My heart plays game with me, it comes and goes as it please. There's sunshine, there's rain, It longs to stay in the cave. It never grew up is what I believe, choked with blood of self-pity. Brain tries to manage the scene, "Whatever happened!" it exclaims. The beats long to go flat & fly. It whispers tales of the deep. It says life is just a trick distorted image between blinks. There's a game with no name. In our heart we all play. It's there from beginning to end, better hide before it awakes.
Author: hotsurf
Like to travel, read, play cello etc.
Start sailing.
I let go of the shore now I have a canoe. Not sure where it came from. I've always been alone treading water, in warm lagoons, afraid of drowning into the unknown. Have I got a compass? Will this be enough? Doesn't matter. Go see some mermaids.
Know.
I know in death I will be freed. And it will be bitter-sweet like smoke leaving scorched trees. I know in life I owe a debt from all the other lines with a signal to collect.
Ok.
It's OK to love this mess; the pain & disappointments. While the heart keeps a rhythm, there's a future quietly awaits.
Who could that be?
Who could that be? Solid and warm to the touch, as natural as it was, as familiar as a dream? Who maintains these heartbeats? When a message is received, the flesh that withholds the clues that can't be told? Who would that be? An afternoon fantasy? A phantom made out of light sifting through the leaves? Could that be me?
May.
May reality be your playmate when illusions fade. May it storms when you're strong & calms when you're weak. May you find people that are your missing piece. May reverence overcome hate. May your possession be few, and your spirit be great.
The perfect something.
If I have to be the perfect something, I would be the perfect ruin; the splendor that never was but rumored by decline and sighs. A romantic vision made in the stillness of memories where troubles are forgotten and perfection reigns.
Mosquitos.
Things being said in silence, you have to be in it to hear; good will & inevitable murders for the reverence of the mystery: in the quiet where life hides, guarded by mosquitoes.
Who cares.
I think I've been wrong, mistaken being weak with strong. All the judgements & indignations, yet taken no actions. There's the sense of loss, plus the rage & escapes. But why am I still here? Just to stand around? Maybe I will be happy, by chance, to help someone, anyone. It's always been an excuse, that "I felt deeply, & cared too much."
Dust.
I only feel loved when there's thunders from afar; count my lover's heartbeat with the raindrops who gave me flesh, blood and a desire for something else. Is it wrong to look beyond these two handfuls of dust?
hotsurf_ 