Tuesday, February 16, 2010

A Stop At The First Star

I started another "no more late nights for me" attempt that I've been tightly sticking to for a while, but an anomalous night falls down from my line every so often. And its not too bad, in fact it might be just enough for me to give my recently caged night owl self a nice little break. Yet again, that would be another reminder that any shade or interval of freedom certainly is not for free.

I finally made time, or overslept enough to stay awake for some extra time the following night, to watch the movie Up in the air. My week was kind of chaotic. I ended up adding a third name to my list of favorite movie directors, after finding out that Jason Reitman was also the one behind Juno.

As the credits went down, playing a few scarily relatable soundtracks, I had already landed in the exact place I knew this kind of movie will throw me into...

"Tonight, most people will be welcomed home by jumping dogs and squealing kids. Their spouses will ask about their day, and tonight they'll sleep. The stars will wheel forth from their daytime hiding places, crowning their neighborhood with lights. And one of those lights, slightly brighter than the rest, will be my wingtip, passing over, blessing them."

I can't tell which direction out of the two I am seeing is the one I should worry about more; the fact that the idea hit home, or the fact that I did not mind the hit? I don't know if I really am scared, like most people are at the end of the day, of being and staying up in the air, away from everyone back on the ground. Do I really not mind carrying an empty backpack of ,basically people, for the course of a lifetime? and if I ever decided to come down, would it really crush me if I found out it was too late? Or will I gracefully retreat right upwards where a randomly chosen world picked out of an airport's destination board, is hardly at all even waiting for me?

It is not fearing an empty backpack at any point do I fear, for currently I am working my way up to some level, on a pretty much involuntary basis that I have recently noticed but can't and/or (hence the whole post) do not mind. At least for now.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

In The Wake of A Pulse II

Palm trees and warm voices. Cithars bleeding into a stream lost on its own into a crippling dimension of nonexistence.

Where was I?
Swam the bloody rivers at the end of which the fall awaited. In slow motion it shattered me, one cell at a time. Screamed, or so I thought at the shake in my chords…

Cold waters and always, always, adverse winds… but still, at the much yearned dead of night I can still recognize how I never saw a similar shade like the sight above my right, of blue in a halo encompassing even the darker crumb of an almost there full moon. Then only do I remember.

All yours that would be. All yours.

Where was I?
I missed the falling leaves this time. I missed the shivering at the crisp voices of the joyful crushing into the most colorful form of death. Yet, I know the red leaves will never be forgotten long as I am breathing. I know the red leaves will never die with the sound. I know the red leaves better.

light and fear. Empty staring at blinding melodies of a shallow wave of serenity. I fell so strongly, even the stranger was crying. I caught Death in a breakdown by the invisible bank as I was falling. And into countless little silver blessings that plagued their way, in the most healing of natures, I bloomed into the face of the new low.

And it was already that time for the arch of incompleteness to break out of its pitch. There I was again, up in a circle with a halo of that lone shade, down in endless shreds of striking stars, spilt over the realm of fearsome Red.

Where was I?

In a different extension of Time and Space, I watched from the top of the tree. Its roots have known their ways through every inch of nonexistence. Its leaves and branches have always been right behind the moon, every time. I watched the tree as it wept and deafened me with the pleadings of every branch, where the halo and its master, the enchantingly gleaming rock, never turned at the sound. Some days I cried for the tree. Some days I cursed at the moon. Some days I stretched my arms out, held each in one hand, and slept with my feet in the air.