Detour

Conversation brings up many lengthy contemplations. I wonder sometimes if monologues might be the better route. In any event, last night, a friend mentioned that fate, taqdeer, destiny, or whatever you might choose to call it, is like a detour on the regular path. So it's kind of like, you're on this (imagined) journey of sorts, and at some point, a fork in the road appears. A detour. It's like God is saying to you, come this way for a bit, I want to show something to you.

And so you amble along. Because, we love surprises. We are inherently curious beings. Sometimes to our detriment. Often to our delight. But Trust is implicit, of course. And we tiptoe forth, somewhat expectant. Are we to be disappointed? Well, we never really know. Will we be amazed, surprised, awakened, astounded? None is known. None is thought about. We move ahead, enticed by the mystery. Trusting fully.

Without any reasonable doubt, the detour's are proven adventures. Mostly, the reasons are unknown to us, just as the results are. Gains or losses, we are never really able to measure, mostly because we lack that level of humility to really understand the bigger picture. We're too much a part of it; a tiny speck on it, really. We the faithful, led by the All Knowing, are guided thus.
But it is most definitely a path of adventure. And a path of living, both determined and allotted, with obvious spurts of self-determined opportunities borne of the effort to take responsibility for life.

Sometimes, the detour is a person. And sometimes, you are the detour on someone else's path.

How does that revelation make sense though? I'm still deciding about the implications of a statement like that. Is it a straight path after all? Or is it a path distracted by, well, detours?

S

tests of compulsion,love and creativity

I have noticed something rather strangely appealing about the blog- and social media world in general. And that is, the worms that find their way out of the woodwork are outnumbered by the people who will leave notes of wonder and encouragement at your blog-doorstep, at precisely the moment when you need to read it most.

I have also paid attention to the trend of writing that follows the blog world, and the facebook/twitter updates that arise from various people across the globe. This is not some kind of discourse analysis of it all, just an awe-inspired sharing of my observations. I had a chat with one of my dearest friends recently, and I have to make the following comment; I believe that every person who lives on this planet, should in some way be able to sit down and write about their lives, even if it's just about one day that serves as a landmark day, their first love, animate or inanimate reference, their marriage, the birth of a child, the death or loss of a loved one. Anything. The hue of stories waiting to be told and heard are as countless as the experiences had by people in general. And once told, the shared stories will reveal a kind of continuum of life energy, humanity and spirituality that transcends the often imagined boundaries that we seem to find ourselves comforted by, and accustomed to.

I have been allowing alot of stress to filter into my life this past week or so. Which is undeniably unusual for me, because not only do I like having all my ducks in a row, but I'm a pretty easy-going girl for the most part.
Perhaps the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive; having ducks in a row makes for easy living, and less stress in the long term.

This is adrenalin on erm speed. Does that sound right? I didn't think so. Okay let me try that again. It's the good adrenalin of something that I am working towards, compounded by the not so good feeling that I may not make the self-imposed deadlines that I have now confirmed to a portion of the world at large. Makes sense? I'm being cryptic. I know. But it's temporary. Hopefully it will all be resolved, at most by the end of this week. It's yet another exciting project, about to be made manifest and one which has had some behind the scenes work for some years now. So here's hoping that it works out in the best way that it can. Taking into consideration my hectic budgetary constraints and all that.

Then onto the writing thing.
The biography project has become a slow and deliberating attempt to unveil the identity and being of a person about whom very little has been written, and we are relying on a large amount of primary data from people who held him in high esteem, but not all of them engaged with him directly. Needless to say, some worthy gems have been uncovered. One of my most trying recent interviewees looked me in the eye and asked: 'Are you serious about this work?' and 'Can you write?'
Most of these people are skeptics of a long-forgotten era. Some are high ranking people, used to business above pleasure. And many are almost 3 times my age. It's a more than forgivable skepticism. I was tested. And apparently I more than won approval at the end of it all. I was thrilled with the balance of the conversation, of course.

I'm editing more than writing, at the moment. It has been two years since my book 'Daughters are Diamonds' was launched at the Cape Town Book Fair. In that time, I have done many little things that seem to be adding up to delightful newness, and I have met myriad people of the same. Also, I have compiled two manuscripts in the last year. I am figuring out what to do with them :)

Much Love,
S

overwhelming evidence

There is ample evidence of beauty in this world.

