the still point in the turning world
i take delight in seeing words scrawled across a page– whether or not they yield coherence– as long as they prompt the assumption of mysterious prose. (such delight i must trade for the satisfying click of keys and legible type)
i am also growing increasingly fond of fall– as the air chills, and it becomes easier to breathe... just for a moment before the cold tightens the chest. the red trees, the orange leaves and the bluer sky- the scent of a season changing... the everything that comes with memory: beautiful and terrible as it is– a curse but so welcomed when you can subconsciously be reminded of happiness. the secret hideaway where no one can ever find you– the trapdoor to the crawlspace of memory (the only real secret passage i ever had): the mind. imagination. rather, memory of imagination– for, like childhood, it is gone now.
memory is why i am here now. for here is where the memories i wish to be my future live: the sea, the quaint houses, the windy streets lined with unnessary shops, the ships.
time past and time future,
what might have been and what has been
point to one end, which is always present
this is a place of my childhood imagination, where i always dreamed to be. this is where memory manifests, where reality is some twist of fate that has united my past with my present. where the future is a continued manifestation of all i have always wished it to be. here. now. all is always now.
i am also growing increasingly fond of fall– as the air chills, and it becomes easier to breathe... just for a moment before the cold tightens the chest. the red trees, the orange leaves and the bluer sky- the scent of a season changing... the everything that comes with memory: beautiful and terrible as it is– a curse but so welcomed when you can subconsciously be reminded of happiness. the secret hideaway where no one can ever find you– the trapdoor to the crawlspace of memory (the only real secret passage i ever had): the mind. imagination. rather, memory of imagination– for, like childhood, it is gone now.
memory is why i am here now. for here is where the memories i wish to be my future live: the sea, the quaint houses, the windy streets lined with unnessary shops, the ships.
time past and time future,
what might have been and what has been
point to one end, which is always present
this is a place of my childhood imagination, where i always dreamed to be. this is where memory manifests, where reality is some twist of fate that has united my past with my present. where the future is a continued manifestation of all i have always wished it to be. here. now. all is always now.
posted by Sarah G at 11:20 PM
1 Comments:
your writing continues to be strong and vivid... and i think your right, the sky is bluer in autumn, somehow I think the cooler air just clears up the palette.... I suppose that even though autumn is known as the end of something that the air and sky indicate to us that we're actually starting over at the beginning, as if a new canvas is being prepped for new thoughts and colors to be added to life.
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