Do You Think You Can Tell?

 

Words to listen to while reading my words...Wish You Were Here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6qj09OHvjw 

 

getting ready to accept the riddle of the mountain

my favorite spot back in town after a ride

I usually sit here for a while before heading home

    cautionary note: no editing, as usual, I'm just playing out my stream-of-consciousness randomness...

 

Pink Floyd kinda morning: “I Wish You Were Here”                         15 November, 2026

 

Coffee in bed, sun shining through the silk panels, and I have a front-row seat to the concert—Ras el Ma, my mountains. I watch them wake-up to the sun and think to myself, they can wait today because yesterday their alarm clock woke me up—demanding that we spend the early morning hours together. All the while, I've been listening, on repeat, for about 20 hours, to Pink Floyd. Maybe a few other songs, from other albums, but persevering to mostly play I Wish You Were Here.

High school was such a wonderfully awkward not-knowing-that-life-will-soon-blow-you-away kinda feelings phase of life. Music had a lot to do with it, as it does for every generation, in terms of expressing how life actually unfolds. Music still teaches me lessons, every day. I haven’t traded my heroes for ghosts (lyrics) to the point that I can’t remember the exact time of that trade. It continues today.

Fast-forward to yesterday, in My Mountains, wisdom roared through my body cycling. I felt the pull of the universe telling me to check in with my shit. Another hard lesson landing. It was a lecture, honestly. As I sat there, eating a peanut butter bar and raw cashews, surveying the landscape; I mean, I was really seeking out its beautifully wild guts— to throw some dirt on me. I can’t describe fully, but out of everything else unfolding in those moments, Pink Floyd was part of the answer.

Because last week was the 51^st anniversary of the wreck of the S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald, of course, Gordon Lightfoot’s ballad was (over)played for at least a week. And then, the Stones’ Angie (extended version, of course) or Fleetwood Mac’s extended version of Dreams is always on…Basically, I’ve always loved listening to ballads from rock and rollers. Usually rooted in folk or blues, the tempo of these R&R ballads perfectly matches with time and space for reflection inside your head. Last week was Gordon, this week, it seems, will be all Floyd, and usually it’s the Stones, Tom Petty, and Fleetwood…

Back to high school…

The parties that the university cool cats used to throw, I went to my fair share when I was a senior. The images are vivid: the lights were always low or just lit with tealights, the keg just outside on the back porch with people spilling to and from to re-up, the empty pizza cartons in the messy kitchen, and then there was the music. Being the mid-80s, Pink Floyd was always a viable alternative from the pop music culture. (Although, the 80s were the apex of musical genius in all genres.) Dark Side of the Moon was usually playing, but they always mixed it up with previous albums. So, I used to listen to this song, without really listening, and always liked its cadence.

Growing up, I started to understand how the world worked through music, and then this song suddenly had such intense meaning. I mean, it’s the kind of shit that can bring me to my knees and thank the mountains for bringing this song back into my space yesterday.

As you can sense from my words this morning, they are all over the place, scattered.  That’s what music does to me when I float through that part of my being and want to honor it through words. The mountain, this song, my headspace, yesterday, provoked the thoughts I keep sequestered into the deep recesses of my hard drive…They were flowing out into the wind, like seeds; a cacophony of harmonious discorded breezes of thoughts, images, emotions, wonder flying out from the top of my head and into the sky to dissipate. In my quest to try to catch, hold on to, some of those fleeting energies, I reached for pen and paper, tasking myself to write for a few moments.

So, this song. This fucking song; those vibrations were escaping their cage to search for freedom. I guess I mean to say from all this is that sometimes when you know you are free, you can still cage yourself with that awareness.

And yes, to answer Pink Floyd’s question of ‘do you think you can tell’; Yes, wholeheartedly, I can tell a smile from a veil

An Intellectually Promiscuous Woman

  

An intellectually promiscuous woman,

drifting through ideas, philosophies, textures.

 

A courtesan of the mind, seducing every theory.

Flirting with forbidden dogmas,

letting concepts undress thoughts,

then discarding them.

 

Polyamorous with knowledge.

Collecting concepts like lovers.

Unfaithful to any single truth.

 

Solitude has its own intelligence.

I know a soul, intimately.

 

My relationship with it—devotional.

spoon-feed its truth,

cultivate its wild edges,

worship its resilience.

 

While roaming the halls of the ego,

during those Bewitching Hour moments,

the moon observes the soul entering in and out of corridors,

as hidden chambers recess into the dark,

hidden pathways emerge into the libraries of knowledge. 

