You have entered the realm of a writer.

Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


It's quiet, side from the inconsistent tapping of fingers on keys electronically connected to some exterior world, as if the means of typing would reconnect the mind with others somewhere beyond our corporeal existence. Before me sits a deflated globe, its beans compressed where feet once rested upon the surface. Deformed, it still shows the continents as they perhaps once existed: boundaries drawn with colored distinguishing marks, names that may have shifted since production, and the sense of peace and wholeness that doesn't exist.

It looks real, even in its fictitious state. Kind of like my heart, battered and bruised and broken. Feet have tread carefully and still found their mark upon that flesh, that muscle, that unprotected and open fountain of emotions. It is deformed now, just like the bean bag foot-rest showing the world. I'm sitting on a couch, pulling myself inward to protect myself before my poetry class where emotions usually run higher than normal for school.

But shouldn't they be free to spill forth? That could mean crying, wailing, shaking, and yelling... Which I believe would be completely inappropriate for a classroom setting. Perhaps in front of a microphone while reading one of my sentimental poems... but not amongst students who are definitely younger than me. Why do I cry? Because I'm in love and couldn't admit it to myself until it was too late. Well... perhaps not too late; there exists hope while time and space is shared between me and the other. However, the time I can give coincides with how much my heart can feel and fight and fly. Florence and the Machine put it beautifully, like I wrote in a previous post: "Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release, wish for falling through the air to give me some relief because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace. it's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief." Falling into this place of love was easy, effortless, effervescent... but I've hit a ledge and am clinging to it's stability with bloody fingers and weakening resolve... I feel like I'm coming to a moment where I must decide whether to pull myself onto the surface and start climbing back to my 'senses' or to release and continue falling...

Blood is dripping down my arm, warm and sticky. I'm intrinsically enjoying the sensation of feeling because it's been lost to me in so many ways. To return, even like this with painful reverie and seemingly unjust circumstance, is a welcome relief. I'm not a monster, at least I can still feel this way for someone, something, and myself. I have not destroyed myself in previous times.

I can't resolve this, sitting in a computer library looking at a destroyed world while reflecting about how I feel and want to feel and desire. Only action in one way or another will bring some resolution to this state of limbo I'm curbing with introspective writing. Soon, however, I'll have to figure out what I'm doing with my body: giving it to the air and falling into the arms of this man or pulling myself away and distinguishing this possibility as merely minuscule emotional input. If only someone could help...

Monday, March 28, 2011

We Burn

The night skies quake in the rift of silence, balancing the twilight with succumbing darkness and gentle breezes laden with worry. It's not unlikely to encounter the scurrying fox under the lampposts by the course, her eyes luminous against the pale concrete, darting across the river of black whose way is cumbersome in the suburbs at night. Even the trees watch in quiet disregard, swaying against the sky with airy discontent. As if the abutments of the library gave an image of internal strength, the torment of a day's progression abated as I surrounded myself with the bindings of words and comfort of pages.

My candle is lit.

Scent fills my nostrils and stir memory into reality. The shadow of moments heaping arrests my heart as these thoughts swirl in the untangled waters pouring from the dam. Fretting images, anxious desires, and uninhibited fear roll down my throat as a flame ready to burst through my eyes. The bonsai on my desk is stoic in contemplation, its shadow dancing by the candlelight in a mystical interpretation of the shattered heart-felt scintilla residing within my chest a mere three feet away.

The leaves are calm --

Even with the fire so close to branch and the startling cold just beyond the glass. Without is bitter in the darkness where my heart feels betrayed in its honesty. Resounding words echo in my head, a drumming noise that starts every time I see the hazel green eyes piercing my consciousness, are remembered like thunder with beautiful melodies and painful uncertainties, even with vows tied quietly, hidden, unasserted, in the lines.

Tonight is for my candle.

Silent as the shattered sky, like my heart ripped into a forest of shadows and pillars guarding the beauty of the land. I thought one was walking with me amongst the maze of vines and streaks of light from the moon above; but the footsteps are quieter than I remember and I dare not look back to see what might have happened. Hopefully, he walks beside me, a wraith of beauty and wonder quietly taking vigil as he looks into the mysteries about.

Thursday, March 17, 2011


Lets find the
     anti -
instead of what
     we find
               or know

Find one
the other
     defined by each
               reasons explaining or anti-
For what we
     truthfully want.

