Too often it dies.
the dream, that is
it becomes lost in reality
and we go soft.
Slowly,
the dream dies
leaving us to follow
those who kept dreaming.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
pretentious much?
Tiny bells. Tinkling.
Gentle melodies from a carillons à musique lull the mind into a false sense of tranquillity. Hastily broken by the overwhelming clash of cymbals.
The violent beating of drums.
Safe havens are disturbed momentarily as the adjustment for increased sound takes place. Eardrums scramble to understand the complexity of this transformation. Sight is heightened by the devastating resonance of grandiose melody.
She stares at the multicoloured image of a dapper fox embracing his companion. It is an eerie, surreal sight, misplaced in the monochrome winter light. She pauses for a cerebral contemplation of surroundings. Fails in this endeavour to connect the sound with her vision. She leaves having only emotionalised what should only be considered a minor occurrence in her idyllic life.
Despite her departure the music remains grasping onto the fibres of her being. Her soul is encapsulated by the moment. The dramatic transition from peace to war within a single beat infiltrates her being. She cannot seize the meaning of what she felt. What she still feels. Yet she retains an almost iron fisted hold onto her experience, aware of its importance. She believes it has the potential to unravel its mystery given the appropriate time to articulate itself.
Gentle melodies from a carillons à musique lull the mind into a false sense of tranquillity. Hastily broken by the overwhelming clash of cymbals.
The violent beating of drums.
Safe havens are disturbed momentarily as the adjustment for increased sound takes place. Eardrums scramble to understand the complexity of this transformation. Sight is heightened by the devastating resonance of grandiose melody.
She stares at the multicoloured image of a dapper fox embracing his companion. It is an eerie, surreal sight, misplaced in the monochrome winter light. She pauses for a cerebral contemplation of surroundings. Fails in this endeavour to connect the sound with her vision. She leaves having only emotionalised what should only be considered a minor occurrence in her idyllic life.
Despite her departure the music remains grasping onto the fibres of her being. Her soul is encapsulated by the moment. The dramatic transition from peace to war within a single beat infiltrates her being. She cannot seize the meaning of what she felt. What she still feels. Yet she retains an almost iron fisted hold onto her experience, aware of its importance. She believes it has the potential to unravel its mystery given the appropriate time to articulate itself.
I was told by a good friend to start a blog because:
- My life is infinately more exciting than his
- If he can send an email detailing everything he does and people still like him, apparently I should have more friends
- I supposedly have a talent for the written word. Tell that to those who pretty much threw up on my last work of fiction.
Regardless of that I obviously gave in. So here goes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