Self-possession feels natural,

yet so does union.  

 

The intellectually promiscuous woman does not come to you empty.

So when she meets you, she does not need; she chooses.

 

It desires.

It desires?

It desires! 

 

Or, does the sentence simply remain unfinished, un-punctuated; a run-on sentence or a sentence fragment?

 It desires ______

 

An intellectually promiscuous woman ______ 

2026 Midterms: a night of reckoning (from this time zone)

 It's the kind of night that I just love to stumble into. Actually, the entire day unfolded in this manner, floating through the (very rainy) day with no agenda. The chaos of university midterms has passed and it's full-on 'bring on final exams in 5 weeks' mode. What an intensely unusual year it's been for me- all good, just unusual. I have these images of the year that have been floating through my mind at any given time, and they just make me smile.

Today being the first day of the long holiday, my brain just automatically reset. Eyes wide open and adjusting the kaleidoscope to a higher frequency to carry me on the clouds throughout this week. 

Clouds...My body felt the weather change this morning, so autumn has finally arrived.  Sometime during the Bewitching Hour it started raining with the wind blowing through the panels. I'm still unwilling to close the French doors...either at night or during the day. I've spent a lifetime nearly watching these panels blow with the wind; they are a part of me that I cherish, or perhaps even guard. Stories drip down to the ground from them; different countries, different smells, different breezes, different relationships. I wonder where I'll hang them in Portugal. 

The rain came down for hours today. That mood; my being filling with anticipation and curiosity for the weather change. I had started noticing the subtle nuances the past few days; chillier mornings, taking longer to get out of bed, crazy-beautiful sunrise colors, etc. 

This is all leading up to how I was already choosing how to spend my evening tonight—watching all the midterm pundits talking from my favorite podcasts and YouTube channels: Breaking Points, The Young Turks, The Majority Report, and my absolute favorites saved for last: Pod Save America and The Bulwark. I also threw in Steve Kornacki because he does such an awesome job analyzing results live all night long (Sarah turned me onto him while living in Istanbul). She was right. 

There was a small window of opportunity in the early afternoon to hop on my bike to get supplies before it would start raining again. It felt strange to put on so many protective layers, but sure enough, as soon as I started off, I was so glad I didn't listen to the part of myself that was whispering 'fuck it, it's not cold yet.' 

I was mainly motivated by the need to secure some meat. Every few weeks I just crave meat, and today was the day my body begged for an overdose of protein.  I also wanted to get in a workout, and in rainy weather going downtown to get supplies counts as a workout. 

Okay, it's 12:30 am and all the shows are live now, so I'm signing off. But, before I go, there is another sensation I've been feeling all night: so many friends around the globe are also doing the same thing I'm doing right now. Obviously a lot of friends back in the U.S. are monitoring closely today, but I've also reconnected with friends in Turkey, China, France, the Middle East, NZ, Portugal, etc. 

There is something about the ritual of re-connection. I realize I can go for a year at times without communicating with a friend and then all of the sudden just fall right back into rhythm with them like it was only yesterday.  

Here comes the rain again and with it, a low ground fog. What a surreal scene I catch glimpses of, as my silk panels sway with the wind. 

And the main point, I think, struck me hard this afternoon; I've been away from 'home' for nearly two decades, but continuing to follow news and watching this election go down... it's monumental. 

Oh wow,  Breaking Points just put up the Georgia map, and John Ossoff is slaying. My prediction: 2028 John Ossoff for president. 

 

side note: I'm not dealing with proof-reading this... I still have scars from midterm grading... As is obvious, my thoughts are all over the place tonight, and it's okay. 

 

night-vision

  

Biking home in the dark, my adrenaline peaking, heart rate steadying, night vision locking in—I’m inside that hyper-focused trance that I cultivate, crave, worship.

Everything makes sense deep within the chaotic tranquility of the Bewitching Hour.

 In darkness, things can’t be seen, so I rely on what I ‘feel’. I’ve been gazing into the abyss for hours, not asking questions but feeling answers in silence while better understanding who I am.

The incessant chatter of the physical world muted, I flourish inside my nocturnal garden where boundaries blur in this quiet ether. Inside the Bewitching Hour, there isn’t any need to translate myself for others.

 If you are next to me inside the Bewitching Hour, then you already understand the beautiful pieces that we are.

The cool crisp darkness settles into my bones, warming me up:

a paradox only the night can justify.