I see it in the face of my two year old niece, Madeeha. Madeeha's name means 'praiseworthy', and I am most certain that the starting point of beauty is to be found in innocence. We look to find evidence of an obvious aesthetic presence, but Beauty also exists as a glaze over our vision; a tool of choice that allows us to scan the world with an eye for appreciating all that it has to offer.

People are beautiful in their attempts to glorify themselves; physically, spiritually, and often grandiosely. And some are beautiful in the inescapable sadness that they are shrouded in. Some choose silence as a companion and in that is a surreal beauty if not an obvious one. Beauty can be haunting and erudite or it can be impassioned and glaring; often all at the same time, for there is nothing that encapsulates the human experience more finitely than the multitude of emotions and experiences that occur as a pot of melting, blending colours all at the same time.

Its been a while since I wrote in a way that almost reads like cryptology.
This is not cryptic, only reflective. Nor is it an overdose of sugar, only part of many new thoughts being realised. There is beauty in good, and a strange beauty in the not so good. Acts of humanity are acts of admirable beauty. Crafts. Murder, too is a craft. And craft is beautiful in many ways. But then is evil beautiful as well? Or is it that any act of the human being is purely beautiful?

It may begin at innocence... but where does it stop? Or does it?

high tea, umbilical cords and everyday miracles

I drink copious amounts of tea when I'm writing. At least, this is something I have just taken note of. Tea seems to flow in me and through me (nasty thought, that) in the same way that muse works its way around in inspiring the words to flow. There are times when the words will not happen, of course. But the imagery is strong and so it follows me around like a watermark in my vision. I see it in view when I am driving, in the shower and nestled under a warm quilt at night. I see it when I wash my hands; it floats in the cascade of water that rushes over my fingers and mixes with the liquid soap to form clouds of foam. At times, it eventually disappears back into the recesses of my imagination and emerges in a dream. I wake up thinking and knowing that this is what happens next in my story. Past, present and future merges into one in the world of the subconscious. And in no uncertain terms, my dream state often informs my storyline, as it does my intuitive life path.

I said in my previous post, that reflections often make me spin. It's not a bad thing. Reflections, and the washing cycle cleansing that occurs in contemplation, making authentic choices and forgiving, letting go, opening oneself to new and replenished opportunities... It's a rather integral part of the life process.

I did more thinking this week when a dear friend who I have not met in years, lost her mom. I first met Elaine when we were both undergrad architecture students at Wits. We shared a studio in John Moffat, the architecture block, and I still remember painting walls and Zen-ni-fying the place before we really warmed to the place. Our other co-inhabitants were Hong and Sundeep. I also remember many hours of Five FM and the like accompanying us on long drawn hours of design collaboration, structural drawings and the ups and downs that went with being undergrad architecture students. Needless to say, the three of em graduated as architects some years later. I dropped out before my second year exam, just after the October portfolio review. That's a topic for a whole other post.

I hooked up with each of them over the last two years or so, on Facebook. Elaine Van Heerden is now Elaine Jones, married, with a beautiful baby-boy/toddler named Rowan. I love being in touch with her, the reminder of the lovely energy that emanates from her wonderful being. She lives in Ohio now. And I read her post tribute to the effect that her Mom, Theresa, passed away on Monday in Johannesburg. I never met Theresa, but I knew Elaine. And reading her heart-wrenchingly beautiful tribute drew blood. It made me wonder about distance, and love and life and death. It also made me realise that proximity is no guarantee for closeness, and being so far apart geographically, does not weaken the bonds of heart and soul; does not sever the invisible umbilical cord that ties parents and children for eternity.

There are so many ways in which we attempt to make sense of life, purpose and the reasons for meeting people in our lives. The answers that we come up with are often insufficient responses. Words can only do 'so much'. There's a lot more to be said about feeling your way through life and being in awe of everyday little miracles.

spin cycle

There's a gain and a loss in every one of our encounters in life. Whether it is that I am talking about the people we might meet or the events that transpire; also the opportunities that come our way.

