Indescribable

Just for a moment, I felt tremendous hope, and I saw all the beauty in the world that surrounded me.
 I saw it, how wonderful it all was, as the setting sun stretched across the landscape, the trees shining in the light. The leaves as they trembled in the quiet breeze, the grass with all it's beautiful shades of green, growing long against the shackles of humanity. I see the spring as it splashes with such vigorous yet gentle dexterity, carving it's way through the landscape, searching for something that perhaps it will contentedly never find. The end of the day throws fantastic fiery colours
across the vast sky, the edges tainted by the coming of dusk, but yet everything is bathed in this beautiful light still, and there is an indescribable glory in it, a joy that can't be put into words. Yet I try- because that is what we do with our words.We try to express what was truly felt, and I felt calm and peaceful, yet ignited and excited by the serenity and perfection yet diversity of the nature that I was breathing and living in. I ran like a madman down the lane, my feet pounding the dirt, the cold
air stinging my cheeks. I smiled and I smiled at the landscape, and the sunset smiled back at me. Someone, something, gave us this world. And its at moments like this that it has to be appreciated. There may be hate, death, scandal, sadness, grief. But there is love and there is beauty and sometimes we just need to take a moment to take it all in, to feel it, to know it, to appreciate it. I saw the trees
and I thought how misunderstood they are; they may be silent as lambs but they've seen way past our years, and they grow towards the clouds for what to us seems like eternity, seeing it all, adding layers to their soft brown skins, tough to our human imperfections, watchful of our failures and our cute
successes. They give us their fruit, like gifts dropping from above, and we take it. And we live. But here I stood, in this field, feeling the world, loving things, just loving things, not expecting anyone to understand me. And I write this knowing that to read it will pronounce me crazy, but
I know, and so do the birds as they sing, and the sheep as they float in the fields made by man, what it is to be here and to be alive and to want to be alive. Nature overflows here, it's not controlled, but loops over its boundaries, ready to be discovered. I waited and waited, breathing and watching, until
the sun finally set, and the landscape was coloured with grey. But this was okay, because I knew that the colours would come again, it was okay that they were not there. I ran and ran and ran back to the house for safety, high on my adventure and the weirdness of my brain, happy with my mad moment with nature. I'm mad enough to be a writer, I thought. I'm crazy enough for this. I need to write this down, because that is what I do: so here I give this snippet through my telescope to you.

Stupid Things

Stupid things that don't matter twist emotions...twist them like steel hands around a candle, moulding it into waxy mush, with concaving finger indents. Strange things pull your heart down, 'til there's that slight lump in your throat and your limbs are heavy and your head is tired. Weird occurrences you should not care about but they throw your thoughts into turmoil, leaving you grieving what-could-have-been moments, crying over unreal ideals, smiling over forgotten loves.

The most bizarre of all is that when the real things go wrong, you notice. The world falls in, like a castle of cards, tumbling down to the table top, leaving you crushed by their papery bodies. There's a longing and a sense of guilt for ever feeling so bad when things were right, because now things are really wrong: properly wrong. You beg to return to a time when the strange things pulled your heart down, so you can be free to pull it back up, without cards catapulting through the air, and tears flying like daggers from your face.

But, its no use. The stupid things make up my mind and make me tick over, like an impatient clock. And waiting for things to fix themselves while I stand perfectly intact with muscles bulging and breath clear as daylight, is ludicrous. Emotions may be superficial, but the world itself is superficial. The stupid things will break us, like the trojan horse, or Achilles heel. Emotions take our immortality; they are our vulnerability. But this is what makes us human; this is what makes us alive. Without these strange things, to make us happy as if we're birds in flight, and sad like stones in the ocean, what would life be?

Unreachable

Our society is proudly marching in the complete wrong direction in a multitude of ways, and everyone is too busy playing on their smart phones to notice. I look around so often and ask, why is everything just so fucked up? There are so many things about our modern culture that just don't make any sense at all, but we all just go along with it, because who is the individual to question the majority? We judge, bully, reject and kill, we torture and starve, rape and neglect. Addicted to unreachable perfection, falling short every time because nothing is realistic or accepted. Everything is prejudged and judged. We crave brands to be accepted and we lie to be loved. We lie to ourselves, even though we know that everyone else is lying as well. The world is just full of lies, in marketing education, and politics. Boys are allowed to waltz around and treat girls like they're worthless, and most of our music is just misogynistic bullshit that we eagerly lap up because it has a nice beat and of course, because everyone else is doing it.  

Did you waltz into the fire?

The day has ended, we are into the night; the strands of daylight whisked away and replaced by an unseeable black, which covers all in bright darkness. What have you achieved? How have you used your hours awake? Did you smell the breath of the sea as you dived off a cliff into the swirling ocean? Did you ride a muscular horse bareback as he galloped roughly through the desert, clinging to his mane? Did you understand someone and see who they really are; did you glance inside their soul and view the true definition of your complicated relationship? Or did you fall madly in love with someone whom you should for everything it's worth despise, but their beautiful eyes just got you and you felt some crazy urge to kiss them? Did you learn a true and unyielding fact that blew your brain into helpless smithereens, and left you begging for life to make sense again? Did you break a promise, walk away from a commitment, or make a devastating change? Did you steal someone's glory, did you bask in some form of shame, did you walk a tight tight rope across someone's conscience? Did you make some small correction, or alter some small fear; did you make some small objection or did you waltz into a fire? Did you use this day, this God given day and the life you have been blessed with? Or did this day, like the others, get snatched away by your immediate and dominant pleasures, as you watched things pass you by, miserably moping on account of nothing happening? Use the day and your humanity as you take the air from this planet like gold from a piggy bank; make all the pain worthwhile, because this calm and pleasant contentment and this glorious beautiful world is there for you, when you're ready for it. Make the next day and the next the ones that count.   

