Here, a place to try and make sense of the beautiful mystery. With the hope that this beauty can exist in many forms, and be found in even the darkest of places.
May 31 2025
I was doing some spring cleaning and came across the thought of you.
May 17 2025
The great thing about life is that even when it’s hard, it can only come one day at a time.
May 7 2025
He knew not if he was flawed, but he was broken. The rest remains to be seen. And there he was.
May 2 2025
With patience all of this will make sense.
April 25 2025
The only thing said was the unspoken. And that was enough.
March 31 2025
As with all great love stories, the book has two sides. Picked up the wrong way around, it appears they began reading from the end. A tragedy, maybe, but be patient and keep reading. And don’t miss the middle; it’s the best part.
September 22, 2024
Was it the leaves changing? Or was it he?
There is beauty in the decay.
August 23, 2023
Happiness is not a thing to be attained. It is a byproduct. But of what? Of purpose? Of action? Of satisfaction?
August 22, 2023
As Lucretius says: ‘Thus ever from himself doth each man flee.’ But what does he gain if he does not escape from himself? He ever follows himself and weighs upon himself as his own most burdensome companion. And so we ought to understand that what we struggle with is the fault, not of the places, but of ourselves.
– Seneca
August 21, 2023
If he existed then so could she;
A pessimistic serenity.
August 20, 2023
Sorry, I don’t have much time. Can we just skip to the best part?
August 19, 2023
It began with the soft graze of her fingertip as he passed her the cigarette. Seemingly suspended in mid-air, it floated effortlessly between her two fingers. An angular beauty in the way her elbow and wrist bent just so. Her arm crossed beneath, a hand bracing in what seemed a weightless gesture. With eyes piercing forward, a loose yet precise motion brought the cigarette towards her. Supple lips bring forth a faint orange glow as she takes a drag. The sensual motion of the smoke as it floats delicately from the slightest opening of her mouth. The smooth lines of her jaw angle upwards as she directs the blown smoke so as to not disturb the scene. The wet stain on the cigarette a subtle reminder of where her lips had just been. A hint of crimson lipstick left behind. It was the picture of intimacy. He didn’t understand her, but he understood that.
August 18, 2023
To be proud of the life you have lived,
But what if it’s not the life that could’ve been?
August 10, 2023
He might just have to burn the whole damn thing to the ground. The renovation didn’t change the layout. The same walls remain; the paint hasn’t even dried.
August 5, 2023
It was simple. It was sweetness.
August 3, 2023
Take me home, metronome.
Tick tick tick.
The only constant that he had known.
July 30, 2023
We are the insignificant. Entirely. The tiny and the temporary. And yet we remain the fortunate few. A paradox.
July 29, 2023
Dignity.
July 28, 2023
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
– Dylan Thomas
We must live as he lived. We must forever endeavour to live our life with No Regrets. We must rage. We must rage against the dying of the light.
June 13, 2023
I’m just gonna sit at our favourite place.
No no, don’t hurry. I’m happy to wait.
May 27, 2023
A Beautiful Trap
A beautiful trap, the illusion of freedom.
Encapsulated truths, like submarine and seaman.
The bars leaving emotions exposed, one could certainly see them.
Were you left alone? Bloodied, bruised and beaten?
“Okay, that’s a relief, so it’s not just me then.”
He felt defeated, exposed, like he just couldn’t beat them.
Powerful forces at play, confident and conceited.
As if it was over, finished, as if he had already conceded.
“But that’s not fair! Those scoundrels are cheating!”
Fallen on deaf ears, and yet he continued repeating.
He was stuck in the deep end, or was it the ocean receding?
The shore beholden behind him, twas just the illusion of freedom.
May 26, 2023
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.
– Walt Whitman
May 19, 2023
I don’t doubt you. But I do doubt the world.
Walking through life with stumbling feet, wondering if the past or the future is where I want to be.
May 15, 2023
Can you throw another log on the fire before you go to bed? I’m gonna stay up a little longer.
March 11, 2023
Many a question, with no real answer.
Endlessly spinning, the solitary dancer.