I have an eternal cycle of reflection going on in my head - kind of like a washing machine - and in meaning to rinse and cleanse, this process almost always ends up putting me in a spin.. (pun intended, of course!) Hence the often (seemingly) disorderly thoughts.

TeXTure

I met a woman who makes moleskins for a living. What an amazing way to celebrate words, I thought. And the recording of history, of course. But it's to be appreciated that this is a craft of scarcity; and more importantly, the most seasoned artisans are a rare breed.

We feel life in texture. So whether the words we read are made tangible in their way of evoking emotion, or whether it is that life grazes and grabs a hold of you, enticing you to in turn hold on tightly, we are meant to be aware of it's every moment.
Armchair travel rules the world. I believe that, firmly. Via kindle or good-ol-fashioned print runs that leave their ink on your fingers and your mind; the written word will forever stretch out into the Soul of the world and inspire in us things we may never dream of, even.

It's in wanting to feel life that life is felt out for us.

I am threading along with my beads of choice and happy to see the precious moments adding up to a worthy adornment. Life can be pretty thrilling, in it's ordinariness if we just take the time to stand back and admire it :)

S

collision course

Im doing alot of that nearing the edge kind of over-thinking these few days; and I think that when we put love and hate on a collision course, then we only have ourselves to blame. Im rambling again. Its just that there are certain of these life lessons that tend to go over my head and then I find them repeating themselves all too patiently while I sit back and scratch my head in confusion. This time the confusion levels are in a near danger zone.

I dont get it. I dont. And its no longer a person delivering a message or gifting this life shock to me. Its something more; there's this nagging feeling at the back of my mind saying there's more more more to this. So, the suspense is killing me. What is it?

More. Less, but more.
I think the space between lessons is lessening. Still, the same lessons. But like contractions before birthing, and what we hear to be the labour process, the timing between mini earthquakes is getting shorter... the end is near. I think I must get it at some point. Like really just have that lightbulb, eureka moment! Aha! I get it! Like that.. Unless the games being upped and the challenge along with it. And Im losing braincells through my nose in the process, making me worse for wear :/

There's alot going on inside; and definite lines in the sand regards how much I am willing to put up with. Those lines are forming barriers that barricade me from the row of daggers aimed in my direction. Not so sure that's a bad thing or a good thing. It just is.

This rumble of stuff from the inside needs a voice. That's the only thing I know.
And all hell will break loose when that happens.
I figure its winter anyway, so at least we'll be warm, right?
Anyone want to cuddle? Okay, make that a group hug :P

I've set myself on a collision course. I hope all bones remain intact when I'm done with my chosen encounter. I hope that indeed, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. And I hope that I can finally demarcate that area between pussy-footing niceties and just being true to myself. Being real. It's the freedom that I'm craving for the moment. Probably for a longer time than only now. And it scares the hell out of me!

a thousand helpless pieces

boredom is...

that moment between

contemplating and creating

when nothing gels

for long nail-biting hours

and the hole wears thin

along that carpet path

in the artist's hiding place;

the midnight lamp sucks the last of its oil,

and then suddenly

a lightbulb flickers

its almost daylight,

the moon shatters bits of glass,

my window lies at my feet in

a thousand helpless pieces

windiness howls into the gaping space between

random articles of furniture, paper, skin and cartilage.

all is silent now,

-my heart skips a beat-

a pen finds its way between bedraggled fingers of my writer's hand,

and then it bleeds for me,

once again.

i aint no poker face

An inspired thread runs between the blogs, sometimes... it's enough to be celebrated.
I said at Azra's place just now, that we each have our prided space in enough dysfunction to keep us functioning... at an almost ordered, but often chaotic optimum.

In my case, it shows out in my writing's. Optimum is a day when the words flow unhaltingly, rivers into oceans and reaching their zenith just as I am about to crash for the evening to indulge in a read or a movie or a late night phone call to catch up with a friend... or something different. Seeking inspiration. Craving it. Replenishing it. Call me predator. My mind thirsts that way, insatiable for the most part.

