14 March 2011

Six Years Later

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Day of grief and ineffable sorrow.

You steal the days of my Spring

And the sweet of plum blossoms he once held so dear.

Lacking where my heart would be,

You further my injury year by year

No possibility for reclamation of delight,

No prospect of salvaged happiness,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March!

Oh day of impossible affliction!

Already have you come for my light,

Larcenous and rapacious in the blackberry winter!

Are you not shamed by your actions?

Are you not disgraced by the impetus of them?

I am for you, oh day,

As you have taken those precious to me,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Oh you day, anguish of my soul.

Yet, I aver there will be a time when I reclaim you for myself.

No longer pusillanimous nor enigmatic,

But confident and sure in the power of my joy.

The flowers of plums will be mine to hold dear

Each bud bursting forth with greater vigor,

Greater vehemence than ever before,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Day of soft violence against my soul.

What you have stolen, you may not keep

Each blossom I will countermand.

Restored my heart shall be,

My mourning melted from its chambers.

Joy trace evident amongst those restored,

Small light still on the horizon,

On this, oh you of days.

05 March 2011

Renewal of Understanding Nothing

Oh! am not I free to be that which I desire? Trapped here beneath moutain of opportunity to no avail. I am lost to wishing, but should that fail I know not what to do. I play piano amongst the noise, this world leaves nothing to the imagination. And so, how can we be expected to succeed when everything has been done before us? Nothing new to please the masses, nothing but whatever seems most scandalous. And even that has lost it's edge. We are on the brink of self destruction for the sole purpose of entertainment.

My mind plays pretty tricks upon the light that is lacking in this weather. I don't pretend to have any answers and I know better than to ask questions. Yet, I can't help but be anything less than impertinent. Searching for answers is my hearts greatest success. I must acknowledge the understanding that has taken place in my heart. I know what I must do, still it remains to be done. The future is uncertain and I loathe it as such, but must make the best of circumstance. Perfection is overated.

There is much that illudes me, but for hope. Silly little dreamer of a girl. Nose in a book, eyes on the sky. It doesn't make much for company. I'm letting go of what I thought was true. It's been quite the realization. I've made up my mind on the matters, praying only that this is finally the right path. Tomorrow seems so very far from now...

I'd rather not comment upon what is about to occur. I'm not sure of it, only that it is the direction I am headed. I hope to be as forthright as I can be without being dishonest. Because I have a tendency to try things and fail. I never know what the day will bring. There, a violin. Planted like a seed in the recesses of my mind. A soft composure of of all the winds and strings, my favourite. I like things quiet and loud all at once; simplistic and flowing but indepth and concentrated. Every thought waiting to be built upon.

I'll vacation from the moment and oblige you the best I can when I return. The sand on the walls is most grudging of how it was put there, you see. Although, I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter at present. Not that it matters much, as I will change the topic momentarily from boredom. Feet are meant to run bare and wild. Showing their teeth and grit on every occasion so as to make the others aware of their deserved freedoms.

Someone dripped a drop on the waters so as to make it disappear. Removing it would take more time and effort than we can afford. Instead we shall drip the rest of those drops in with the one and call it a day. One with sunshine and green grass beneath the blossoms of Springtime. To dance without ceasing is the only appropriate behaviour. Oh! spin in circles, dearling, for there is less time than you might hope.

Rays of sunlight sitting idly by the window sill, greeting it in such a pleasant manner that you can't but ask him indoors. "Why yes," he chants and enters swiftly, for he dearly love to play upon the rooms and faces of those who occupy the house. An offer of companionship is made and accepted, though no one is certain who spoke  first. It becomes irrelevant once such a friendship is in place. What a joy to be in this place where affection is so graciously shown.

Beyond the day and past the week, therein lies the confusion. For time is a thing of man and the sunlight cannot commit to such a rigid schedule. He comes and goes as he please, you see, and that is just not acceptable to the human mind. Kindly he will refuse the offer and hurry back to his place along the edge of the sky just as you bid him farwell. So far away it seems,  the horizon.

In the back of the symphony orchestra, back against the wall there is just enough room to sit upon the floor with your knees in towards your chest and feel the vibrartions of music flow through you. It is the way music was meant to be heard. Not only in your mind but physically as well. This is where the common courtesy ends and that of true appreciation begins.

It should be difficult, I think, to feel strongly about anything at all if there was not some love mixed into the paint. What an upsetting prospect, yet obvious in it's own sort of way. The buds begin to pop violently forth producing the sweet product of a laborious winter. Soft scented petals make their way into the world, brightening even the sunshine. Oh! for the world to be green again. SpringSummer is on it's way.

I delight to think friendship is withstanding of most grevious offenses, so I do hope not to somehow make this relationship uncomfortable. I have a tendency of that sort that never seems to fail me. If rejection were an art, I would be its master. On both sides of the canvas. Time and experience can never truly be substituted for, even by practise.

Your actions are a wonder to me, I cannot make them out. I try and see your vantage but it blurs outside of my own, I confess. Little to be said or done but hang upside down and allow others understanding whilst I pretend and dream. Easier that way, I imagine. I don't pretend to know you, but believe me when I tell you I care. Regardless of my understanding. I can't seem to help but care.

Awake from dreaming, dear self. For you have run away with yourself again and nothing exists quite as you saw it there in your subconscious. Reality is a poor substitute for ones imagination. I can't claim to know of much that rivals it, save for love and wonder. Two which conquer all else, all else which is conquered by two. This is my renewal of that sentiment. I understand nothing. Not truly.