Nothing but sky

The sky is dark blue, like a summer crystal with a shade of night exploding in the dark dust above him. He's on a cliff, which throws him into the air above the ground below, until all the trees look like broccoli and the men like action figures from a children's toy set. It's winter, so with this summer sky with it's purple and fiery blue colours comes his breath, pale as death into the air, like the smoke from a dragon's throat as he coughs and sneezes with a seasonal cold. He stands there, taking all of this in, rubbing his white and pink hands together, contemplating what it all means.

Here, there is nothing but sky, it outstretches over everything, cuddling the corners of that tiny earth. And here he is, standing in it, breathing into it, giving it life as it floats around him like bubbles from a boiling bath; one that would wrinkle your skin and warm you to the bone. The broccoli sways below in the strong wind that soars through the earth and the little plastic men totter from place to place with these realistic aims and ideas. Look at them go, look at them live! He cannot see their smiles, he is too far away, but he knows they are there. Protruding from their ageing faces, like shining beacons of hope.

He should go and join them, he is one of them. But yet, he is not. There is no shining beacon of hope splashed across his face from summer rain; only hard crystal eyes sent from the fire of winter, sent with what he's seen and what he understands. He stretched out his cold hands and closed those eyes, and the lights went out in the world. Everyone, everything, was still. Time seemed to pause, holding it's breath, waiting, as this one man stood and contemplated everything and nothing, the end and the beginning, life and death, happiness and distress.

Tears that seemed black in this bright night dropped like tiny silver bullets onto the dark grass below him, and he watched them as they soaked like daggers into the brown ground. The figures were tottering again, though the trees still seemed frozen and waiting. He lowered his hands and clenched his teeth, the wind blowing his jacket, gnawing at his chest. What were they waiting for? Nothing. They could do without him.

And then with a bang and a crack and a blinding flash which fired up like morning and then burned out like dusk, he was gone. There was a sizzling black singed mark where he had been standing, and the birds in the nearest tree gaped with their beaks open in wonder. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. The men, the women, they tottered. The trees, they bent and swayed. The wind howled as the night wore on, but the man was gone. He just didn't hope to understand. It was beyond everything he knew.  

From a lonely green stem

I stare out into the shadows, which come and go like ebbing black waters, lapping at my feet. My hands clenched tight to my sides, I decide whether to sprint or walk or die. When I run, I shall fall. Down, ripping skin from my palms and my knees, drawing blood from my beaten body and crushing me into the earth. My tears shall soak into the bloody ground but-

I shall laugh until my lungs burn, because the flowers will grow now. They shall feel their way through the misty darkness and push up through the oppressive dirt. They will penetrate the muddy ground and reach up with curling hand-like stems to the sky, never once seeing the sun in their pursuit, but hoping for it, and that is all that ever mattered.

Then, they will blossom. And I, in this shadowy place, watched by fantastically judgmental eyes, will look to them. They unravel their petals, opening up to the world, ready to embark upon their life after being a trapped, tiny seed caged within the ground. I will run among them, on them, they will push me forward, with their colours and their faces turned towards the not always visible sun. It's there, they'll shout. Keep running. Keep running.

The clouds will rage with angry rumbles across the dark sky, but the flowers of the night will grow with the rain that pours forth, and taller and taller they'll grow. Strength in their numbers, beauty in their strength, they will be with me until the seasons change, and we all return into the ground. But we'll be happy with our successes, because we kept running, kept moving forward, never laying down in defeat in the dark rain.

Listen to the flowers as they accept your heavenly tears. Listen to their voices as they travel towards the air above, unaware that life exists, but hoping that something is up there, with instinct their only companion. They live for only a moment here on earth, and you too have only a moment in comparison. Have the strength to feel your way blind as that lonely green stem. Have the belief that you will find the sun and be able to blossom just as nature had wanted.  

Red lights

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate eyes calling for your attention, but not truly wanting it; defiant humiliation, naked embarrassment leaking through every look, every glance. But cold stares hiding fear and expressing false love conceal all, begging to be believed. And the men, they fall for it, like they've been shot by cupids from burning hell, they turn to those with nothing like nothing at all is wrong. Crisp paper makes for morals and all the world is of course reality. 

With God-made bodies pressed up against the glass, they entice what will keep them alive, masters of a desperate trade always to exist and always to be judged. Perhaps with children to feed, they must stand under the stares and look back, strong. Just a tool, a method of pleasure, to be used as if they are worthless, but yet they must be strong. Though even the strongest and the most experienced have eyes that flash with fury at the world, at themselves for standing sentinel to their stupid, sickening profession. Respect is false, love is false, their happiness and livelihoods are false.

All read in a glance, a quick peek through the glass at a pretty woman striking a sexy pose, looking back as if she seeps normality. But under the surface, desperation lurks like a sickening overwhelming disease, pulsating through the streets and through the very hearts of the fearful females. When you've hit the true depths of disaster, where do you go? To the place with the red lights, to the whore's death row.