     We write
in searching our anti-
     'til we find
                         or know


It's funny how a simple things cause such relief, shift moods drastically, and influence the perception of a digital conversation. Trust is encouraged and imbued in emoticon: a smile means the communicator is smiling, a frown means upset, a smile with a 'D' instead of a ')' is ecstatic smiling, etc.

Yesterday, I felt like I was in a well, drowning in the darkness of the tunneling heights with light a mere pinpoint so far above the murky, muddy cesspit my body struggled with. As I lay in bed waiting for the comforting void to swallow me, the last communication I received ended with a smile. Though I couldn't see the face of the person speaking to me, the smile reassured me.

But it's not a smile. It's punctuation coalesced into a figure representing a physical feature on someone's face. We allow this representation to permeate our world. That's a newer development in language. Before emoticons, I believe the typical distinguisher of facial expression was to simply 'emote' them (e.i. ::smile::). I wonder what our children will see as time continues, whether they will distinguish the difference between punctuation and an actual facial expression; or of the smile will be seen as a colon and a closing parenthesis.

What do you think? About Emoticons? The future of our language as a depiction of figures representing our emotions?

St. Patrick's Day

This is me, listening to music and wearing red on St. Patty's Day
It's a day of green, the day of drinking and pride in Irish heritage, the day of celebrating St. Patrick's work at ridding the Isle of snakes.

I'm not so proud of such occurrences. Unfortunately, the snake's of St. Patrick's day have been theorized to be the Pagans, Druids, and Wiccans of the day. I am Pagan, claiming Wicca though I simply call myself a witch. Since today is the day to wear green, I'm wearing as much red as I can! I have a bunch of (RED) products which I have chosen to wear: an INSPI(RED) shirt and a HAMME(RED) scarf. I chose to wear my black sweater to give me a little buffer against the onslaught of inquisitive glances and glares that have been flying my way.

I enjoy the abstract attention that's circulating my appearance today. I dress like this most of the time anyway, skipping to my own fashion style along the walkways of CU-Boulder. Today, I've noticed many green walking about (another Ironic representation, as the color of paganism in my mind is green: growth, abundance, nature, etc.) and a few abstaining members, though they're not necessarily wearing red like me. I'm a sore thumb in the societal expectation. It's hilarious.

Though I chose to purposefully disregard (or regard) the fashion trends of this day, St. Patrick's Day, I do enjoy participating in its celebrations. It's not truly about the banishment of pagans in contemporary times. St. Patty's day is about drinking! Being with friends. Pretending you're Irish for a day (which I wouldn't mind doing all the time, but I don't look Irish at all...). Should anyone ask why I'm wearing red on a day of green, I will more than happily explain the motivation for such stylistic choices today.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY TO YOU! (as long as you aren't trying to banish me!)

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


Intoxicated intoxication: a river of unseen bleakness surrounding the enviable bliss of forgetfulness. Truly bliss? The ability to lose what hinders, what inhibits, what protects is: both blessing and curse, a detriment to growth, an aid to self growth, a challenge to overcome; but when it affects others and changes their perception of integral moments between... That's when it makes absolute chaos in the gut, a torrent of self-imposed agony trying to free itself in other modes of expression.

I've already shed the stinging rain and said my part. Waiting is the next. Anticipating is the whip stinging across my ear, whispering lies and unfurling schemes yet unknown. Where I was falling now seems uncertain. Whether I should fly away and apart or continue to the ground is beyond foresight. The quiet hurts... five minutes is an eternity.

An intoxicated night is a second. The darkness stretches infinitely; and behind it lies a story that wishes not be known. Enough is framed to poison. Hope persists that the picture doesn't scare away the muse.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Seasons of Love

Love. It's a label associating complex emotional, chemical, and physical conditions from on person to an other, whether it be an object, animal, or person. English has one [perhaps two] form[s] to express love. The primary form is to simply say "Love." It's easy, complete, justified, and encompasses every possible meaning of the word; and depending on the delivery's tone, the condition of "love" can change from "you're an amazing person for whom I care/admire/enjoy" to "you hold my heart and I can't see any other way of telling you how deeply I want you." The other form is "adore," which hold meanings from "you're cute" to "I deeply care about you." Both contain the understated complication of commitment once they've been uttered from person to person.

