Horrid Words

Words; how loathsome they are and how cruel. How much we can twist them to our benefit or use them to be hated in honest deliberation with ourselves and others. How abhorrently contorted and dishonest they can be and yet how magical. How precise and clear and vivid. Hearts dance when words waltz through the air but they shatter when in our cruelty we use them to break souls. Why can’t we flee from them? From these magical letters that form something out of nothing as if there was a music to them as despairing as a cello or as divine as a lyre. Simple and clear words, is there anything more real than simple words? Is the soul made of magical words or do words make the soul magical?

Melrose Edition of Walter Scott.

The Agony of the Enlightened

First Death, then Justice, and now Beauty. Simplifying complexities are inherently difficult. And the blinking cursor would still be appearing and disappearing in front of me like oil spills over arctic glaciers were it not for the support of a few good men and women. My gratitude to the good and the brave and the honest and the courageous, who are fated by this world to be broken if they are not killed.

Verses in the Night

Why is it, when we make ourselves a conduit for words that write themselves, they only write of the darkness of the sky in midnight moonlight? Why do muses always form as a lustre for sunlight in the day rather than the day itself?

This not only seems necessary but a quality of the protagonist, to have some immesureable despair in his heart as he stands in silent nobility under a leafless tree waiting for the moment when his lips touches those of his muse if he should be lucky. The kiss, withheld by the muse for an immesureable amount of time, is well received. That moment, now past, can never be relived and thus becomes an impossible standard.

Yet even with this thought and acceptance of this impossibility, the protagonist's heart twirls upon the movements of his muse like a buoy in the middle of the ocean. Why can he see her urges but do nothing about them? Why does he feel as if he's heard this tale before? Do voices within him speak to him in silence about her fine dress catching bits of the drizzle in the night and her scarf waving tall and high towards the sky like a flag of his heart? There is an ambition to his soul in times of darkness, one that yearns for an outlet which never comes.