I have never considered it a shame that I do not own a camera that can perceive the world as I do. In the dwindling hours of the last hours of this day. The night had begun and my work has been accomplished. Yet, the day has not been white and pure until now.
The mist has settled over the flats and hills of the rapid cedar. There are is only artificial light refracting over a car lot. I peer over grassy field with the bare branches of trees surrounding a graceful pine, always thriving.
White mist with a natural silhouette makes even an industrious car park look beautiful.
There are those that love and there are those that fight to love. Even as the struggle continues for those who seek to find one another. Those that love fight each other and love each other and look fondly on the years that they poured their hearts on the floor for pitty of their poor spirits. Souls rejoice once together, but individuals clash with pride and grind against another with silly peeves of no critical importance. Every sleeve contains filthy trumps in a losing game where shoes are always ready to trod. Yet, love continues to erroneously exist even of those whose hearts have been chilled by the cold wind of there pride and the landslide of their sould’s loneliness.
To presume that there are those without souls is to mock the poetry of one’s own. A serious man’s soul is in his work. A man with little joy in games joys in the game of his seriousness and the company he believes he has earned.
Yet, when every soul is trapped on a desperate tundra they are all beautiful.
Even the urban soul burns brighter in the company of another and the shrink of the globe only highlights that the need of souls lies not in distance or achievements but in observing one another burn bright and white in a light garnished in mist before oblivion.
I’m glad I won’t be around for oblivion. To be spared the knowledge that there isn’t anyone remaining to remember everyone who was. The gift of creation being none remember the times around creation. It is one thing to feel as if you are the only one, but it would be a travesty to know.
If there where a god. The extraordinary perplexity to be entirely alone in a time where there is no beginning.
Mad men consider why there is matter and insane men consider it to have never existed. The mad consider themselves alone and the universe nothing and lay their heads back onto the place were the universe easily and simply was not. The maddening, all-consuming nothingness that has no observers, by definition.
How does a soul shine in madness? Can it shine dark? Unabashed in sin and honor alike. There is none it considers a threat or love.
Is it anymore mad to seek love? In this material world of trucks, dirt, car parks and cool mists to spend gold to feed our immaterial selves. When all we want is to burn in the night. To burn through the mist until we find each other.