It shows. When those days of being far below anything remotely optimum threaten my imaginary hold on sanity. It screams on those days. Raging, burning, and surging through every cell in my body. It shows in my writing; and more in my lack of being able to create at all. My facial expressiveness does little to save me the billboard status. I aint no poker face. That's for sure. Writing this book has proven that in oh so many ways. Zarreen's joys and fears have somewhat mirrored my own. In some cases she overcomes imagined hurdles that I have yet to surpass. In other's our lives are so far apart that it takes a little more than the stretch of my worn out muse. We need a vacation :) But not until the job is done.

I love some parts of this writing. Love, love, love it. I cringe at some of it. I cannot bear to read it! But nothing that the slicing and dicing phase can't fix. Or the delete function on my pc. But there's also some bits that surprise me. Lurking in the psyche somewhere, are these molecules and seeds of information that grow to tree's of like(ly) and unlike(ly). And they are made manifest in these creative efforts.

I want to paint again.

Now is a very good time to get started, methinks...

S

lets begin at the end...

Zarreen is experiencing a shift in consciousness. I can see it happening for her. But there’s two ways this can go. And I have written two ways in which the book can end. Both choices are part of her reflections; or rather they flow from it. Both will turn out okay. They won’t be dead end. Just that they will be. And that they will signal a kind of finality with future prospects.

And still, I have this nagging feeling in the back of my head, that there’s another way of doing this. A way that I must discover for myself. A midway almost, but not.

Zarreen must have these choices and so must the reader. I want to leave these choices to both parties, and not be the one to make it for them. Zarreen must be willing to make that decision; it’s what regaining her sense of self and her essential autonomy is all about. And for the reader who has journeyed with her, I want to honour the same respect for that kind of choice. That level of engagement. And not to take it as my own, my right as the artist of these scenes; I am just the one documenting and giving form to these reflections, these choices, these bits of life that no doubt, every one of us do and will encounter along the path that we tread.

So there’s one thing that I am sure of… It’s not only my choice to make.

look at the fisherman...

"You're a fish in the trap of the body;
look at the fisherman, don't look at the net.
Gaze in wonder at the infinite rose garden,
don't consider that thorn that wounded your foot.
Contemplate the Bird of Heaven whose shadow shelters you,
don't look at the crow that escaped your hands.
Put your trust in Him who gives life and ecstacy;
don't mourn what doesn't exist, cling to what does."

JELALUDDIN RUMI

an invitation to do things differently

I am not so sure that there is a space for elation and sadness to sit side by side and enjoy each others company. But then the law's of everything known to me have defied me many times before... so why would this time be any different, right? I'm not averse to the idea that I may be a walking realm of contradictions; my life tends to present all the data I need to confirm that, in fact. And its most easily explained as the compulsive artists greatest truth: a strength and a weakness, in and of itself a paradox. But it helps to also sit back and appreciate the little details of an almost normal existence; petty it may seem, but thorough and grounded in its own way.

I am still deciding, but the way I see it... Certainty might be a judgment of the mind; riddled as it chooses to be... or an easy battleground upon which the demons of past and present might play their sordid game. But even in my not-so-sureness state of semi-denial, I can tell that the space exists- delight and melancholy sit on a swing, holding hands and pretending not to giggle at my confused expression. Is it possible, I wonder... or an illusion of sorts... to be part of the creation of something beautiful and then murder it in cold blood, with those same warm hands?

What bare hands can slash an inspired canvas... when the invitation is to celebrate all the love and enthusiasm that life has to offer... Makes you think, doesn't it?

a river runs through...

I am chatting to a writer buddy; and we're discussing love, life and relationships; toothpasty* kinda talk... nothing unique or unheard of, but forever enticing of reflection.

And so I said something and the advice was: 'Don't Change. Stay who you are.'

Aah. Words are strange things. Acknowledgment from friends means so much of course; but let's be totally honest: Change is inevitable. Sometimes fundamental things change, and other times its little nuances that may not show.

Life moves through us, and changes us... Just like a river moves by banks and towns, replenishing and feeding; bringing along with the tide, it's flood of enthusiasm and sometimes leaving destruction in it's wake.

I wonder, if we had to map out a canvas of these changes... what on earth would it look like?

