Revisited Writing: Infinity
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadows_galleryThis is fairly recent, but it seemed fitting.
When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.
*******************************
When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.
*******************************
When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
