October 29, 2009

Patience for frigid philosophy

It rubs on ice they say-the perfect contours of the sea as it flows in the dark depths of the cold frigid poles from a certain reality.
If the waking thoughts of the know-it-all have not yet believed in such possibilities, then too bad. But one thing must be sure, there are such places as these - the poles that are frigid with reality.

In the sun the fun never ends.
We have friends, beer, and barbecued meat to sauce up our tales.
In the frigid poles the water never melts, the food is good but could be several days stale.
And the sky?
The sky is menacingly calm and blue with only a distant cloud shrouded only by you.

Beyond the fairy tale theaters of the little children games, the minions of these invisible emperors have safely made their way to the bustling city of New York.
Liberty waved a thread of unbleached flames as they torched up a caustic sky.
Our dreams have melted here.
Our present moments have suffered at the foot of this growth.
In these cities we have escaped from that which we could never recognize.
Beyond the walls, windows, and doors, we have encapsulated ourselves to be free.

Free from what?

Shades of black and blue danced on the pavement.
A strong wind pushed through the roof.
The coffee seemed to come alive with spiral clusters of cream and sugar.
The sun seemed further from where it was before.
The lonesome wolf just stared at the shore.
For hours, he just stared at the shore.

Imagine the lonely existence of an Eskimo philosopher, hanging out alone at the periphery of his fears.
Imagine the things he would have said if he had a friend to speak to.
"Who are these thoughts for then?"

Below a vastly changing landscape the newborn fishes swam in glee.
It was after all just a few months before summer would peek in to see.
The view was embellished by the shy conjectures that ran through his mind's eye.
It was some sort of a flashback mirage.

Losing touch of the sight may make one blind, but touching the slight gravity of long gone feathers and sheets can barely justify these aching, fleeting pangs of pain.
Why don't we all smile then?
For now, why don't we avoid the avoidance of pain, and just be?
Why don't we start now, and never finish?