I have always seen love as a sinusoidal experience. Perhaps it's the types of relationships I've been in, the types of people I've been around, and the expectation I've shaped from desires. Up and down, shifted left and right, positively and negatively. Passing the level plane was always cautiously regarded as a lull in emotional stability and just as easily neglected as the peaks. So deeply in love was treacherously bipolar in my view, and I didn't shake the reality of it or examine the instability with an objective eye. Not until now, at least: alone with my thoughts, sipping a bottle of wine after naming my gray hairs after Calculus theorems, as single as I've ever been in my life (which is arguably not very single, though I see it as so. Regardless...). I despise that my love has been sinusoidal throughout its existence with every love in my life. I want the exponential experience! The falling so high with every smile, the limitless, unbounded, unexpected experience!

Just thinking about this desire, the possibility, the improbable, oddly scares me. Is this a season of love? The fear of finding that pure existence for another? A song by Florence & The Machine expresses this fear so perfectly in the song "Falling":
Sometimes I wish for falling,
Wish for the release,
WIsh for falling through the air,
To give me some relief,
Because falling's not the problem,
When I'm falling I'm in peace,
It's only when I hit the ground
That causes all the grief.
I enjoy falling in love, perhaps. Sometimes I feel it's too easy for me to fall for another, always looking for the beauty, undeniable abstraction of perfection, heart and soul, intelligence, and loveliness in others through all the muck that surrounds us. So falling is easy, and I long for that relief, release, reviving quality and enjoy the feeling. But once I near the ground where I can realize that love is where I've come to, I start recoiling slightly. I fear the possibility of falling endlessly and look for that harsh surface to walk upon. That's when I gain perspective and start judging.

This is when I need to stop. There is potential for love in my life. The subtle commitment exists already, but the word itself is timid behind clenched teeth. Doubt persists as well. The question which fuels such hesitation circles the facts of relationship's disbanding so recently. How could my heart, broken, bruised, battle-worn, be ready for anything other than loneliness right now? Maybe I'm not ready at all -- but then I'm fighting a force accelerating against my boundaries and pushing me toward the brink of falling.


The blasted word! The blasted Experience!!!

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
journeys to plan

Fine hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
of a woman or a man

In truth that she learned
or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
or the way that she died

It's time now to sing out
though the story never ends
let's celebrate
remember a year in the life of friends."
"Seasons of Love" from Rent

This is what started it all. My seasons of love have been stark and fluid, running through life as a trudging price of enjoyment, sadness, expression, and so much more. I don't regret. Love has been presented so many different ways in my life... and now I want to build my own experience without the regulations society (any society around me) has placed upon the value of love. I want to build love with another in the fashion that we wish love to take for ourselves. Falling is only the first step, I assume.

Must I fall then? Fall appropriately? At the right time? With the right wings and the proper wind? Or does it truly matter if I fall, when, where, how...? Any of it? Who is to say but myself?

Well, that answer is easily recognized. It's the staggering spikes on the ground, ready to impale me when my love has failed to attract and entice similar emotions from another. My fear of reducing love back to its singular word spiraling around many meanings catches my breath even as I decide to allow myself to fall. Fear. Fear of Falling. Fear of experiencing life as I want to experience it. Alas... life happens with or without me.

I'll just jump off the cliff and open wide to the experience. It's the only way to move forward with me.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Traveling Through The Spaces Of Love

Brightened Sheer, Surviving
     bitter winds whisking through thin skinned
     Cepheid timing distances measured
          in luminous spectrums spread
through opened mouths:
     pulsar voices timidly reverberating
     across light reviving speeds shifting
          relativity in warm nothingness.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


Dirt gives way to life
Timid breath whispers: Rapture.
Sound beckons love-smiles


Loneliness finds me
Deep in rent chasms of loss
Among lightless hope

To Whom It May Concern;

To Whom It May Concern;

Seasonal transitions are usually a challenge, especially from winter to spring. The intense desire for permanently beautiful days with the threat of spring showers drives me crazy when faced with reality that winter isn't quite over. I feel like many people feel the same way. We hear about colder temperatures, the possibility of snow, and the need for warm clothes and we suddenly feel disheartened and long for summer, if not spring. Day by day we wait by the window and hope to see the peaking bulbs, timidly arresting the ground as they sprout to see the lengthening days. We walk our dogs with jackets on, protecting us from bitter winds, and look at the half-green grass trying to bring us growth for lack of snow. We see the sun breaking night apart earlier with each stride and expect the crisp air to breathe warmth into our bones; but find the chill lingering like frigid tendrils slipping down our collars.

