It started with her.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
♥ Sunday, September 07, 2008
Her.The gentlelest breeze against her brown sideburns, against a beige-pink surface, behind which a silver globe dangles. She pulls her lips back, and there a slow indentation into her cheeks develops, a phenomenon. And its quiet.Quiet.No words. Just feelings. No words to put to those feelings. Just one that we coined. "Demire". We.
The use of a collective. The collection of memories. The memories that we crafted. The craft that began some time ago. Time.
Forgotten the past, indifferent to the future, September seemed to arrive before August. Time remains that paradoxical mystery that reveals and conceals. Is there beauty in the concealment or the revelation? How will the story go? Story.Mud boy and Water girl, One waiting to be completed, one fears losing oneself. And time, time works as that proverbial double-edged sword: for its through time that Mud boy found Water girl to complete him, and its through that same time that Mud boy will wear away into sand. Time is the lens by which one looks at reality. Time is condensation and evaporation, vaporizing and cystallizing, losing and becoming. Time is looking.Looking.Looking at, or looking through, or looking for; her eyes move from a distant, to me, to the drink, to me and to that distant.Her. The gentlest breeze against her brown sideburns, against a beig...
