Floating In Deep Blue

Inspired by 

I Only Wear Blue by Dr. Dog.

"When you can’t be yourself

There’s just too much to be

Let’s get on with it,

We haven’t got too much time.

And I don’t want to stay here,

Where the sun don’t ever shine.

So say the word, and open up the blinds."

           

All these years we’ve lectured

Each other

About what’s right

And what’s wrong.

Lectured ourselves

About futures,

About cashing it in,

About being the best we can possibly be.

But now that talk means nothing.

Now we’re growing up, 

growing old,

and Time is picking up its pace.

We haven’t got a second

To spend on morals and plans.

We’ve got to live faster than the

Arms on that clock can spin.

Leaden arms circling around,

Marking the days so elegantly.

So painfully.

They sit in the corner,

Two fractions

Of a part.

Hindered by lectures,

Lessons and guidelines.

They’re two fractions

Of a masterpiece.

Puzzle pieces that

Hardly reveal the

Entire picture.

But they try their best

To fill in the gaps.

To be enough for

Themselves.

To be enough

For each other.

She gets anxious

As the days pass,

Because she knows

Time is shortening.

She can feel the tension.

What happens

If we don’t make it?

What happens

If we are wrong,

And have done wrong,

And have been wronged?

Who can save us from

The reality of that end,

Which lurks somewhere

Not too far in the distance?

What happens
If we play by those rules,

If we get sucked into the tide?

If we let time win?

Everything that can

Tear them apart,

Will tear them apart.

They will be torn apart.

Time wears on.

They just sit

And think and stare

At each other,

At the clock,

At the distance.

They just sit and

Reflect on all they’ve

Ever known.

It’s all they’ve ever

Been taught to do.

What happens?

We will be torn apart.

Life is Elsewhere

Because my creativity is low right now, here is an excerpt from Life is Elsewhere by Milan Kundera.
It's an...interesting...novel translated from French/Czech. The chapters are short--some I really enjoy, others I would cut if I were editing it. Kundera morphs prose and poetry in a smooth and elegant way that, at times, leaves the reader in immense wonder and awe.

"
At around that time he began to write a long poem. It was a story poem about a man who suddenly realized that he was old; that he was "where fate no longer builds its rail stations"; that he was abandoned an forgotten; that around him

They're whitewashing the walls they're removing

the moveables

They're changing everything in his room

So he rushes out of his house and goes back to where he 

experienced the most intense moments of his life:

Rear of the house fourth floor rear door at left in

the corner

With a name on the card unreadable in the

darkness

"Moments have passed since twenty years ago

please take me in!"

An old woman opens the door, disturbed out of the careless apathy she has been immersed in during the long years of solitude... she feels that all is well in this room, and that appearances don't matter, she says:

"Twenty years And yet you've come back

As the last important thing I'll ever meet

I have no chance of seeing anything

If I try to peer over your shoulder into

the future."

Yes, all is well in this room; nothing matters any longer, neither wrinkles nor shabby clothes nor yellow teeth nor sparse hair nor pale lips nor a sagging belly.

Certainty Certainty I no longer move and I'm 

ready

Certainty Compared to you beauty is nothing

Compared to you youth is nothing

And he wearily crosses the room, "wipes fingerprints of strangers off the table with his glove," and relizes that she had lovers, crowds of lovers who 

Squandered all the glow of her skin

Even in the dark she is no longer beautiful

A worthless coin worn out by fingers

And an old song clings to his soul, a forgotten song, my God what is that song?  

Photo Credit

Notecard Nonsense

Thinking about the past, because it's easier.

The future is too big. Undefined. Perplexing.

skewed sense of perception

on one too many levels.

Maybe one day I'll wonder where the time went. 

Until then I'll just sit here and wonder how it can best be spent 

 Too hard on herself.                   

even though she claims to know the truth, 

she still thinks perfection is possible.  

Its not just background noise.

Wishes she had lived in the 1930s 

so that she could have grown up with her great grandmother,

her last words: “That girl has no hips to hold that baby.”

If only her grandmother could see what she's

become these days.

Tries her best every day,

Even when she’s strained.

And they hold her high up for that.

So high, she’s scared to fall.

 

Still remembers the day he told her dandelions are weeds. But to her they're still beautiful little flowers...

 

 

Photo Credit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Dreams are for the undetermined.

Wishing is for fairy tale characters

Hoping is for the weak.

Those who wake up willing to engage

in their experiences and to take risks,

They will achieve the empty dreams

wishes and hopes of others.