Will it be filled with colour, streaks running down in the dance with gravity's pull? Or will it be adorned with something natural, wholesome and felt; textured by the seasons, tarnished by the rust and glowing with days of eternal sunshine? If I had to paint one for every person that I have met in my life, I imagine filling hallways with amazing design; some gregarious and dark, other's awash with soulful inspirations. Wind chimes would signal laughter and drumbeats for passion, love and sadness; fear, malice and anger would flow as the bark used on railway sleepers, and joy would appear as mirrors reflecting the eyes of all who hold them close.

Joy is as it does. In all of us. A whole new world exists, just by thinking about making something that reminds me of everyone I have encountered on my path; everyone who has made an undeniable impact on being who I am. On the evolution of who I am at this moment. Evolutionary relationships are the basis of all we do, and all that makes us; A blog I enjoy reading by Azra also discusses this most beautifully in a recent post.

It's inevitable that some will be immortalised in the words I write; while other's will find their way into the light through the colours that my eye picks out. A river runs through me; every day I am replenished, destroyed, and filled to overflowing again. Words are strange things indeed.

So. What will your change canvas look like?

Shafs


*word and concept, courtesy lady h as added to discussion about my toothpaste theory; and her toothpasty chats with the Guy.

belief, trust and process

I am in need of one of those magic potions that will keep me astride the latest developments, and all pepped up with the vitamins of good and glorious. Okay, what I mean to say is that what with all the hype of my new writing project, I am in constant need to replenish the energies of enthusiasm and to find myself the inspiration I need to dive into it.

*Deep Breath*

The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.

Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.

I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.

So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.

PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.

Borrowed Time

I don't want to do this anymore... even though I love it so! I sit here, feeling like some kind of window washer on a glass skyscraper; washing away in this repetitive circular motion with the sunshine on my face, and looking in at the wonders of the snazzy executives in the boardroom with their faces painted; first a sombre grey and then layered in varying shades of pink to fake a blush and rosy lips.

My blush reflected in this larger than life mirror is of the elements ravaging my usually pristine features and of the gust of wind splaying fingers through my uncombed hair. My shades of pink are just those memories of a time before I learnt to write. You know, when I pretended that I was alive and played on in that theatre of life, a smiling collaborator to the puppeteers jesting ways.

My shades of grey are the shadows from that time. And the reminders that theatre is fiction; and real life, well... that's not for novels, dearie. Why, that's made for living! If you dare.

I remember his words now, when I told him to keep breathing. 'Everything else is a bonus,' he said. 'A bonus.'

This is borrowed time. I just remembered.

And I want to do that thing that I love doing. But I also don't. I really don't want to. Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to breath again.

Tomorrow I will go back to being the best window washer in the whole wide world. But not today. Today I want the grime to collect on their windows keeping the sun out for a day. Just a day. Then tomorrow, I will borrow time to be me again. Tomorrow I will do the work. Tomorrow, fingers will tap dance at keyboard. Tomorrow the windows will be clean again.

But only tomorrow.

Today I will rest.

After all, this is borrowed time.

I just remembered.

Eleven Minutes

I have always enjoyed reading Paulo Coelho... And with enthusiasm, I have been quenched by The Alchemist; provoked by Veronika decides to Die, and intrigued by The Devil and Ms Prym. The most enjoyable of late, was The Witch of Portobello; a delightful biography of a woman by the name of Athena. I have read some others, too, and recently picked up the copy I have of Eleven Minutes. I buy books pretty much everywhere I go, and the script beneath the scrawl that represents my name said: London 2005. I cannot remember why, but I couldnt read the book with appreciation at the time. I think there was a 3 for 2 sale or something at the time...

