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Posts Tagged ‘Absence’


Death_by_the_moon

Bleak and sterile, as empty as a cracked eggshell and equally as fragile.

Feral for all its abandonment, yet sullen in its abandon.

Once shimmering in its vernal warmth at night, now pallid the moonlight falls; there I shall not go nor dance with the devil. Oceans once surrounded us, now we stand and watch as they disappear, parched beds lying face up and sun bleached in their stead. Death waits quietly in the distance, an apparition on a slow approach; His disquieting presence providing comfort to raven and snake alike.

We close the windows against the chilling dark, and wish for no haunting wind to blow through the cracks, to loose its disapproval into our rooms. The fireplace! Yes, the fireplace! A small fire, its protruding warmth and light should keep the stars’ icy fingers at bay—and yet even the flame provides an altar from which dancing shadows preach their fetid homily of loneliness.

No heed to be paid to the raven which may tap, tap, tap upon your window. Its eyes will reflect the folly within the hearth, but their true absence of color is unmistakable. Ask it nothing if it persists, for your soul may wither upon its response.

Death will be ever vigilant even while we sleep with our eyes open; His patience is always rewarded.

Fear Death . . . I do not. He will have me, cloaked in his austere raiment of physical decay, when the bell tolls. I shall know when I am called and I shall not beg, plead, nor pray for his temporary dismissal. This life is through, its cracked shell basking unfruitfully in the cold paleness of midnight.

When asked by the slow, coarse voice, “Do you know for whom the bell tolls?”, I shall not utter my answer, but close my eyes.

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renandstimpy
A blogging friend** of mine posted a piece about friends and posed the question “How long do friendships last?” I read through all the comments and noticed one striking common denominator—they all had someone in their lives they’ve known since childhood. Typically this one person is the one they refer to as their most cherised, inseparable friend.

She also made the excellent point that people use the word “friend” far too loosely. In most cases the people they refer to as “firends” are really only acquaintances. I’d take it one step further and say that many people you work with everyday may not necessarily be your “friends,” rather your colleagues or peers.

I had very close friends in school, and yet even throughout my stay in the education system there were kids who floated in and out of my life. To this day there is not a single friend from school with whom I remain in close contact with. We contact one another at Christmas, and maybe once in a while throughout the year, but that’s about it. I’m not certain if that’s a male trait or if it’s just me. That’s not to say I don’t value their friendship, it just isn’t a deep part of my life. I miss it, yes, but I retain memories of each one. Memories which hopefully will never be lost.

I steadfastly believe that people come in and out of our lives for reasons we don’t understand at the time. I know I’ve learned things from people whom I haven’t had contact with for many, many years . . . and perhaps won’t ever again. But they gave me a gift, and for that I am grateful. I’m sure I’ve done the same for others.

Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with. ~ Mark Twain

I don’t recall if I’ve used that quote before, but it’s absolutely appropriate. I will become old, and perhaps wise, and with both assuredly will come griefs and joys. I’m a touch too reticent and guarded and as a result I have precious few true friends . . . but they remain precisely that.

**‘acquaintance’ seemed a little too removed in this context.

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The Sorceress

The Sorceress


I really should be doing other work, but I have been waylaid by one line in a song I was listening to, which gave me pause because of its resounding veracity:

“I’m gonna call up that old boyfriend who says he still has it bad for me . . .”

Seems a pretty innocuous statement, and certainly not outside the realm of lyrical content. All music is, at some level, an expression of the soul. But look behind the words. If I had to study and ponder the words to have been stopped in my work I would have considered myself a brick or two shy of a load. Thing is, it isn’t something that I haven’t thought about before, but hearing that line instantly threw a switch in my brain, as if a small Pandorra’s Box had been opened in my head.

Women hold within them an inexplicable power over men. Make all the fun you want, cast aloft your slings and arrows . . . but you know I’m right. There must be some latent pixie dust, a tendril of passion and wanton emotion that we breathe in when we’re within proximity. I certainly believe that women look to men for strength and security, and yet they have the power to usurp those very qualities which Nature, and Nature’s God, imbued us with. A woman has the innate power, without so much as a word, to bring the strongest of us to our knees.

It’s not just a biological craving or need (although I’m sure there are plenty of guys not ready to admit to anything other than that). You have a magical way of quietly wrapping yourselves around our hearts and caressing our guarded souls with your silky embrace. Some of us have a hard time showing our feelings because we’re scared of the power they possess. Looking in a womans eyes brings that power to life.

Woman is indeed Heaven’s magic made flesh.

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A small table, flanked by two single-person seats. Dividers of glass and brass stretch towards the front of the eatery, three translucent rectangles that seem to get smaller as they extend towards the vanishing point which ends at the sidewalk outside.

Evening descends upon State Street, my table facing parallel to the street itself allowing an almost surrealistic view of the entrance. The neon-red OPEN sign gently glows, its letters in reverse, painting a Hopperesque image of downtown being lulled to another nights pensive sleep, traffic and passersby providing the strained lullaby.

Across the table, within reach, sits a basket of bread and crackers, and trying to hide from view, my crumpled overcoat, occupying the seat where you should be.

I shouldn’t be able to look to the street. My eyes shouldn’t catch the neon sign in the divider glass as it mirrors the letters so they’re right-reading: RESTAURANT OPEN.

I shouldn’t be able to hear the overhead music blurred into the hum of conversation.

I should be able to look across the table and into your eyes.

I should hear the sweetness of your voice, soft like cotton, smooth and luxurious as silk.

Perhaps I shouldn’t miss you this much.

But I do.

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Summer, employment, and baseball have been amongst the list of things conspiring to keep me from even the occasional blog entry. To those who’ve consistently followed me I hope you haven’t strayed far. I shall be taking this next week off, as I am now in between jobs (having voluntarily left my prior employer). The HR admin said my resignation letter was the best she’s ever read. I was already looking forward to leaving, and that was like tasty chocolate icing on the cake.

I may still post it here if there’s interest in reading it.

I haven’t given up on writing (or blogging). The coals in the fire were still aglow and a nuanced breeze kept them alive for me. Even after only having been out of the last job for just two days now, I can already tell that I’ve made it back here in time, before the fire dies.

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