Archive - Don't you know me by Now?

everything for which I am grateful...

by kirastus @ 2007-03-23 – 00:02:18

I am grateful for his affection
I am grateful for his love
I am grateful to my parents, for everything that they did, they do, and they will do, for their love, their unwavering trust, their faith
I am grateful for my friends
For their honesty
For their love
For their trust
For their care
For them just being them
I am grateful to the kind stranger who smiles at me for no reason at all on the train during rush hour
I am grateful to the poor lady who apologised to me even though she couldn't help squashing into me on a packed train
We are but a manifestation of our thoughts and our wishes and our wants and dreams
I am grateful for the breath of the earth
I am grateful for the feeling of pulse in the field, it's the heartbeat of this earth, the pulse of something much greater than anyone or indeed, than anyone's imagination
I am grateful to Bill Hicks for having lived and exists still
I am grateful for my love for sports, for all the feelings that it inspires in me, for the tears that I shed for the champions, for the beautiful women who ran ahead of the field to the finishing line, for everyone who is not professional athlete but finishes their races anyway
I am grateful for simply... existing, for feeling this air, this cold, freezing air, for the warmth from my friends' hands, for the kindness of strangers

The long track along the yellow earth...

by kirastus @ 2007-03-03 – 18:58:04

The flowers that lined that particular path are black, they are roses, black, velvety petals, and in a moment of curiosity, I bend down to one in particular and gently move the petals around, a shaft of light, I realise, to my mild surprise, that the heart of the flower, is a diamond. The blood red light radiating from the sun dyes it into something resembling a ruby, the rolling clouds are pink, fluffy puffs, the earth beneath my bare feet is of an ochre hue, tinged with the crimson light from the sun.

The distant thundering of the sea is an endless murmur, why is the sea always such nameless shade of blue, when water is colourless? In this far away land, it is of a none colour, sparkling a scarlet tint in all its froth, I walk towards it, a long train trails my steps, the gown hangs loosely on one of my shoulders and leaving the other bare, there are inscriptions on that shoulder, my right shoulder, and as I put one foot ahead of the other, my bare left leg shows through the split of the robe, with the same inscription down to the foot. I don't know how to read it, but I know exactly what it means and how it is going to turn out...

To the learned, the mysteries of lives, of what are to come, are no secrets, but the rest of us is all just beginning to grope, to be confused by them, to experience them and then subsequently, to realise them. Yet they have all been set, 3000 years plus ago, looking into the stars we see both our past and our future, there is no need to see the present as one should be aware of one's present, it is all right there...

The lofty height is surely a lonely place? But ah... the view makes it all worth while, is there a better setting, in which to contemplate one's mortality?

When all is said and nothing's done... yet...

by kirastus @ 2007-03-02 – 01:07:15

Waking up and looking over and seeing a face that rouses such hunger in you is an endlessly seductive thing... you want to whisper his name, you feel him reaching over with his eyes still closed, and touching you, feeling for you, making sure that you are still there and you draw closer. She is in his arms when the night descends onto this earth, just as an weary traveller's return to his mother's welcoming arms, he is cradling her head and kissing her, first lightly and then forcefully when the first chirping of the bird is heard at the breaking of the day. It is dawn.

The easel stands alone in the corner of the room, the artist is long gone, along with the box of paint and brushes and the canvas. Half drunk cup of coffee resting on top of the hardback edition of Umberto Eco's Island of the Day Before, an ashtry with cigarette butts, some with faint lipstick stains, scattered around the floor is the ramnents of a past just occurred and leaving not a trace, childhood, adolescence and the fearless yet at the same time vulnerable step into adulthood. The court jester has stopped his act, it is time to finish. Sleeping beauty has re-discovered the power of her beauty and is currently divorcing her prince, snow white kicks the shit out of the old witch and forces the poison in the cauldron down the hag's throat, and becomes ever more ravishing by absorbing the old woman's power and soul, Odette realises that she misses the freedom she had when she had the opportunity of turning into a swan and swim and fly as she wishes, she pulls out the dagger and raises it high above her head in both hands and brings it down hard, and smiles as the blade slices soundlessly and smoothly, hardly forcefully, into the prince's chest. Little red riding hood ends up as the bride of the wolf and fulfils her wildest dreams.

It is all a matter of opinion.