Peace is a cold brilliant flame.

The abyss that is out there, it isn’t empty. Filled with unedited dreams, raw truths, and quiet magic, it’s a temple to retreat into where inhibitions have no place.

As the sun suddenly appears on the eastern horizon,

I comprehend that the abyss is inside me, always.

Hounds of Hades: mythic vs mundane

  

The Outrunner

 

The hum of tires, a clean line of speed,
until a single solitary hunter, his hunter, lunges
testing the rush of spinning spokes.
A clinical response, a sheer calculated use of momentum:
right leg extending—a sharp, certain blade of geometry,
knowing exactly the result.
An impact, a yelp, a fierce maintenance of balance.
A clean getaway into the setting sun,
leaving the shadow behind.

 

The Territorial

 

Another day, another path—the quiet multiplies by three.
A walking pace, a heavy heave from within,
shattered as his hounds close in—homeless, raw, owning the dirt.
Then the sensory shock:

snarls, flashes of teeth, hot breath claiming skin—

the absolute exposure of flesh against his hounds.
Terror does not stay on the trail; it follows, breaking the body, the will.
Two kilometers left of day-mare, sinking into hot scorched earth;
muscles unlearning how to flee.
Salt streams depositing upon salt.
And the final five kilometers: legs buckling, hills persisting,
forcing pedals through a blur of haze,
cycling, raging while carrying the weight of wilderness home.

 

The Unleashing

 

A pulse slows.
The echo remains:
What unwritten sin was committed to endure such?
Why, hounds of Hades, were you unleashed?
The underworld does not wait below;
it surfaces in the dirt,
leaving its teeth marks on thy flesh.

 

The Residue

 

The salt of his hounds clings stubbornly to the skin, refusing to be easily wiped away.

First ‘earned’ weekend (1st week back at work) here in the Maghreb

 

 "I get knocked down, but I get up again"; the theme of returning and this week- mostly to do with coming home to an apartment still under renovations and unlivable...But, I survived!

 

Another theme of the week: no satisfaction! Music kept me from losing my shit all week, and with this came plenty of satisfaction.

   

Only a week ago have I discovered that my wooden shutters in the bedroom really DO keep most all light out when you close them. I am slow to the game of life much of the time. So, the past week I’ve been closing them, but there is a catch-22 in all this, which must be why I’ve been resisting all this time, and I think my experiment in darkness is over.

 

I’ve been waking up at 8 am all week, and there are no complaints, really, but as much of the week was still vacation time, I’ve been lounging around in the mornings and not getting started with my day until just before noon. Next, if I close the shutters, the breeze is severely limited as well as just watching the night sky, the moon, the mountain backdrop and listening to the wind.

 

To recap the week, when I arrived back, my apartment was a disaster and the workers who were supposed to ‘renovate’ it in July still weren’t finished at the end of August. I walked into it at 2 am and all my furniture & cabinet foodstuffs were still in the middle of the main room with plastic tarping over, there was still paint buckets everywhere, no water (the water main was turned off), the gas hook-up wasn’t fixed so no cooking, the workers drank all my water in the fridge., etc. And…it was a huge holiday weekend & into earlier this week as well, so no one was going to come and fix stuff—or so I thought. My guy did in fact get ahold of the workmen, and they did come back to fix the issues, but they weren’t fixed completely: I had water, but no hot water, they put the faucet on, but there was a severe leak and the plumbing below the cabinet was getting flooded, they didn’t drill the holes in cabinets to put gas canister in, blab blah blah. They came back, again, yesterday and ‘fixed’ stuff (hot water working now), but when I walked into my apartment after work, there were 5 guys fixing things (yay!), but I was cautious… I immediately left and went cycling. When I returned, 3 hours later, I came back to an empty apartment, but the kitchen faucet was running- full stream… How does someone forget to turn off the faucet?  In the end, all is fixed (I think), so I should just be happy with that and celebrate.

 

This morning is still with no breeze. It’s not even 10:00, and it’s blazing hot. The atmosphere is heating up again here in the mid-Atlas this week. I’m in fact going to celebrate my triumphs this week and head out into the deep forest and let my spirit run amuck.The best thing, I don't have to prep anything as I prepped it all last night! 

 

Woohoo

 

Oh, and returning to work wasn't so bad!  

 

Arrogance of the Intellect

 

 

It takes time for the body to catch up

to what the mind has already analyzed.

Then there is the heart:

where is the heart in this?

 

Left out of the equation—an unnecessary variable.

