I'm exhausted by my slow surrender. Perhaps if I resisted I wouldn't feel this tired. Perhaps if I don't open my eyes I'll be okay. Perhaps she's waiting for me behind my closed eyes, waiting in the illumined corners of a broken heart. Perhaps then I can say those things I neglected to say. Perhaps then I can give her a pelican made of silver...

I surrendered too easily...And now I'm left with one regret...to let her forget me...

Void

I peered over and there was no sign of her. I peered over and I saw a void. I don't know. What now? Panic gripped me. She was gone.

She passed me by.

It's difficult to imagine things will get better. My thoughts are encumbered with idyllic recollections of her, of what might've been, of encounters and nights that never will be.

She passed me by.

I still see, under heavy eyelids sometimes, the prelapsarian moment before her eyes met mine. I still remember that all beauty in the eons before that moment paled to a single instant. I was in the presence of beauty personified. But like all beauty left to the unsure hand of man, it became profane and routine. A dormant mind wanders much like a promiscious eye. And I let this beauty pass me by.

It's too late. It's too late to regret. It's too late to hope for redemption. Sometimes we're condemned without any further recourse. This is my condition now; condemned to be chained to impossible yearnings, condemned to see again and again those lumiscent blue eyes without the slightest hope of ever staring deeply into them.

She passed me by and I'm left in a void.

Thunderous…that’s what silence must sound to the gods…as if some daemonic wolf dressed in white pantomimed a primal cry for help…What if mortal supplications were given without word, without sound? What if their offerings were done without noise or fanfare? What if their prayers had nary a lyric or verse? What if all that lay between man and the sky above was endless pure silence?

Wonder

I wonder sometimes...

how different things could be...
if I was not the plaything...
of time.

I shall be expired one day
And I shall look back
with regretful eyes...

I wonder sometimes...

An image occupies my most intimate thoughts. In the shadow of fading light lies a vast body of water. In this boundless water resides every imaginable colour; they swirl and dance until there exist no distinctions, no possible differentiation between where one begins and another ends.

These deep waters also contains qualities: courage and cowardice, genius and stupidity. Cowardice and stupidity can be found on the surface, stopped by a glance, while genius and courage are in the depths. Dive...dive...dive...get down low into the dark obscured depths...

A rudderless ship wanders the surface...only the diver can know what wonders await in the deep.

===

An object of inward focus. The strength of the human mind resides in this uncanny ability for focus. It is of little consequence that the objects of our focus yield no certainty or absolutes...The matter is one about depth and profound persistence...the diver may never attain the pearls she seek. It is the dive, not its yield, that emboldens her soul.

Waiting...

Waiting…waiting…

Standing in line at the DMV, waiting to renew your license. Standing in line at the box office, waiting for tickets. Standing in line to order lunch at a sandwich shoppe or for a cup of coffee.

Waiting…waiting…

What are we all waiting for? What are YOU waiting for…? CALL NOW!

Oh, we, the impatient. We want it now. We want it now and the way we want it. I don’t want it a minute ago or a minute from now. I want it now.

Waiting…waiting…

All good things come to those who wait. Isn’t that cliché out of step now? All good things do not come to those who wait; it comes to those readily willing to bitch and moan and complain until a more qualified cog comes to address their immense grievances.

Waiting…waiting…

We’re waiting for God—OT? What good comes from complaining? Much profit can be attained since one can extract advantages by endlessly airing grievances. Yet such boons are fleeting, obsolescent things. Good does not come from endless complaints. The good is not, as Thrasymachus implied, that which is good solely for the self. It is more expansive, yet more focused than just profit. It does not appear initially to be desirable or necessarily advantageous. It comes to light as challenge, absence, and perhaps even failure. It does not float unconnected from ephemeral matters, some transcendent shape looming above and beyond the actions of men.

Men shape the good and earn it through their works. It is not given from above nor stolen forevermore by subterranean darkness. It is in our hearts, our minds, and our hands. It is fragile and sensitive. It is enduring and stoic. It takes on the qualities of those who labour for its sake. The good is not achieved by waiting alone. Yet it cannot be earned by those unwilling to wait.