The Collector Of Things Once Beautiful

      Resplendent, we thrive - for a time. Alive amidst a vast network of vibrance, shimmering within our confines, we tend to forget the inherent fragility that binds us all. 

But no matter how lovely your facade, eventually the tide will overcome you. Suddenly no more than a brittle shard you will tumble up into a new world, coming to rest as a pale replica of the brilliance you once never doubted.


And she will be waiting. 

She will gather you up as she has all others who have broken free, and her careful hands will hold you long beneath her gentle eyes.  She is bent - toward the fragility that has eluded her existence, toward the end that doesn’t come for her, toward the transition that she longs for. She has shaped herself into a collector of things once beautiful, arched forever toward the delicate state that eternity denied her.

When the colour fades - and it will fade - you will meet her, and her gaze will teach you the truth of us.

She will teach you that fragility is the essence of beauty.

He Carried Himself Well (A Contemporary Tragedy)

       They had gathered around me over several decades, filling up space, jostling and clamouring, a confusion of choices and identity; a delicate selection of worldly morsels seeking my attention - and ultimate approval.

Tattered, misshapen memories, and tottering towers of experience. They would accompany me regardless of destination, no circumstance too great, no occasion too  small. Bustling and leaping, they would dive headlong into suitcases every time I went for the front door. 

And without hesitation I carried them. 

It’s funny, I never really noticed the weight. More penetrating were the stricken, desperate voices rising in dissonant chorus as I swam my way through the ebbs and flows of time. And then things took a horrifying turn for the worse.

 All of those rogue fractals of moments past, those noisy, self-proclaimed truths, took on an identity of their very own - and claimed to be me. An unsleeping aperture turned on my every move, watching and judging, a new, insular lens through which I began to view the world and its inhabitants.

It is extremely difficult to walk away from your own assumptions, and from your own memories, but if you don’t, they will begin to own you. The fascinating part comes with the recognition that there is also a part of you that is listening to those crooning songs of your past, which gets a thinking man, well - thinking...

Who is it, listening all the while?

And I saw it then, part way down one of life’s lovely back roads - I am indefinable. I cannot be shoved in a suitcase or two, and told who I am, or where to look, just because I have a series of chance encounters and recollections all in a bluster over their own self importance. All awash with the fear that they might implode if forgotten. And, the beauty and cunning of it all is - they will. Why do you think they are so desperate?

So I set the suitcases down, and that narrow lens went with them. I stood for a long moment, and as voices that had been mine, pleaded and promised and wept, I took a step away, then another. Not more than ten steps back, and all was silent, though I still had an awful feeling that the eye was watching me. 

And I just left it all there, on the side of that road, and never returned. If anyone stumbles upon the empty shells of my previous existence, I doubt they’ll hear much - they’ll probably be carrying their own confines around with them, listening to the voices of feigned importance from their own past. 

But in the end we will all begin to wonder - who is it behind it all, in the deep, quiet places, listening; always listening..?

Examination Of A Fractured Existence

        Maybe existence is a jigsaw puzzle. A multidimensional, dynamic, sensual tapestry, solving itself moment by moment, eon by eon. The philosophers, scientists and seekers to this point were always doomed, because the puzzle - existence - could only ever be solved to the extent at which it existed, in its totality at any given time. And therefore, even the most encompassing postulations, would only be accurate relative to the capacity of existence at that point, but also entirely susceptible to its very own shifting nature. The same nature that holds within itself those questions as a possibility. 

Then at some point in the continuum, it will have reached its absolute; its perfection, and time will no longer be required, and space will be defunct, for once solved, it negates its own purpose for existing in the first place. But this will not be a sad or devastating event - for those within the realms of such an existence, would find it possible to touch the extent of that perfection, the whole, and they would find it possible to witness the pieces that brought them to their present. 

And they will know. (Not only will they know, but they will know that they know)

And they will also see that, given perfection as an end, perfection must therefore have existed at every juncture of the constant, in every element of its own reality, though impossible to witness as a preemptive.

Existence would be aware of its end at all times, of which I am a part, of which you, are a part. Existence, without a definitive answer, is not without an answer definitively - only so much as it can know within any moment of flux, until there is flux no more...


The Hollow (That Which Fills The Emptiness)

She had taken the day off work, and had taken leave from the grips of her hurting heart. She had driven along a winding ocean road, driving further and further from the frantic city, where she had left the shattered pieces behind her. She didn't realise that not only was she escaping from, but she was being pulled, drawn towards a music that she didn't know existed - yet.

She felt it in her chest at first, but couldn't distinguish where that faint sense - that distant harmony - was gently humming from. It was not so much sound, and more as if the night had crawled inside her, cold and blue and luminous, and swum across the giant empty ballroom of her heart. The space, which only weeks before, had been so full of pretty, coloured lights, and warmth, and laughter. Brimming and bubbling with songs that seemed to sweep her into graceful rapture, and a man who had taken her night after night, dancing for her, dancing beside her, dancing within her. Dancing. Dancing. Dancing.

Then gone.

Sweeping through her chest in cool, rhythmic pulses, that song of starless nights continued as she drove, now growing in it's faint crescendos, almost knocking the very breath from beneath her lightly heaving breasts. She hardly noticed the dazzling morning ocean playfully dumping itself onto the beaches she drove passed, wondering only how, to breathe beneath the pain.

Soon the road turned inland, and though still winding, now it made its way through tall, ancient forests, canopies above and fern thickets below, and silence but for the purring of her car, and the swimming depths of blue inside her, strengthening still.

She was strong and resilient, but she felt trapped inside herself, and did not know what to do to escape the wrenching hurt inside. She slammed on the brakes and came to a skidding halt, and tall forests bent eagerly above her. She eased herself out from the drivers seat, and sat on the ground in front of her car, and held her head in her hands. Then she heard it. An ancient chorus of broken souls calling her name; calling her name in breathless, endless harmony. So haunting, and yet so lovely.

The swimming sense churning coldly inside her, beautiful and dangerous, was moving in time with the rising and falling of those voices, asking of her things that she could not understand. She stood, and gently pulled a fern leaf from in front of her, and found herself at the mouth of a gaping hollow of the oldest tree she had ever seen. And it sung for her, and it sung beside her, and it sung within her. Her little car still purred gently behind her, as she stepped forward, into the voice that knew her pain, into the voice which filled her, and the filling of her was better than the emptiness, and she stepped forward once more, into the mouth of that ancient hollow, and was never empty again.

Now her breath is the cool south wind, and her heaving breast the swaying, bending trunks, amidst the forest that called her name. She is home amongst the beauty of the broken souls, who sing together for those who couldn't escape the pain, who sing together; 

who sing together.