I once heard that pearl divers use olive oil, poured onto a turbulent water surface it creates a patch of calm, a window to what lies beneath.
If only such a thing existed for the human brain, a wonder solution to calm my troubled thoughts. What an escape, to be able to dive down, down into the pressing water. Eyes shut, ears rushing from the pressure all around.
Sweeping faster through the void, arms pulling in powerful strokes, feeling the temperature change, the cold deepening with the blue of the water. Lungs aching now, it feels good, the slow burn of holding in breath beyond the norm, legs kicking towards the surface.
Bursting suddenly into the fresh air, eyes blinking in the startling light.
True freedom in the water.
Why can't I sleep? What has changed? Am I cursed to write forever, these bizarre combinations of words that seem to serve no purpose but to half explain my feelings.
That strange expression, a picture paints a thousand words. Questionable really.
Surely it depends on the subject, style, lighting, a thousand variables for creating words through image. A picture surely paints words, but maybe not a thousand, at least not every one.
Pictures take time, planning, a truly spontaneous image capable of really moving people is a rare commodity in my opinion.
But words, they come spewing from my very being so thick and fast sometimes the pen stumbles across the page. Words I full of emotion I am unable to express, and am only half sure of feeling. Are they even real?
Such strange heavy sorrow, pressing down upon my very being, seemingly sprung from nowhere. This complete lack of understanding confuses me, leaves my brain muddled. It grates on my like someone Else's bad habit.
Yet it is one I cannot escape, emanating from my very being, my very core.
If pictures paint, then my words scream, spewing forth my internal unrest.
Oh yes, how I crave some olive oil for my brain.
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Shattered Neon Dreams
I stand atop this pinnacle of stone as all I know floats in a rising tide around me, rising higher, once forgotten memories pushed far to the bottom of my soul now raised like some monster shipwreck, bobbing in the rising swells of my mind.
The distant glow of what the world used to mean sputters like a dying flame in the winds of oblivion. All you hold dear will crumble, shatter in a rain around you, a mess of worn out party fiends, no momentum left now, you reap what you sow.
A generation of mess-heads always eager for the next fix but oh so reluctant to pay with anything but their souls, sold to the neon gods for the highest bid, the promise of a better night and a darker tomorrow.
The shattered dreams of a thousand drunken dancers crunch underfoot, fuel to the fire waiting to spark and consume this once bright hall. Now filled only with the lingering traces of has-beens with last nights drinks on their breath, and tomorrows song in their heads.
Too fast they move, too fast for mere mortals these gods of last night, these saints of wasted chances, of forgotten futures, selling tickets for the end of tomorrow, the show of your life.
The distant glow of what the world used to mean sputters like a dying flame in the winds of oblivion. All you hold dear will crumble, shatter in a rain around you, a mess of worn out party fiends, no momentum left now, you reap what you sow.
A generation of mess-heads always eager for the next fix but oh so reluctant to pay with anything but their souls, sold to the neon gods for the highest bid, the promise of a better night and a darker tomorrow.
The shattered dreams of a thousand drunken dancers crunch underfoot, fuel to the fire waiting to spark and consume this once bright hall. Now filled only with the lingering traces of has-beens with last nights drinks on their breath, and tomorrows song in their heads.
Too fast they move, too fast for mere mortals these gods of last night, these saints of wasted chances, of forgotten futures, selling tickets for the end of tomorrow, the show of your life.
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