What little relief we have comes to us at home. My solution rests in jars: candles imitating the effervescent essence of spring fragrances brightening my closed windows. Inside I experience spring through a Yankee Candle jar sitting on my coffee table, flame dancing in the delicate flux of transitioning air releasing my Early Sunrise scent. Sometimes I'll add some Fresh Cut Roses to really simulate a fresh spring morning, and it makes my day feel bright from the moment I get up. This is what I recommend for every reader out there: Go pick up a candle and change the atmosphere in your house! Illuminate your inspiration! Find that breath of fresh air and release it. If candle's aren't your thing, find a reed diffuser or electric plug-in to change the air, invigorate your senses, and bring your world into the fields of fresh spring air! It really helps with those cabin fever symptoms.


J Hart F


How do I shelter my own heart? It's opened. It's shattered. It's free of boundaries while I rebuild the delicate forests of love, trust, acceptance, and balance which I so readily uprooted for what I believed was everlasting and unconditional. Little was my motion aware of the conditioning it harvested on the grounds fertile with growth, life... and love. And now I find the patterns of scars inlaid among the roots, the trees, the leaves falling gently from the ravaging torrent of earth shattering decisions.

Here a light has illuminated my work once more. Here my soul has reached an undeniable consequence of freedom; and in searching this trail my musings have offered another comfort and reality such that both sky and ground can uniformly heal without fear of conditionality. In doing so, the stars have fallen and gifted me with deeper, gentler, virile waters to endorse the spreading of beauty in the domain of my heart. Sun drenched warmth folded upon the darkness and revived such living jubilation among the trees like twilit demigods circling a glade filled with flitting fireflies and dancing flames. Unfortunately, the sun is in no control of the hands that tend this land.

I cannot hold the light; cannot declare or determine the stance it takes in my world. Clouds threaten and foresight preludes rain's drenching possibility. Time ticks by and warns of speeding the lanes across the heavens if chance permits. My possibilities of enchanting is to remain grounded and ensure the beauty of my own world. It shines as long as the earth remains beautiful, peaceful, enigmatic, and interesting. Here I plant myself. Here hopes flourish and sprout, grow and engage, manifest and entice.

But hopes are merely the surface of aspiration. I hope the mending covers my heart and spring gently into ever present love, everlasting happiness, togetherness evermore. But this sun, this orb of purity and life, has choices to make for itself, paths to discern, orbits to enter and proliferate... As I as a light must do for myself. But first I tend, I mend, I rend the soil of its scars and filter the views toward a future of belonging happiness and planted openness. Aide is appreciated, and the warmth of his smile helps in my healing.

Kelsie Stole My Poem




Thank you Kelsie for writing a quick little poem from your heart for me! It's truly inspirational!

And yes... to the rest of you... my poetry notebook was stollen and... well... this is what appeared!

Forging Hearts

The once subtle ground pushes insight forward
into indigo painted deserts flush with
distant dreams flashing as stars bound by
time's allusioned memory: lovingly, tragically,
delicately broken. Loneliness prickles like
desolate skin fractured by scorpion tales.

Rain feels welcome, dashing from eyes like
torn wounds singing violin longings to
celestial curtains dropping upon the scars of
history folded under clouded oasis springs.

Floods caress like aloe drops pooling among
clasped fingers, reviving the lusting Moon.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Walking Without Looking

I drew a line today.

One stroke departed the senses of understanding from intrinsic emotions. My Feet hide the line. Baggage hides the line. The wind blows away what isn't hidden, and I wonder how far off course I've strayed.

Does the Road, evergoing, require boundaries as I walk? And I, delicately balanced on the convergence of comprehension, know not which foot leads me astray from formulated comfort. Have I been integrated to the path with foresight?

Seeing or feeling?

Will the Moon blind like the Sun if I look away from Her Light? Naivety is handsome like darkness -- I dare not find what lives beyond eyes, my chest constricts with longing lust everlasting.

A whisper from within --

Hearing tightens my grip to the past and flames shoot to my cheeks. Molten drops seer as minds fight for the ground. Fireflies twinkle like Her companions on Earth. My soul wants to dance with their freedom.

Past heaps on soles

Twilight Dawn filters. Fresh consciousness forgets the line, holding cautiously to knowledge, the poison, and my feet take heaving strides gasping for dreams. My heart yearns. My heart thrashes. Breath is clawing to be.

Knowing which fears

Leave that math behind

Do I?

