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i died tonight — 8 july 2003 some direction — 21 march 2001 root of all knowledge — 8 february 2001 an angel — 12 september 2000 in the country — 6 september 2000 untitled — april 2000 thoughts at lunch — february 2000 another failed love poem — late 1999 what do i think of reality? — february 1999 winter — november 1998 |
WINTER -- NOVEMBER 1998 The gray sky pounded isolation into his mind. Rumors on the wind lit on his thoughts. The dim sky created an air of fantasia--the clouds, so beautiful. Branches, robbed of their leaves, their only life-giving love, were bare with breath only of the frigid winter day. Something, out of the corner of his eye, he saw, so very small and delicate and lost among unfamiliar surroundings; was it? By chance there was a single leaf left, among its wary brethren no more, stranded upon a tiny, very helpless and seemingly meaningless twig. Holding on by nothing more than its single stem, the one leaf clung to life without thought or reason. Insignificant as it may have been, against the dark sky it was the most amazing contrast! The oranges and the yellows, and oh, the reds; the--no! Please, no, anything but.. Its hold was lost. Beginning to flutter to the ground, it turned on its side, and then upside-down. The leaf caught his eye. As if it were now but inches from his face, he saw every detail. The five points, the tiny veins, the minute crevices, the infinite shades painted with infinite care.. Such importance at this moment did the leaf take on. His entire consciousness was focused on this single piece of a season forgotten. Motion of the world slowed, the lyrical words fell through his mind: anything but the truth you give, everything that you want to live. In a flash, the leaves were again covering the ground. A gentle, cool breeze began to stroll down the sidewalk, autumn leaves following in suit. The rough concrete and the smooth color met with a soft rustling and tempered fragrance that were wonderfully comforting to the senses. Walking casually down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, he allowed the grief of life to slide away with the wind. A silent shower began around him, and the words continued: my falling tears again are hidden in the falling rain. There was something so precious, so sacred about days like that one. An almost untouchable perfection that could not be done justice with mere words. The kind of day that, without any effort, you may unwillingly misplace your thoughts as you breathe in the crisp air. A melancholy mood settled upon him, as the music drew him further into the past. As music can sometimes do, it told rather mythical stories of times bygone. Still, something kept him from touching the memory that the song held. He remembered a dull, cool morning, and walking that day under an almost-rain sky. He could not remember, however, anything of meaning. Where he had been, where he was, or where he was going. All he knew was the same melancholy air, the same emptiness and the same absent thoughts. With another gust of wind, it was gone. The leaf had fallen, that single remaining sign of autumn. He found himself on the ground, tears rolling down his face. And it continued: nothing that you really are, you're nothing that you want by far. |
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