Rain Pounded On The Roof Of The Car, Plunking Out A Melody.

His pillow was wet with salty tears and his eyes were swollen from crying as he woke up. His chapped lips stung with the taste of saltwater. Diana called him.

“What time is it,” he asked, his voice cracking. He hoped she would think he was just tired. She did not.

“It’s just about 8 o’clock. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything but simply hung up. He walked to the South Meadow again, slower than last time. He did not see Theo next to him. After a few minutes sitting at the bench next to the field, he heard a voice behind him.

“You’ll be late to chapel,” it said quietly, worried. Theo popped up in front of him. He tried his best to smile. Theo did not mask the concerned expression on his own face. He noticed a stray tear right under Alexander’s eye, and knelt down to wipe it away. The feeling of his hand on Alexander’s face made his skin tingle. He started to smile honestly. Theo sat down next to him quietly.

It started to rain, and Theo stood up from the bench.

“We’ll be late,” he repeated simply. Alexander walked behind him to chapel.

"The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die. As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

A Poem of Many Poems

To write, my darling

It is the only way, truly,

To be heard forever

I write because-

Because

No one can take it away

From me

Or from the world

As the poets say,

Littera scripta manet

The written word remains

Indefinitely

Even when not a soul

Can understand a word

Of what I’ve written,

The letters will be there,

The sounds,

The beauty

That there is in words,

In language

I will be a relic,

A fossil preserved in the golden amber

Of eternity

And words

The poet is as the musician is,

Forever in sound

Words and are simply that,

Beautiful melody

Biblioteca Braidense by girlgoneabroad.

Why are all the best things I write just flowers and vanilla and sunlight? Honestly, I’ve detected a distinct theme. I’m not sure if I’m complaining. I do like flowers and vanilla and sunlight, and I do enjoy writing different types of light, especially that honey-gold, early-morning sunlight. I just wish I could be that good at writing anything else.

from john ciardi’s translation of “the inferno” by dante alighieri

An Ode to Rays of Sun

Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight

seep through every crack, every seam

invading every crevice, every nook

until there is no space for night.

A million threads,

golden as fresh honey,

bright as a thousand suns,

tether me to the sky.

The shine of silk or velvet,

the beauty of a field of dandelions,

the yellow light,

sends a haze over everything,

obscuring all that is not good.

The morning is acissmus,

the night, a palimpsest.

Until you see the stars.

Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.

I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.

How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?

I've just learned that some (if not most) people have an internal narrative of their thoughts – almost all of their thoughts are in sentences that they 'hear'

as opposed to other people, like me, who have predominantly abstract non-verbal thoughts. Yes, i can talk to myself in my head if i want, and i often hear a voice when i read (until i get really into the story, at which point the voice disappears), but 99% of my thoughts are completely non-verbal. Like, i'm thinking a million things all the time, but there just aren't words attached to them.

I'm so intrigued by this. Is it always in full sentences? Is it all the time? How do you think two things at once - do the voices overlap, or do you just wait to finish that thought before moving onto the next? i have so much abstract chaos going on in my head at all times, i really couldn't imagine how it could possibly be funnelled into linear sentences???? does it affect how you process things?

my mind has been blown