it doesn't make sense to
look at personal ads
for other women,
women who seem like
they'd be better suited
for you, who chose LA
(more) instead of new york
how much you love it
there, just because
they love it there, too
so why do i keep
searching for them,
the women i'm sure
will lead you away
from me, from the
house we're still
considering after so
many years, wondering
if we should move
our bed from this room
to that room,
and wilting in the
dark basement chill;
sometimes i forget
about them, when we've
had a particularly
great stretch, finishing
each other's sentences
and laying out in
some warm sun that
starts melting us a little,
but there's always
a pause that seems long
or a too-brief answer,
your sigh and "it's not
and i'm back to browsing,
searching and sorting
and comparing their
answers to mine, to
yours and planning your
first date, as wistful
and wise as a terminal
illness haunting the
tree in our front yard,
the one you'll kiss her
under after your second
great date, the one
shading your room when
you take her in your
arms after the fifth,
the one i'm climbing
every night while you
sleep, trying to gather
to keep you.(less)
Stardust sat poised in the air around me. It was falling slowly, like glimmering snow that had been frozen in a single moment. I didn't breathe, didn't move for fear of disturbing its orbit.
It wasn't actually stardust, of course; it was just ordinary dust from the apartment(more) furniture that happened to get caught up in the late afternoon sun. It had its own kind of beauty, though. The light was even more beautiful than the particles themselves. It was that liquid amber color that only happens a few minutes a day, before the sun sets but just after the feeling that the day is done.
There's magic in that light. The moments that we spend awash in that light are special. Simultaneously I remember:
... walking through the gothic quarter streets of
Barcelona, when the light matched the color of the old stones.
... stepping out of a late class when I was at university, feeling the fall chill that was already beginning to impose itself at the end of summer.
... camping on a lake, tired from hiking and swimming and rowing, watching the day end slowly.
... and this moment now, as I try in vain to read as my mind wanders from memory to memory.
All of those moments are suspended in that light, like the still particles in the air. They hang impossibly, forever spread apart but still somehow bound together.
I finally breathe and the particles swirl and spiral according to unknowable paths. Already the amber light is fading and the moment is nearly passed. Ordinary moments, ordinary dust. Just dust caught in the light...
... but it is light from a star. Maybe I'm surrounded by stardust, after all.(less)
The most peculiar quality of stardust is that it holds whatever shape you could want. When I was young I enjoyed pressing it into great balls. I’d gather vast tracks of the stuff and push and push until I could push no more. There’d be a flash, a burs(more)t of heat, and my little corner of the universe would be a little brighter.
When I grew bored of giant balls I made smaller ones. These were never quite as bright, but I was still proud of their perfectly rounded curves. I scattered them about the heavens and, I’ll admit, I got quite carried away.
Despite the countless orbs I made there was one that I’ve always held dear, a molten gem perfect in every way. I placed it next to my favorite star and watched as it cooled, first red, then blue, with streaks of green.
But the orb was empty. I populated it with countless shapes. I was a tad inexperienced with the stardust back then, balls and snakes was all I knew how to make, but as I worked the shapes I formed grew in complexity. I was fascinated with size for a time, bigger was easier to work with, but eventually I settled on, what I felt was, the perfect shape.
Two legs, two arms, and a body of middling height. I blessed it with sight and mind so that it might marvel at my splendor, but, much to my dismay, it had eyes only for my creations.
I rest now in hopes one day it’ll turn its eyes towards me. Is that vain? To want to be seen?
Streaked with magnificent bands of stardust, the sky stretched on for miles above them as they lay in the desert sands waiting for the dawn. It was as though they could see time itself laid out before them, measureless by its nature, lasting for longer than the pair would(more) hope to see.
Can you see it too? Can you see beyond yourself into that infinite abyss into the origin of things where even light itself goes to die? Magnificent. Horrifying. Beautiful. In those wan hours before sun's first light the universe itself presented itself in all its grotesque glory. In that stardust lie the hand of God himself. In that stardust lie their very lives that were just so and nothing more. To the edge of the horizon and back again. To the edge of time and beyond.
For moments, mere blinks of an eye in the grand scheme of things, they hoped morning would never come. They lie together hand-in-hand as the first rays of the sun reached over the ridge with its gentle hands, caressing the harsh sands and brush with a universal, loving gaze. That abyss began to turn to the familiar shades of blue they wished to avoid; the shades of blue that confined them, bound them to their measured existence with chains that could break only in the wake of Death himself.
He turned to face her; she smiled that ageless, timeless smile that would shine through in even the darkest moments. Linger just a moment more, savor the memory, and remember the bands of stardust where you lost and found yourself in the same instant. To the horizon and back again, those magnificent bands of stardust.(less)
She took his hands in hers for what she knew was the last time.
He shook with a mixture of rage and sadness. She could scarce bear the look upon his face, but she knew she could take no more. He would reduce her (more)to nothing if she stayed.
His hands wrung around her wrists as he begged her to stay with him and asked her to reconsider. This was neither the first, nor the second, nor even the third time that they had reached this point.
She loosened her hands, dryly looking at him. She wanted to empathize with him and love him; she had invested so much of herself hoping that it would pay off. She had asked him to invest in himself, and he had, but at her expense. She had nothing left to give. She was lain waste.
Looking on him and looking in his glum eyes she saw a slight sparkle that reminded her that he was what she was. He was a person. He was an assortment of experiences, and genetic material, too. Perhaps even more basically, she and he were an assortment of chemicals so uniquely linked and affected to be so haplessly different, and yet so similar.
They were at an end; and what they were had gone out. The light was no more... all that remained were two vessels of stardust. (less)
There is stardust in your eyes. There is only a wild stench and minds clipping into pieces. There are only hearts and blood and pieces of cadavers that cull together to form some being almost human. There is only the worry, the fear. There is only the beauty, the change.(more)
Inside my own mind I often wonder what is occurring. It seems like my life is changing so rapidly and I see a million images a day. I see blood and gore and pain and hope. I see my future children kissing my face, lulling to sleep. I see my soul bore out to the universe like a gashed afterthought. I can't decide is I'm broken or if I'm human.
So instead I live in my thoughts, a raucous cacophony of sound and thought. Pain pulses through me like music. Doubt grows at my limbs like foundation. I sometimes feel barely alive at all. I sometimes feel like a sack of bones awake in the heat, unable to blink or to learn, a wild mistress, a damsel in red.
But mostly, I am in awe. Of myself. Of my world. Of the life and the pain and the struggle and the persistence that exists around me in droves. I write a few words and that is all I can manage...but I know there is so much more inside me.
I daydream of published novels and characters I can love as much as my own children. I daydream of living in a world where my words hold weight and my thoughts penetrate the world around me.
More then bliss, more then anything, I daydream of being significant. I daydream of being brutal and honest and poetic and free. I daydream about words that wind their way over people's souls so sweetly. (less)