And so, I am reading through Eleven Minutes at the moment... and I find myself at some profound revelatory points here and there. Here is an extract that appealed to me today, some of it for the content, but also the sharing of it is in appreciation for my own process of keeping a journal (beyond the blogosphere:P)

"From Maria's diary, two days after everything had returned to normal:

Passion makes a person stop eating, sleeping, working, feeling at peace. A lot of people are frightened because, when it appears, it demolishes all the old things it finds in its path.
No one wants their life thrown into chaos. That is why a lot of people keep that threat under control, and are somehow capable of sustaining a house or a structure that is already rotten. They are the engineers of the superceded.
Other people think exactly the opposite: they surrender themselves without a second thought, hoping to find in passion the solution to all their problems. They make the other person responsible for their happiness and blame them for their possible unhappiness. They are either euphoric because something marvelous has happened or depressed because something unexpected has just ruined everything.
Keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it - which of these two attitudes is the least destructive?
I don't know. "

Confessions of a Callgirl

I have just stumbled upon this weblog: Confessions of a College CallGirl; the writings are as real as it gets, extremely well-written and emotionally charged. The story of a callgirl in New York City...she uses her blog to get rid of the burdens that sit on her heart and the dust that settles on her soul from her experiences, but then she also has this no-nonsense take on life and survival... one tends to pick up on some amount of self-doubt in her ability to really hold on to a worthwhile relationship (this is beyond the scope of her 'job')..ie. once she's retired. Even so, she speaks of the number of times she has in fact, tried to retire... and the ways in which the tide pulls her back in again...

Factual accounts written here are fascinating in the humanity and necessary compassion evoked by this blogger. The link love leads to what I thought was the most distinguished of her new articles in terms of who she is as a woman. I also enjoyed the style of writing...

Shhhhhh... Don't speak!

There are different kinds of silences. Sometimes, silence is like that clear pond that makes you want to look into its forever and ever kind of depths. It is still and deep and whole. It reminds you that you're linked in that still moment, to the beginning of time. It has that eternal feel about it. Sometimes, silence is a slap on the face. A gross act of retaliation. Nothing short of violence.

Mumbai's aftermath is a grating silence. The calm after the storm, so to speak. A symbol of shocking numb. The city is at a standstill. The problem with each of these varying kinds and degrees of silence is not in their base intentions or the reactive nature with which it may have begun. It is when silence is taken as a reason to point fingers and when it is seen as a weakness by those who will manipulate the space thus cultivated by it. It happens in the most petty instances. Politicians move in where there is panic, hoping to garner support for the next election. Other's with selfish intent use the space for silence as a tool to nurture their grab-all mentality.

In most cases thats what it comes down to; this warring for space and the right to impose ideals and ideologies on the world at large comes from a twisted kind of scarcity-consciousness. The mines-mines-mines mentality of the voyeuristic me-me-me.

Like I said, it happens in grave situations, and it happens in the most petty instances. Sometimes hundreds of lives are affected; other times only one or two. But it happens. And it hurts. It really does.

I don't know much about crisis management. And I have yet to fully embrace constructive grieving processes and networks of support. But I know this much: People who have that scarcity consciousness, who imagine that they should feel threatened by a particular status quo and who feel righted to upturn it in grossly violating ways, need to be weeded out from the thriving gardens of spirit and humanity that the rest of the conscious world wishes to cultivate.

And a momentary silence doesn't mean defeat; or admonishment. It is a moment to reflect. A time to grieve, and a reason to stand together and create those shifts in consciousness and infrastructure that will secure the future.

Silence isn't 'doing nothing'. It is healing. The calm before a revolutionary storm. At some point, all hypocrisy must die. Enough is enough. Eventually, only whats real will preside. The winds of change will make certain of it.

choices and minds

We all make our choices, she said

You made yours, and I made mines...

Aah, but... the point is that they are choices!

Indeed, she said. Choices, made. But led, by circumstance.

Choices still! he said.

She sighed.

I read your note with great interest, he said.

Yes? said she.

Yes. he said.

Made up your mind then, she said.

Yes. he said.

I see. So what? she said.

You tell me. said he.

I guess there's nothing more. she said.

Nothing? said he.

Yep. Choices, remember? she said.

You made yours. And I did too. Choices and minds are binding things, said she.

Aah? he quizzed.

Ah-ha! said she.

misplaced intentions

these can get so twisted:
intentions, misplaced

like a set of keys;

leaving just a bitter
memory
of the ringing
sound
they made as they
dangled
from the wardens hands,

and a cold
memory
of the day i strode
barefoot
across the stone floor
of that
castle of promises.

bitter and cold;

this handful of
misplaced intentions
remind me just
of temporariness
and my own mortality.