A stone fortress pulsating with confidence,

or a prison of compartmentalization?

 

The variable seeking for a way to break through cracks.

 

A heart seeps up through a miscalculation,

rewriting the formula with its subterranean fluid.

Stones being porous,

the echo can’t contain itself any longer.

 

Somewhere a fortress is crumbling

 

 

NOTE: I wrote this while (re)watching Scarface this afternoon... I tend to shed tears watching a lot of movie genres—including comedy—but I didn't think it was possible to shed so many with Scarface! What an intense movie. It's probably been 20 years since I watched it last.

 

My Stevie Nicks Summer 2026

 

 

Pedro Ferreira

 

Tonight, as I stepped outside of the doors of Casa da Música, I felt a cold chill in Porto's night air. A telltale heart sign that summer is coming to a close. I was glad to be wearing jeans and have a jacket. I wasn't in the mood to hop on the subway just yet, so I hung around outside the venue for a bit, put on my earbuds, put Fleetwood Mac on full volume, and started walking. 

Soon enough, walking turned into dancing and just grooving to my own beat coveting freedom right now, and it feels sublime.  Some people walking behind me struck up a conversation with me, asking me what I was listening to, so I turned them on to the greatness of the band. We all parted ways a few blocks away, but it was a sweet encounter. I had a little smoke and continued on my way— not really knowing which way it was I was headed, and it didn't seem to matter. My only commitment was to get to a metro station before 01:00 am, so I continued walking and picked up the pace.

Once again, I wanted to get lost in the city and enjoy some music. A memory of a song I haven't heard in decades came to mind, "Hot Child in the City" (oh the late 70ss were a dream for music).  Ear buds in and full blast. I walked past a blinking neon Super Bok light and cafe tables spilling out on the sidewalk. Why not. I'm in Super Bok territory now, so it seemed a befitting sendoff. 

I made it back to my destination thinking I'd be tired, but no. Although late, the common area is bustling with foreign and familiar tongues. The solitary crew have their laptops. It inspired me to break mine out, so here I am pounding away at the keyboard with another Super Bok, and the music is flowing. 

I can't wipe the smile off of my face. It's been such a cathartic summer: beaches, mountains, villages, cities, friends, solo adventures, yoga studios, book stores...  My mind is clear, and midnight is just a number. 

I have a renewed faith in words, and I want this night to last forever. A ridiculous statement, but still...it's coming from the heart, and truth is hemorrhaging out. I'm usually so wrapped up in the physical and mental-ness of life, so listening to my heart beat is awakening something. I'll stick around and see what materializes. 

The night is like a river, beginning to flow ("Time Passages" by Al Stewart).  Now the words are flowing from my head down through my arms to my fingertips and onto my screen. It's closing in on 1:30 am and reality starts to seep through. It's a long day of travel coming  just to hop across the Atlantic intersection of Portugal and Morocco. 

As I try to convince my body, mind, and heart that the night is changing form and that it's time to get some sleep, I realize that my cup is full, and that this feeling will return again when I wake up and play itself out on repeat. My heart and fingertips have said all they need to right now. The ensuing silence will be incredibly earned. 

And now Bob Dylan is singing about being a rolling stone. How does it feel?  It feels like my last night in Portugal— heavy with the ending but light with the knowledge that I lived every single second of it. 

My Stevie Nicks Summer 2026 of wild freedom is complete.

 My apologies for not re-reading and editing... Actually, no. I'm not apologizing.  

 

 

Today is a Day Filled with Melancholia:17 May.2026

 

 

 

Yesterday (Sunday) I pulled a Plan B, rather unexpectedly, in the middle of a train ride. It’s strange how one phone call can affect me…I thought about the experience on my ride back to my home-base this evening. Melancholia filled my airwaves becoming louder and louder with each passing kilometer. Finally back at HQ, I feel purged yet full of static electricity at the same time. In the ensuing hours, I realize that sometimes words are needed to replace silence. Silence can occasionally be so deafening- the cacophony of discord.

 

I decided on my ride today that I am ready to go back to Morocco, to work. I am ready to fill the spaces of silence I usually so desire with work. It is a melancholic day indeed. I intended on arriving back to Ílhavo much earlier, but the lure of the ocean… I cannot deny myself this pleasure— as with most pleasures.

