I call my skull, throbbing due to the lack of water and sleep and stimulation. My fingers itch and twitch and wait. I wouldn't be making love, but robbing these innocent ideas of the greatness I could make them to be.

I'm not the right person now to make them, but I will keep my mind running so it isn't as stagnant as the person I am right now.

Tonight my mind runs reckless, and tomorrow it may fly freely.

But right now, it should join my body in the one place they're together.

In sleep.