| Life. A series of glimpses into the infinite. Transitory wantings, fears and sighs.... my life... I embarked on a 35 hour journey across the States again. The deserts of the wild West of course were the apex of beauty in this otherwise grueling trip. I watched with dry eyes as my life was packed into a tiny SUV, I watched as strangers came into a vacating apartment and bought the last of brand new furniture not even used for a full season.... I opened my hand to recieve a few hundred spent immediately on gas and food to journey it back to an unwritten chapter. I both laughed and scoffed at my naivety. Truth be told, I'd have rather burned it all to the ground instead of sell it. A apart of me was happy my belongings found a new home, and another part of me wanted to burn the remnants of this closing chapter to ashes. I'd have given all of it away if I could.. but the biting sentiments of certain items nagged me to journey with. So I loaded the rest of it into the trunk and blew a kiss out the window as I watched Atlanta disappear through my rear view mirror. Oh but it has just began. Vacating the apartment was the least of my worries. Of course on the few days that Dorrina decides to move cross country, there HAS to a blizzard coast to coast shutting main interstate highways, and making this trip a suicidal mission, of course. I mean, can anything come a little smoothe and easy? No... not for me. On top of that, catching a cold half way through this ordeal. Besides throwing up in Alabama, sketchy motels in the Arkansas, and a 2 hour straight blizzard all through New Mexico, the desert as always lulled me into a trance... and I remember not caring whether the car crashed or made it to Albuquerque, because I was in bliss. When do you ever see a winter wonderland on the desert plains of the country's most desolate plains? It was absolute peace and serenity. I wanted to pull the car over and disappear into the canyons of snow... let the earth cover me in her cool embrace as I lay down for a sleep that takes me further west. Passed the land of dreams, and into the realm of spirit things. I thought all this as my palms pressed against the cool window frame. My friend asked me what was wrong.... but how could I respond? When my melancholy was percieved as loss instead of longing? There is no answer that can suffice an explanation to the paradox of feeling. Speaking of which, I just lost half this entry by some glitch of the internet. I have been sitting in front the screen for the past 15 minutes trying to recreate the purity and perfection that I had written down effortlessly and organically, only to reach a barrier. You cannot recreate it.. it either comes out better or weak in comparison to the original text. This is some pain a writer goes through when writing. Beautifully woven sentences, richly illustrated... lost into abyss. I began this entry yesterday evening, sitting in my favorite cafe in town. A quaint, stony interior of bricks and mahogany wood. It was the place I would always used to go to write. Famous for attracting mysterious and lonely artists, they would sip their cappuccinos while sketching or writing. Every so often, exchanging glances or a nod and deciding whether or not the attraction was strong enough to intiate a conversation. Perhaps when I was younger, I was more approachable. These days, my eyes would brush passed the faces of curiousity with indifference. I return my focus back to my writing, and rejoice instead in the aesthetics of this parisian cafe. Afterall, when written down the art of encounter always appears more gratifying. I had seen it before, the stroke of his brow, streets outside wet from storming on and off for weeks on end. In the company of an artist, watching silently as cigarettes are lit, wine is poured and sheets are twisted up half on the bed and on the floor. The window pane fogs with the heat of passions, until you are forced to tear away from one another long enough to open it up for air. But the scent of sex remains... for days... always remembering it better than how it transpired. The swell of intoxication does not rest. It was the poetry of these encounters that seduced. For in reality, you are left feeling rather empty and unsatisfied. The air is suffocating, and whatever pain or gaping lonliness you were trying to escape from does not wait till you've parted with your lover to canvas its heavy colors over you. I have exhausted myself from creating novelty. How many heartbreaks one must bear before the novice grows out of fantasy? Sitting across the room, I notice the eyes of a beautiful stranger fix on me, my face a focul point during the short pauses of his otherwise typing. I look back absent-mindly, appreciating his beautiful features. An angular face, symmetrical and filled with story... In another time, I perhaps would have asked him to sit for me to sketch. It is the kind of face that evokes in you an effort to capture with charcoal even a fraction of what would otherwise be intangible. But for now, I immerse myself in more subtle pleasures of life. I watch the rains fall and fall onto landscapes bursting in explosive shades of green. I watch the town I once grew up in gradually change in architecture, old shops make way for new businesses... location marks in my memory grasping to accept the new and changed. The irony and complexity of emotions that stir within me, that I both long for stasis of memory's past and rejoice in the evolving future. I arch my back slowly to this kind of unnoticed wonder. The bareness of vulnerability and tender acceptance. A letting go of the need for understanding to instead make way for the infinite capacity of unwoven presence. |
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