 

Speaking of work, today I’ve been in contact with so many departing friends leaving Morocco for greener pastures— well, maybe not greener in environment, but greener in monetary denomination…We are all lamenting in some way and culminating on this collision course of collective consciousness. There is such sorrow in my heart right now, but with it comes beauty that we are all expanding our horizons. It feels strange because I am left behind. I remain in Morocco. I’m usually the one departing, and I cannot help but brace myself for the eventual shock upon returning.  

 

So I keep writing, so I keep emotions tamped down, somewhat. I’ll be leaving Portugal in a few days. There is so much to say, still, but it can wait. I was telling a friend today that, overall, it’s been a super sweet summer. The past few summers I’ve been consumed with trying to find a region to put down roots in, and I’ve been coming up empty— for over ten years…

 

The Serra left me in such a reflective mood. So much time cycling and thinking about everything and nothing simultaneously during steep ascensions, downhill runs, and a lot of rolling hills. All my senses were overstimulated; I had this consciousness of peace during the occasional faint breezes caressing my skin, the smells of the sweet grasses swaying on the side of the roads, taking in the beauty of the landscape, enjoying the taste of roadside fruit ripe ready for the picking- especially apples, pears, and passion-fruit, the sound of the cicadas in the heat of the day, the river flowing- always, the birds, the static of the air…

 

Parallel to this were thoughts floating in and out regarding the universe, life in general, and my life in particular regarding writing (as I would edit works in my head during the ride), work (thinking of a random lesson plan and if I should stop for a bit to write it down- I generally didn’t), family, friends, lovers, Morocco, Portugal, Hawaii, music (favorite band of all time: Rolling Stones or Fleetwood Mac), politics, etc.

 

And then, competing for attention were more immediate needs:

·      where will I camp?

·      am I hungry?

·      do I have enough water? sodium?

·      is Bigfoot real?

·      what was that sound?

·      why are my muscles cramping in the middle of the night?

·      please don’t rain!

 

All these things set the pace as I meandered alongside the Mondego, the Alva, the Ceira. Occasionally I’d see other cyclists and we’d do the unspoken greetings to one another or stop to share some stories from the road; this happened quite frequently, actually.

 

The heat… nearly unbearable at times. At other times, welcoming. Akin to a purification ritual, I am fully cleansed by the end of this odyssey… I am a blank slate. I return to the sea immediately. Unexpectedly. Pleasantly…

 

Poseidon can be very cheeky in that way.

 

I’ve exhausted my capacity to string together words, so the pictures will finish off the odyssey. I didn't take a lot of pictures as it seemed excessive almost- to try to convey what I was experiencing.

 

 

 

 

Internal Cartographer Series:17.May.2026

 

NOTE: For this, I had many problems in figuring out who was the narrator. I settled on 2 narrators: The map speaking about herself and the cartographer thinking to himself- as narrated by her.  I don’t know any other way to handle these two things. So, there is a psychological duet between them yet unbeknownst to them- perhaps. They are together in the same room but isolated in thoughts and dimensions.

 

I originally wrote this in May, back in Morocco, but I added to it and edited it here in Portugal. It's still a work in progress, I think.

 

The Environment

 

Alone in his workspace,

My cartographer—

Shadows illuminated

by a candle.

Slowly unrolling delicate parchment

documenting HIStory…of HERstory.

His index finger traces the _vellum—

Textured memory

of her undulating landscape.

He locks down its edges

with padded weights.

 

Pouring the ink, uncapping the quill, he is ready to record

the estuarine slope of her collarbone,

the hollow of her throat’s valley,

the soft foothills of her breasts,

the river of her pulse.

 

Moving the protractor southwards,

you pause and take in a deep breath before returning your focus:

the canyon of her spine,

the hidden cave of her navel,

the sand dunes of her hips,

the delta of her thighs.                                              

                                   

My cartographer,

eyes strained.                                                             

Every contour of mine is etched in lambent memory,

following my topography,

lingering at a specific path—

a specific memory.

Fingers stained

with my indelible ink.                                               

 

A breeze rushes in,

candle flickers,

wax melts.

 

Salt air

rising up from the sea,

Scented with amber and moss.

Quietude washes over.

Silence prevails through a cacophony of absolute isolation.

Vast distances separate

my cartographer

from my domain.

 

The Metric                                             

 

Admiring last evening’s work,

he studies the scale bar: a ratio of 1:10,000

An annoying reminder

of rigid physical distances

between his drafting table                 

and where I sleep, dream, exist.

 

Reaching for his contour pen,                                                

he triangulates to a desert of blank parchment.

Pinpointing where my pulse beats,

he sets to work

carving fissured valleys of silence,

plotting the geography of his loneliness—

moonlight miles away from my coordinates.            

