After quite a while I jumbled up my first narrative in months and then another and read these. Then re-read both.
They don’t flow. (Its funny, how for me, above anything –verbiage, theme etc—flow mattered)
Why? I don’t know.
On a sidenote, I wish 'nakefeet' start writing again.
And had to go back to Valium after years...
anyway here they are...
On Reminiscence, and the writing that flows:
Not all means. Not all is a confession. But it’s a making, making of silence that sweeps through, carried on wings of Notus, the calmness after the storm has passed, and in for this silence all angels and satans alike, seek refuge in the every bosom of God crying over their deafness. What good could be a hymn or a curse without hearing when you utter it? Immortals are not Beethoven; they can’t create music they cant hear.But what this silence brings to us, the innumerable children it bears, 1001 for ever soul, for these souls they feed on, functional vampires drinking enough just not to kill, but suck the soul out of our souls.
I had these children, my children, but I am alone now. Sometimes I hear them giggling, calling out my name, as I bleed out through all the pores in the sun, inciting them, inviting them to come back to me and feed on my soul.
Nostalgia or the absence of it—who knew not having a pain is painful as hell.
They left one in me, one that hopes that one day they’ll return, sailing on cotton clouds and spring breeze, scream out their delight and make me write the writing that flows. They’ll carry me that day, above the hovering winds, and that day I won’t die.
The Differential of touch:
Read your name on my lips as I struggle to say it, shivering in the coldness of my heart. You said we made love in this snow; I only feared the fatality of an embrace. You said you touched my hands in the dark; I only washed the blood on your thighs. You said the laughter was real; I searched for the screams of agony beneath it.
Your glistening hair brushing against my face etched bleeding paths of grace or disgrace on my destiny.
Few moments, always fewer words to say of differential of touch and obscure eyes.
Colours fade, but they won’t vanish
I’ve learned that—that’s the night and the shroud. That is my fear, of making you all that has to be-becoming of anticipation.
I wish a return to innocence, not vampire stories, not losing religions, not cupid arrows, to the first language that there ever was, before God taught me the names of all things. To revert back the evolutionary corruption to 'this' language, to be with you before the start of time, to know you and wonder to come up a word for us, and experience your touch, not knowing what to call it.
Imagine me, in front of four thousand galaxies, forty million years ago, as we approach the elusive the definitions of touch, of embrace.
