Sunless
New member
- Joined
- Nov 21, 2009
- Messages
- 46
- MBTI Type
- INxx
12/03/09
SILENCE IS SEXY
In every written paragraph lies not one (1) but a universe (x) of stories. There is, of course, the story told in words, with its commas (,) its periods (.) its vowels (aeiou, a kidney) and consonants intertwined. But there are other stories written in different types. Stories kept from us that convive with the first in complete silence. There is the story of the author (in this case: me), his mourning paper (crimes through the roof), his toothbrush (purple and old), his desk, a couple of words exchanged during breakfast with his/her probable spouse about cereal options and grocery lists, the idea for a story (this story) to be written hours later in between quick peeks at the landscape in the window. There are the stories of the objects: the pen, the paper, the lead or tint (their origins traceable back to ancient China), There is the episode at the publishers with the editor who finally gave green light, and even the story of you, dear reader, and the improbable chain of happenstance that lead you to this very page at hand.
+ They all take a step back and let words have their say.They are all carefully tucked behind the coquetry of their signs. But perhaps the most important and best hidden of all secret stories has always been kept right in front of our eyes. It is the secret story that knits itself in the spaces that linger between one word and the next. They too tell a story. The secret poetry of silence. Of the self contained gasp, of the turn you never expect. Spaces in paragraphs trace patterns that speak to our breath and our heart in silent tongue. Is there a way to tell them the secrets i dare not tell your ears and could you recognize them inside you every time your heart skips a beat?
The man to read them is a prophet that has not been born yet, but I know him like I know a prayer even if the words escape me.
02/27/10
Dark secrets look for light
If I am reborn I will come back as the other: the early bird, the elder sister, the better half. It will be me when the days break calling out your name and if the victory horns howl, I will not be shrieking, but blowing instead. It will be me in every pier blowing candles and sails, and when the captain misses his widow I will haunt you. I will become a spectre, a presence, a white mist. I will be widow and wife, shark and prey, prey and prayer. I will be everything under the sun and then more, and from there I will look back at this place, the place I am in, the things I am now, and I will also hope to fill in that blank.
SILENCE IS SEXY
In every written paragraph lies not one (1) but a universe (x) of stories. There is, of course, the story told in words, with its commas (,) its periods (.) its vowels (aeiou, a kidney) and consonants intertwined. But there are other stories written in different types. Stories kept from us that convive with the first in complete silence. There is the story of the author (in this case: me), his mourning paper (crimes through the roof), his toothbrush (purple and old), his desk, a couple of words exchanged during breakfast with his/her probable spouse about cereal options and grocery lists, the idea for a story (this story) to be written hours later in between quick peeks at the landscape in the window. There are the stories of the objects: the pen, the paper, the lead or tint (their origins traceable back to ancient China), There is the episode at the publishers with the editor who finally gave green light, and even the story of you, dear reader, and the improbable chain of happenstance that lead you to this very page at hand.
+ They all take a step back and let words have their say.They are all carefully tucked behind the coquetry of their signs. But perhaps the most important and best hidden of all secret stories has always been kept right in front of our eyes. It is the secret story that knits itself in the spaces that linger between one word and the next. They too tell a story. The secret poetry of silence. Of the self contained gasp, of the turn you never expect. Spaces in paragraphs trace patterns that speak to our breath and our heart in silent tongue. Is there a way to tell them the secrets i dare not tell your ears and could you recognize them inside you every time your heart skips a beat?
The man to read them is a prophet that has not been born yet, but I know him like I know a prayer even if the words escape me.
02/27/10
Dark secrets look for light
If I am reborn I will come back as the other: the early bird, the elder sister, the better half. It will be me when the days break calling out your name and if the victory horns howl, I will not be shrieking, but blowing instead. It will be me in every pier blowing candles and sails, and when the captain misses his widow I will haunt you. I will become a spectre, a presence, a white mist. I will be widow and wife, shark and prey, prey and prayer. I will be everything under the sun and then more, and from there I will look back at this place, the place I am in, the things I am now, and I will also hope to fill in that blank.
