Earth's Decay

I watched them wander. Watched them live about their days. They were the wanderers and they wandered. They were the deceased and they were dead. Life held them down. But they did not care to lift it. Sometimes it's not as heavy as you think. So I saw them here again. I know not what to call them. Perhaps you can give a better name. I was never good with names. Too complex. Too much thought put into them. I'll simply call them the wanderers. I know, it's not creative, but I never claimed to be creative and simplicity's a gift. I watched them in the forest where they haunt. Lost in an ocean of trees. They seek a path where there is none. Within they feel the demons call. One for dreams and one for wonder, one for reach and one for slumber. They forever search for what they yearn, for the dreams that fill their heads. But they'll never make it. Because they wait for it to come. For the stars to fall, into the palms of their hands, but they don't. So the w...

I The Universe

Today the dome is white, like the emptiness of a blank page. It reminds me of the gray sky I saw the other day. The day it seemed the world stood still. Today is different. Today the dome is a blank page. A page where the story is told through bits of inspiration that rain down. Each drop is an idea. Together they flood the streets creating rivers of creativity. It's beautiful in a way, but also sad and also angry. For as the drops fall from above the wind roars in rage. Perhaps it can be described as chaos. The chaos of a blank page. The chaos of ideas that rake the mind. The beautiful chaos that rains from above.

What is the job of an artist? I guess to show the things that are in their mind. What is the job of a poet? I guess to say the things that other's can't express. What is the job of a musician? I guess to play the song for which our ears yearn. And what is my job? I don't know. I just speak. And hope that one day this makes sense.

I saw a bird today.

Have you ever thought? Pondered? or Wondered? of the way you hold a pencil? The way your fingers curve around its wooden form. The way it moves as it carves words unto the page. The way your fingers shift as the letters change, as your hands grow weary. Have you ever thought of such a thing? Of how your fingers maneuver the pencil when a mistake has been made. Have you ever thought back to when you first lifted a pencil? When it was foreign to your touch? Have you ever thought of how you hold a spoon? Is it the same as when you hold a pencil? Or a knife? Or a paintbrush? No, perhaps you have not. Not many wonder of such piddling things. Does it truly matter the way a pencil is held? Or how it compares to how a spoon is held? Turn back to what you are writing ignore the trifles of the mind that distract you from your work. And yet. If once in a while. Take the time to notice. Now a person sits pencil in hand. Staring into space. They spun the pencil like the spinning blades of a h...

Here lies the land of the deceased. I look out upon the highways, the roadways, and the railways. Here the dreadful souls make their way. Onward to another day. The torpid haunt these streets. Lost in oblivion. Like a disease. Not a physical one, but a disease of the soul. That sets their eyes upon the past that sets their hopes upon the ground. The dome is but a dome as we live within a case. The sphere is but a sphere hanging up above. The future is nothing but another symptom of life. I can tell you that each one has it. Every single soul I see. A disease. And the symptom is a beating heart, a working mind, a living soul, though sadly I must admit it ends in death. "A solution!" The people cry. Poor souls. But a solution there is. The solution, or rather the treatment is not to survive, but to thrive. Not to simply live but to find joy in living. There are things we did not choose to take up. Things we had no choice but to go through. But it does not matter. Lift y...

In recent days, more than ever, I have begun to wonder what lies in my future. Uncertainty is a wretched thing. I don't like surprises. Mystery yes. But surprises, No. I guess it all depends on how the future is told. Is it told from the lips of the Creator? The one who planted us in the garden and set the dome above our heads? Or is it told from the lips of society? The communities who seek to take the world for their own and rule it with the law both spoken and the ones never said. Or is it told from the lips of history like the fall of dominos, the end a result of the beginning, and all the things of the past? If such a thing is true then is the future predetermined? Can we call the future destined? I guess the thing we truly wish to know is- How much of our lives do we truly control? I can't say I know the answer. But tomorrow is just another word for today just not at the present. I'll walk this road though it's foggy. I'll move along though it's...

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Today. The world. Was. Gray. Why was the world gray? I don't know. I would tell you if I knew. But I don't. It just was. I have learned to accept such things. Sometimes the dome holds all the beauty of a thousand muses. Sometimes it is gray. I often find such days sad. As if the world wishes to hide under a blanket of gray. Alone. More than anything, however, on days like this it feels like the world stands still. Though the Earth forever moves and the days forever pass. Sometimes it feels like the Earth stands still. And so it is on days like this. Under the gray sky, it feels as though a moment lasts forever. Memories call from the back of my mind and I hold each of them. As recollection fills my head, I walk. I think. I watch the world stand still though cars race by and airplanes fly overhead. I always hear the airplanes. Always, when the sky is gray,  While I walk and watch the world seems unable to hold back its sadness any longer. From under its covers, its ...

Boats of white fluff move across the dome. Sometimes! They even move across the sphere. Blocking us of its light. Shielding us from its heat. Such vexatious things. Can't they leave the sphere alone? And leave the dome with its simple blue. Gorgeous simplicity. Yet. I watch these boats of fluff move. And wonder. What if we could travel on such a boat. If we could see the world. Traveling across a boat of sky-fluff. With the heat of a golden sphere on our back. Watching the world spin. Watching our lives go by. They go by so slowly. So, what if we could travel on such a boat? Over the wakeful world. Over the pivoting planet. A boat of sky-fluff at our feet. A ray of gold on our backs. A seed of imagination planted in our minds. As the seed grows I begin to see images on the canvas of the dome. The boats turn to pictures. Streaks of white paint lie on the blue of the sky. There! The elephant floats and there the horse. Here, a dragon moves and there a house beings to show. In m...

A yellow sphere marks the vast blue dome. Have you ever noticed such a sphere? No, don't look, for its power is blinding. Simply know it's there for its shimmering light. For its intense heat on a summer's day. What is the purpose of such a sphere? perhaps it is an ornament to decorate the dome. For it is quite bland, not bad, simply blue. And while I find great joy in such simplicity. There are other more extravagant individuals... One might wonder if it was put there for its light. it is quite dark in the night and the sphere shines so brightly, flooding the world with its glow. Still, it could be there for its heat. To warm the Earth it watches. Under the great big dome. Perhaps this was its purpose. To warm the Earth and keep it in the light. It is quite possible, however, that such a sphere has no purpose. In all the vastness of the blue dome, it is quite doubtful that the one object that marks it has no purpose, but hear me out. Maybe things just exist. With no goa...