Do I get to judge
or is it he (past)
him (present)
or some He (eternal)
to decide
wings fill with
air fills with
warmth fills with
light, truth, and
A touch brings me
Do I get to fall?


Speak, your
               like Black Hole

     the cautious
     the uninhibited
Beats on the
snare     hearted
aparted peace gentled.

               Delinquent smile
I am lost
pulling through matter
     to feel what fear
begs buried --
      violins cry
you're catching
     evermore I'm falling.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Reach Over

Reach over
     Desolate frigidity between white
Folds break the comfort
of soft darkness numbing like vodka.
the valley is - empty, no warmth remains
where once emission covered me
     Nuzzling into my neck, arms clinging like love
no more the sun gently
my eyes -- sullen, wandering, sighing
     into the pitted chasm of - broken beating.

Foot slips out of protection
landing in reality - solidity - judgmentally.
     Il n'est pas içi.
     Il ne sera pas toujour içi.
     Je l'ai deja vu.
A black void
opens -- I fall endlessly as the sun
rises to be so alone in his sky.
Standing naked.


The Fun-Show's doors open
with a creaking subtlety
flooding warm lantern light into
the musky, dirty night air.
Inside the fire burns oils in waves
of jasmine and lavender, serenely
coercing relaxed mines to sit and stare
at colorful drapes,
smiling performers,
and tricking animals trained to be human.
Their joy is infectious, their eyes enigmatic --
The crowd is stirred with pleasure
and applause!

Behind the drapes, before the sterile
evening sky,
the gaze of each clown and dog
burns with pitiful regret,
cherished sorrow,
          broken dreams.

Who sees beyond the
celebration, under masked make-up,
and runs to aide me?

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Caution Inward Told

Caution inward told.
The balance tipped by coffee stained
eyes - grounded, scalded,
filtered. The subtle touch
of amour in swallowed
temptation contaminates reverie with smiles.
Both see sound sheering
and want the pillowed feathers to lift
untouch -- drown.
To be overwhelmed, overcome by salted waters -
covered by sweet sprays flitting
on beached breezes,

He whispers unconscious thoughts
--I trust you--
chords run deeper, vibrate in tune
the vowels of shattered porcelain
whose pieces dig into soles
treading a treacherously torturous
path - healing with opened wounds.

The blood stained roses
better than cough syrup, sugar coated
simple tablets rolling in
turbulent acids as lips fold each
other -- dancing on the sinusoidal
crests of heart hoped salves
basting the cautioned hands.

I goosebump under his strength.
His eyes glaze over, teeth
clench like fingers wanted
of release. Abandoned inhibitions fly
like breath on the ear
--I trust you--
He enters, balancing, careening,
oscillating --
and plants seeds of addiction
in my battered heart.
I trust you.

2 becoming 1

Arrest the swelling
Eyes beat longing in warm arms
Fall, deeper - melding

Friday, March 4, 2011

Shuffling Light ... (2)

Shuffling light coerces dilated pupils
Share unfamiliar hurtles beyond graves
Showing halogen fog laden hair
Shushed subtle words beleaguered without
Shy looks into windowless souls.

Shuffling Light ... (1)

Shuffling light unlike time heaping
unannounced circumstance between our fingers --
hold -- delicately free falling adoration
Wing dancing around collapsed hearts
Seeping like time's light sunspots.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Playfully Responding

To you, Chef de Palavar, a response to 'Chasing the Sun'.

Blink Carelessly, cautiously.
Once, twice, again -- again.
Look not to shadowed unveilings
of sunspot coincidences synchronized
at light-speed space-time.

For what once is all occurred?
Closely integrated to awakening sights
transpired in dreams of transpired
words: love, laugh, birth, break.
Sublimity careens against our cheek.

Light your emptiness lithely,
near and far, to share
what novel emotions caress explicitly
and grate implicitly 'til heaps
surmount to something trivially mean.

