A perfect cadence V - I

Today, much like last night, restricts me with the damned view of hope and success beyond my reach; I have no part of it.


I feel incapable. I’ve sat here for what feels like hours.


It makes me think and forget.


I have to note: water is an element despite its disapproval by science.


Perhaps it is true that it is made up of two-part hydrogen to every oxygen, but it in itself, is elemental.


I think so anyway.


Just like a woman of power and grace is elemental or a tsunami perhaps, yes that seems more reasonable.


Today, burning water takes the place of fire running over my body turning me a fleshy pink. (I never thought I'd compare myself to such a thing, but it's quite like the colour of salmon.)


It’s not unbearable, but it is necessary. It cleanses me in the way a mother sterilizes her progeny’s bottle. I’m not blest with ‘Holy’ waters. Nowhere near. I simply want these thoughts out of me; I want her gone.


Sometimes, truth be told, I think she’s speaks to herself – is this who you are? – (yes, that’s what she said) I wonder, what, no, not who.


It’s just a thought (passing perhaps?); she will be my friend on that day.


The day we found her and mine as simply ‘ours’. Until then, I acquire comfort in both that which transcends beyond my own thoughts and in those petty occurrences that flourish in our lives.


There is so much love (and beauty?) to be found in the overlooked. So much beauty in the way the light falls on the carpet, to the couch, to the wall while the sunsets beyond our grasp and terrible love in a smile of one whom you are meant to belong. Transient thought it may be, there is something to be found.


Life? Maybe.


Are we meant to know?


It is these fleeting moments I believe we wait for, or atleast, I wait for, I can only speak for myself. But these moments are like people. I wonder if they can be trusted. Can we place so much hope in something, only for it to disappear?


It scares me sometimes because although it fills me, I know it’ll only make me all the more vacant if the end reveals that I was fooled by the colorful splendor of some masquerade ball. Though still I suppose, just as everyone else has already said, that this is a risk we must be willing to take for life.


But really, my dear, beauty has an ugly face. I hate it. (Sometimes). It alone is less than a false image; it is the epidermis of a false image and bears no trace of soul.