 

The Awakening                             

 

My cartographer stills.                                   

Whispers?

A voice inside his map,                                  

his creation,

softly inquires:                                              

 

“Who surveys my terrain?                             

Who dares to measure my peaks, my valleys, my coastlines, my boundaries

etching into memory every contour                          

with absolute patience and focus?                

Will some other navigator take possession   

of that which is not his to explore?”             

 

The thrill and the fear                                    

of the unexplored edges,

stepping into uncharted territory—

MY territory.

Beware…

Are your intentions of pure reverence,          

or conquest?

 

I am your Frankenstein.                  

Your map comes alive.

I challenge your intentions,

my cartographer.

 

 

 

 

The Most Exquisite Flower/Vine: Morning Glory: "Pā'ū-o-Hi'iaka"

 

 

How is it possible that nature births this color? 

In Hawaii, there is a story about Pele and Hi`iaka. Pele is the volcano goddess, and Hi`iaka is her younger sister. Pā'ū-o-Hi'iaka translates as 'Hi`iaka's skirt' (in Hawaiian), which was composed of these exquisite morning glories. 

As the mo`olelo (story) goes, Pele was at the beach with her friends and had taken her younger sister, Hi`iaka, along. Pele wanted to surf and fish with her friends and stayed away from the shoreline for a very long time. The morning glory vine saw Hi`iaka was in danger of becoming sunburned, so it wrapped Hi`iaka up with its flowers and leaves so she wouldn't get sunburned on the hot beach. When Pele returned, she saw the vine where Hi`iaka had previously been placed. She thanked the plant & so named it Pā'ū-o-Hi'iaka.

During my cycling odyssey as I meandered along with the Rio Mondego, I kept seeing Pā'ū-o-Hi'iaka, and it just really made me smile. I just don't understand how something so exquisite and delicate can be birthed. It's rare to see something so naturally occurring as this blue-violet hue- even in nature. It shocks me to my very core as I gaze at them. It is enough to produce tears.

There is such a strong connection between the Hawaiian Islands and Portugal, and now I'm weaving my own connection into the mix. I'm somewhere in the middle, straddling both, trying to find my way inside. 

 

 

The Paradox of a Sublime Aberration

 

 

The Paradox of a Sublime Aberration

 pondering  

inconvenient dualities

From afar, I see them forming on the horizon                       

of the sunset of my mind.

Blurry silhouettes, still undecipherable,

marching, as if soldiers headed into battle,

determined for victory.

 

As if victory could be declared

from two words so dissonant as ‘sublime’ and ‘aberration’—

now reduced to an inconvenience of duality.

Hoisting up a ragged white flag,

receding into nourishing silence, I guard the unsaid

 to shelter what is wild.

 

Syllables condense into sounds,

forcing words to encroach

upon the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

That landscape, once pristine,

until words shattered silence,

forcing lines of communication—

an exchange necessitating blurriness.

 

I hold my breath, refusing to give life

to these harsh sounds

that fail to articulate stories of silence—

the prism where wildness prevails

on the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

 

Yet like any occupying force,

reinforcements rush to the front lines,

armed with a vocabulary of deceit.

Victory is usually hollow;

I want some leviathan to swallow those words

that besiege me on this fading horizon,

 the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

 

I want to sequester myself into the deep recesses of silence,

where words cannot leave imprints of doubt,

where words cannot sow seeds of deception

in a garden plundered by soldiers of fortune—

looters seeking battlefield trinkets

to carry back home

behind their own guarded walls.

 

I am no battlefield.

I am no prisoner of war.

So I return each day to the shoreline

at the horizon of the sunset of my mind

searching for silence without borders

to wash over me.

 

At times I’m distracted by beautiful seashells left scattered by Poseidon—

a language written without sound,

syllables shaped by the tides

rather than the friction of human breath,

rather than the clumsiness of human hands. 

 

I want to learn this alphabet of stillness that sparks joy,

reclaiming that space where words, those alluring occupiers,

attractive yet destructive in the same breath,

have penetrated the front lines,

infiltrating the intricately woven fortress

I so carefully nourished to life.

 

Silence returns, yet words persist:

challenging echoes

that sublime aberrations exist.

How I view myself in silence

versus how I am defined by language

is indeed an inconvenient paradox,

an inevitable collision.

 

fire + earth = friction.

Words dissolve into salt that earth reclaims.

Fire dissolves into smoke that silence reclaims.