She has a spring of life within her that is fond of profuse ejaculations, that needlessly needs to be adored by the sun and things, that dances secretly in public places, and while others hurry across busy roads it feels the need to blow a kiss at the impatient wave of oncoming speeding cars.
Gentle reader, you will do well to remember that it is here, in The Mayflower, that such wonderful folks as Mr. Camera, Mrs. Julianna, Tendre, Mr. Mossowalli and the others found and spent their muse.
The Church of Many grows ineluctably old, its fence collapsing, the gradual punctuation of holes into the drab walls of its many structures, the place haunts me.
'The roof is broken and its beams are beginning to crack.'
Who posts the postman's letters?
What should he be called when he ceases to be a stranger? What should he be then? What is a stranger with a home? He must leave; I watch as he vanishes with the fog, to find some other sour street to rest his head...
Her hair was as dark as her skin and she wore it very high. And I must tell you, dear Reader, that he loved her. He truly did.
She saunters in the yellowing field, and dips the blossoms in her hair.
Her smile has the brilliance of stardust...
Somehow, when people have cash, you feel differently about them—I don't know why.
The writer believes Flowerboy was true in his affection for the flower girl. Of this, he tried to convince Flowergirl but she would not believe.
We, the masked ones, are the crazy ones.
I think he was in some sort of love with her.
The woman sits at the dock—the wind in her hair and with the smile of a tear. With wistful eyes, she looks among the ships. On the pier, the travellers. She searches the ocean, and it searches for her too.
She is the muse. The muse of all muse.
She is desirable, and remarkable.
Was it all worth it?
Where, in another ten years, shall I be, myself?
Of all the beings she knew shared the big world with her, she was particularly fond of the ones that came alive in December.
He is about forty-five years old.
‘It starts with the little things.’
Why November? November, because it is the only month close enough to December that is not October; and, it never rains in November.
He ran out on a Thursday and screamed Friday. What a wonderful boy!
She had a nature peculiar to wild, passionate men and easy women who hastily described themselves as liberal, and it was in her eyes.
He is a fly—a firefly...a bioluminescent bug!
Jeremiah cried differently. I suppose that is what loss does to a person but he looked older too...as though his prevailing circumstance had marked him in a way no one could see but only perceive and it changed my impression of him.
Loving her was like loving the weekend, and she was a Sunday.
There are good ships, & there are woods ships, the ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships & may they always be.
The first time I heard the word I was with my mother at some spot in the centre of our community―a scene that could only be described as a watering place. The spot, fenced squarely about its perimeter, held only a massive cubical receptacle hoisted high up in the air at the expense of four metallic cylindrical blocks positioned beneath its edges.
I was her little butterfly. But in truth, there were days when I was more of a caterpillar or a really little worm. Yet, even then, I remained her little butterfly and that has made all the difference.
He looked so smug it was easy to hate him. So I prayed his practice failed him. But ten minutes to the New Year and it seemed like this uninteresting man would win all the luck to himself. So I prayed a different prayer begging the wind to blow out his light but nothing happened.
Have you ever wanted something so terribly that your resolve was to labour endlessly, sunset to sunrise, until that which you want is bequeathed to you by the universe?
Pardon my blandness but I plead that you excuse one more: what was your reward?
But then, I must tell you that there are some moments when there is a certain revelation of beauty in them--- a beauty so intense that it seems almost impossible to take it all in, and however fleeting those moments can be, I think, they are why I remain.
Let me ask you outright, gentle reader, if there have not been hours, indeed whole days and weeks of your life, during which all your usual activities were painfully repugnant, and everything you believed in and valued seemed foolish and worthless?
I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unnerving ease. It begins in your mind, always...
But the thing about courage is that it has to be realised. Courage, unlike most things in our universe, does not just exist; it rarely ever just springs up; rather, there has to be a certain consciousness in the making of it.
My father, he used to say, “…strive to be the best, God knows I would expect nothing less. Never relent because always you will find someone right behind you also striving, waiting to take your place.” Now, this is not bad advice– it is a good one, nevertheless, an incomplete one.
“Attitude is a choice. Happiness is a choice. Optimism is a choice. Kindness is a choice. Giving is a choice. Respect is a choice. Whatever choice you make makes you. Choose wisely.” ― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.” ― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables … Continue reading What We Lose: Mirror On The Wall
Maybe it’s not about having a beautiful day, but about finding beautiful moments.
A poem.
“We are children and we are fighting for our lives...”
