Tag Archives: age

there, here

Now, we are grown older.
A discarded pair of glasses, eye, shade or costume, is not ours for the trying-on.
We have come to the park not to chase across the grass, nor to examine worlds and kingdoms at trees’ feet, but for still and silent council with colder, quieter elements: rock, restless water, the sun in its jewels and brocade taking survey of its limitless empire.
Here the seconds widen.
A minute is gulf enough to inhabit oneself, small, complete and simple; to locate this unusual, unremarkable corner of space and enjoy, for sixty seconds, the terrifying brook of murmuring time.
In the random span of our living rope, here we might choose to exist, reserved and serene on a gray and stony shore.
In our age there is no madness, neither pain, but only shores of faces, hands and hair and fingers, whose high watermarks make up our passing time.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

m

Young for decades in my time.  Ice-walking, window-staring, blanket-gathering.

Cut for wool across lap and chest.  Watch a world; chatter out a living character.

Tap, murmur.  Draw shades.  Cell closed.

Wear robes.  White hair.  Follow halls, stairs, brandy, flame.  Taxidermies haunt.  Am comfortably old.  Younger all the time. Tired.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

low thoughts

A staggering wind like drunkard heaving presses unwelcome against my mass.

What red infant’s fist unfurls the buds of leaves in the spring, and what bony talon rakes them into a rattling, dry death when the warm breath of fall whistles away into steel winter?

I remember pushing through walls of bodies in crowded streets and at events and during instances of urgent passing.

I am not entirely aware of myself. There are things I know: dimensions and lengths in units that make some rough sense of how I stick out into space. I have an idea of my appearance, and have studied my reflection vainly or with dissatisfaction from day to day.

All of this fails to come entirely to use when I attempt to steer myself sideways and slide, coated and careful and catlike, past an oncomer rushing opposite my direction. I mean no molestation, but there is an error in my awareness and the bulk of my great ship careens, victim to some careless undercurrent. Some belly, limb or ass failed to report its sum to the navigator and now we smush, crash, or sliiiide across the hull of our adversary.

“M’sorry” as I pick up speed, beating a hasty retreat, a practiced and well-worn tactic in escaping a distressing encounter.

I am in years just beyond the blind corner of thirty.

While I do not expect that I will ever die, I admit that an eventual end hangs around the front of my brain more often these days that when I was stumbling break-neck through those foetal days of teen-age and twenties.

Leaves fall with the imperceptible shattering of limbs. Did they know when they were green, or when they fought the sun for golden brilliance? What exhale of a sleepy god tells the leaves that their time has come?

Tagged , , , , ,
Marack Friesach

Ihr Premium-Jungwagen Partner in Österreich.

Death, The Life Story

Tracing a life through stories of death. Sometimes funny, sometimes not.

sevenstarhalo

"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

Seal Matches

Stories & News

unbolt me

the literary asylum

Mugilan Raju

Prime my subconscious, one hint at a time

The Flyleaf Wordsmith

The door leading to blaring madness.