April 22, 2023
Are you the Ying or the Yang? Or something in between? Whatever it is, that squiggly thing.
April 10, 2023
Is it sadness or madness? What if it was because of it, not in spite of it.
February 10, 2023
Life can start at 11:54.
January 29, 2023
He tried to lasso the Moon, just to have something to hold on to.
January 23, 2023
The ever-present encounter with what has become a cumbersome and familiar feeling. If homesick is to require a physical place, is there a homesick of the heart? As if the physical place was to be a space in the mind. Taking up residence in the subconscious, he would like to register a noise complaint. This tenant has become unruly, but rent is being paid on the first of every month. Home is in the title but tear down those four walls and you are left with two eyes, always staring. Blink once, won’t you? Demolish a haunted house, do the ghosts still remain? And once the walls are gone, there is nothing to contain the scent, free to float to every corner. A ghoulish image.
January 21, 2023
Who is more lost? He who wanders, or he who wonders?
January 11, 2023
He was driving away from the mountains. A peak in the rear view, “why aren’t they getting any smaller?”
January 1, 2023
He closed his eyes and another year passed by. It’s now been on his mind for years. He hopes it doesn’t torture him another four years. Ask him how he’s doing and he’s definitely going to lie. “You must be happy to be home,” they ask. Is that what this is?
December 31, 2022
Existing in a perpetual state of anticipation, awaiting a moment to change the course of one’s conscious. Where a path is cleared and made visible, a burning passion within illuminating the view of the future, but stuck in a present of uncertain wanderings. Searching through the murky waters of life in a vain attempt at progress, waiting, not knowing. But waiting for what?
December 17, 2022
A whirlwind, if you will, with the wings of a weathered wanderer, worrying, watching, wishing, for the wondrous wonder of a whisper. To be woken by the wind, nay, tis wearing the weight of the world. Wheezing through a wormhole, a wobbling, wacky, whimsical, wavering sensation. Withdrawing from a wide window, wailing into that wet wasteland. A waffling, wistful wakefulness, wanting for the warmth of wanderlust. By web or by whisker, he wilfully withdraws, worshipping words well worn. Withering, as if whale out of water. What is it to win. To wait? To wonder? Why?
December 12, 2022
Drop the word “deserve” from your vocabulary. Life just is, and we just are.
December 11, 2022
Is it surrender? Was it October or September? He can’t remember. It was a feeling of violence. Brought on with adjectives of intensity, acute, severe and hot blooded fervency. He was left panting, reeling, heart racing. This sudden electricity stoked a kaleidoscope he had as yet thought extinct. On hands and knees he crawled through the smoke, extending a hand into the unknown, blindly searching for structure, certainty.
Can one be held prisoner by a thought? What an enormous sensation, something he knew too well, a memory verbatim. To be released from these shackles he had to say it, however complicated. A feeling he no doubt would have traded, yet November, December, it has no less faded. Can words unlock a cell his own mind created? Maybe he’s just jaded. Can he tell his mind to leave him alone? You know he hates this. Such a bitter feeling, he can still remember how it tasted.
The irony is the silence. This was all to occur in complete silence. An epiphany, a debate, a torment, a decision, a conversation, without a word. But this same agonizing silence, plunging, all encompassing, is all he knows how. To take reprieve, to escape, to heal, is to submerge. Treading water or plummeting to the depths he knows not yet.
December 4, 2022
Thoughtful wanderings in an empty expanse, unknowingly straying from a wearying stance, stumbling through the weeds, this numbingly silent trance.
The burning potential of tomorrow is stifled and smothered by the frost of realities bite, bottle up those dreams young man and bottle them up tight.
Burning from the inside, fussing and fighting with tense muscles trying his soul desperately crying, “this isn’t right!” But alas the light is slowly falling from sight.
The ponds of inspiration drying up in the desolate plains amongst these realms of existence, unable to quench the thirst for discovery.
Life existing through a window frame, unable to determine which side of the glass these eyes appear. The reflection a ghostly outline of existential awareness, making one feel as if they peer into their own soul, staring directly back, unflinchingly.