Blink carefully, recklessly.
Open the distances, close necessity.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

To Steal from Books

Stem length, pod shape, color - in the study of heredity, investigative monastery rapidity. Now put forth the basic principles of inheritance, unlike many earlier investigations of Pisum Sativum, my figure 3.1! I eat sparsely, like a bird, subsequently renewed on the ergosphere, the even horizon of a collapsed star. 14-understanding significance - "World honoured One" to be investigated so, whose source is Ohm. Waste our lives in sin: addicted to the senses of judging such heredity. Is it not for a man who finds delight? The media is his recent book. Every stage of one's existence reflects both public interests and magnitude and direction. Don't conform to uniform circular motion, built on position - velocity - acceleration in projectile motion. It's all about the derivative of the self. Old college chum, after profound meditation exploits my logical expal wangled appointment with a subeditor: Ace of Pentacles. For the voices: 1964, a good year out of memory. Bravely, patiently, she continued to fight them in Christ. Old supernatural joy - horrible and disgusting with holy temerity. Why does this preconception persevere in relaxed unchastity as agency to my facilities? Why can't we rebuild ourselves to the might of the monarch Clark peak? 60 miles on state highway 14 west to consider heredity and audience. Every writer can benefit considering your whole audience means and pursue this topic - flitting fireflies on drowsy summer nights: sharp meaning weeping and distraught, limitless freedom. Breathlessly anxious miracles after millennia bring us to these spaces that are ours. This ought not baffle but strengthen defenses. Pillars, pylons, the sphinx, semper eadem. Love, they're yours! Leave no trace but shadows during the investigation - it is time. Unrest a heart - time was time is time - memory was memory is memory... was a village landmark powered first water-run nineteenth century east banks.

February, oh February.

It was an odd month. Simple derelict changes forced my body through torturous transitions: togetherness, otherness, vulnerability, awakening, age... And still the sense of a month's passing deteriorated into a selfish absence of comprehensible time. As I always revert to the imperceptible fallacy of time, we shall avoid such conversations here. The misfit churning of February created such misshapen mishaps in my existence of thought that even I cannot place the course accurately enough. Heartache, mistrust, insecurity, willingness, and unwillingness, creation, destruction, revelation... February was a rebirth in many senses. Every day my words fall to the memory of a poem: "The Road goes ever on and on..."; and I know the trodden lanes of rediscovery have lain their sodden prints before my fingers. I am renewed.

Klein Bottle
The moment of absolution for myself happened the night of my birthday. Clouds found their tears frozen upon the earth: white, fluffed, delicate... I found myself in a room surrounded by revelers of my art, their ears tuned to the voice of Eula Biss. Stepping away from such magnificent advice, my world turned through a Klein bottle and I found my thoughts suddenly explaining to my heart why I needed to abandon my struggle through school for the ease and beauty of enjoyment. Without the passion forever pushing conscious efforts, the quality abandons work and diminishes both in a spiral decay of mental stability. Thus, the transient process decided a most important redirection, atop the already many new paths laid before me, toward abandonment of a secondary degree, 'til later days, and pure focus on my highest regarded passion, ambition, aspiration that exists for me: creative writing. This was the greatest of all the changes which found their way to my heart in February, though possibly the least influential of all.

February was an odd month which has passed. The decisions have passed and now actions must be taken in order to fulfill even the slightest of changes. So many actions are to be under foot. So many actions are leading me to the place where "many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say." But I shall not whither away from my passion, as always I do: affirmation stirs in my mind to commit to my writing and the infinite possibilities therein.

Scientific Infatuation

This is a non-linear, dynamic system of binary companionship. Here it sits, equating two forces of attraction wrapped in matters of affection. Fortunately, the substance is irreversible, is uncontrollable, is so desired however feared and worried despite the obvious tidal pull between the bodies. It takes a physicist to recognize the powers at play. Exponential release and logarithmic acceptance bring the two together, especially after the acknowledgement of the processes which shake the universe, shiver the backbone of the planets, and tickle the womb of the stars.

We spoke of our fears. Clouds drifted calmly over the plane of dreams, but the stars shimmered through the blanketing fluff of infatuation. In each other’s arms, we felt the subtle beat of our hearts flickering brightly between the ticking fingers of solar flares. Warmth encompassed our breath as the words timidly crested our lips: future roads unfold with every moment, premonition like reveries speak of solidarity, apprehension holds back complete abandonment of barriers. A volcano threatens to consume our perception in a fiery torrent of unstoppable magnetism. He squeezed my hand in comfortable recognition.

Whispered words filter through the quiet atmosphere. “I feel the same way.” I felt a smile encroach worry’s dominion and settle the hurtling chasm within my heart. Gravity had brought two comparable enigmas in synchronous orbits to share the revitalizing electromagnetic beauty of healing souls. The trail felt ominously coherent and revealing of truths buried deep in integrals of the deepest emotions. Though the footsteps are laden with lithe beauty, the burden of pasts dedicate the yearning premonition of intertwining fluxes between the two forces of non-linear dynamics reverberating in a darkened room.