Floating plushie

(...)Adapting the coloured trend to every style sandwiched between flash-like memories, polaroid meteors on the visual map and rhythms, green themselves, and the sunsets as real as a drop of water dripping off the coat of a human being returning home after riding the rain, for the rain.Tangible pauses, sandwiched between action and no-actionNo prediction will ever tell you what is to come.You open a jar, using the knife with the fine edgeYou feel the ceramics of a gold plated Japanese cup, so light, the whole cup, with empty or full content, made as if light had spread the mud under its weight, making it almost imponderable - the repeatable, repeated muddy mess is what gives the weight its lightness.Bundles of good fortune curating existence.No one can really tell foundations lie solely on this sort of messy, repeating encounters turned into patterns.(...)Photo: Personal Archive

Women are even more beautiful as they agebecause on their faces and bodies, butespecially in their hearts, all the flowers of the worldare pressed into...aging.

I was moving through time as if I didn't existWhile space reminded me of the record I amGrabbing me tightly, dancing me backwardsInto lights and darksPhoto: https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/flat-design-fairy-silhouette-illustration_28451739.htm#fromView=search&page=1&position=47&uuid=2958f8cf-f8f2-40b0-9660-8ce83857f9e8&query=Human+free

For all the people who are on the night train alone thinking about the beauty of the world - lonesome reflectionFor all the flowers that bloom after long wintersFor all the unsung heroes who were once villainsFor all the mistiest of souls who were once lost but now foundFor all the bloodshot nights and days that go untouched by loveFor all the cowards that will brave the fearFor all the boys and girls without a father figure, and a mom'sFor all those addicted to those betraying kinds of love and beauty and who don't yield in to anymoreFor all the momentum poets understand and loseFor all those people who will find love and for those who won'tFor all those that struggle with forgiveness and want to steer clear of hurtFor all those that fail to creep into the cosiest of don'ts and do'sFor all those that risk their lives to gain eternityFor the eternal, sacred time component orbiting around historical timeFor all the love left untouched, spread on the crumbs of humanity and the failure of a promiseFor all those unspread layers of niceties that hold true to a direct approachFor all the dappled sunlight that shines through trees in late afternoons while squirrels are playing and woodpeckers are hammering onFor all those slow trains that travel through the gorge through tunnels carved in stone, sort of time tunnels stuck as in a time capsule revealing bits of wonders - leaves and berries you could touch out of the train windowsTo your soul window that opens into other shut windows, soul windows, and does not care to shut but stays openFor the small towns, seemingly innocent and pure, when no soul is there to be seen in the early hours of the morning. Then, as the day is progressing, the town would eat away at its light while the dark would still dig the light out - rocks of the solid foundationPhoto: Personal Archive

I was asked if I missed or healed from missing my momFirst of all, she is not dead in the sense most of us understand deathSecond of all, you cannot escape the most human example of being a human:miss, love, miss, miss love - to the extent of not coming across it.It's very human to be able to miss the one person that gave you life and light and love and would love unconditionally, the best she could in the ways she knew.I feel I have not yet consumed the bereavementor allowed myself to fall into the sentimentality of it allI have been too busy taking overI gave the only possible answer at that time:'I'm filled with so many voids that I don't feel any, or anything'I felt once again the loneliness of not having the right people next to meI felt sick and tired of people complaining of their fearful and unimaginative ways of livingthat sometimes reflected mineI felt emptied of love and sense and purpose, maybe because of myself spreading too thinon the people that did not reciprocateor were just uncapable of love and lovingIt's not about you I've kept telling myselfMake it about others - the love, not the lack of itHowever, I could but turn to myself when I had given myself too many times to the wrong people and almost never had the right ones who would stay, just stay and be a part of my lifeI didn't want to use metaphors for this -After all, it's a confessionof someone, apparently, selfish, thinking too much of herself, and way too often these daysPhoto: Personal archiveNote: The sound of the river is real, and, hopefully not disturbing

(...) in a beguiling sentiment that,as part of the lifecloth,in the most inhumanelyhumane way, almost undivinely divine,it is worth understanding: when lifeleaves the body, the prominent feelingis not of absence but of presence

Light green replaced by dark green after a few steps in time Moses has taken.His return - she following suit, in his footsteps, going a little further, with confidence - the lightness in the younger age would give, in the wonders, in the makings.'Miss, do you miss...it?''The more you give, the less you take''Should this be a fair deal?''Cast-waiting as in cast-shadow'For years, not light at all, she's been questioning the 'take', whether anything, anything at all, will be hers, whether she's been foot-stepping, or step-footing life on her ownterms,terms;terms:whether her take on it would be the 'take' or just the 'give'.'Some will never have a fair deal, just a fair share of...''Never say never'Her return - moving forward, keep moving forward; receive, not take; give, not m...possess.Photo: Freepik

The lambs are dancingwhile rolling rocks on the shoulders of the hillsThey are singingwhilespitting salt on the bottom of the sea(...)they are dancing and in this dance there's us... ...... ..... . ... ... ..... ... .... .... ... ..................singingLiam Read's Photo on Unsplashhttps://unsplash.com/@liamread

HUMAN CONDITIONThey call it a heart. I call it the lack of it.(...)Your baby's hair grows. short Of ages of desire, Of the beat of innocence, of the last touch of candour.It grows.(...)Photo: freepik.com