Capricious

9 - Moonlight

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."
- Søren Kierkegaard

Weekends off with people new, that began with car rides and practice and sleeping bags, shots of every kind, all ended with leaping from the clouds. Perched upon the ledge, orange jumpsuit, plane veering. The world of fields and hedges streaming below, so elegantly small and picturesque, an autumn brown checker board. The fear of which made me lose myself, mind jettisoned, but with no way back. Jumping free. Plummeting to earth. Rapid oblivion. Catching grips. Swinging taught. The realisation of flying, of landscapes vast, of monumental beauty, greatness unbound. Spinning, veering, looping. For infinite time. Landing with all the grace of a broken footed dove. That pure adrenaline and the world around it. Why did I never return?

My three wise men. My three musketeers. My three blind mice. One gets me through the days, one through the weeks, one through the months. Each built on top of one another, each more powerful than the last. My liquid stimulant. My breeze buds. My powdered felicity. Together they amplify the world, all that is true, all the beauty, all the love. I do not care for hate, I forgive, I forget, I carry on. My holy trinity. My narcotic lenses.

Some things we do not remember until they are under threat, until we fear to lose them. Summers gone, lodged somewhere between trekking mountains and cycling free. Days lived within this place, blazing in bubbling pools, opening my mind to what I can do. Together lying on the trampoline, searching in the stars, souls guided my moonlight. The most fond of a giant sought when there was nowhere else to be. Sunsets of fuchsia. Innocence strewn. Plans to depart this place with the old and the new. Do I fear to lose what the place represents, the symbols of memory, or the comfort that it composed? Or yet do I simply fear to lose luxury I claim to care not for?

Thundering of hearts, diving through layered seas of chaos, rapture into the lone world. Woken sudden from deep sleep while the birds still rest. The echo of which beats through my cage still. Times of lost collaborations, those nigh forgotten, friends I had, but did not realise to what extent, each of them now gone. But what can I say? They forgot me too. The soul of the dream was however a shadow that has not completely left me, that I know I'll see again. Crude yet beautiful in her own way. A surprising connection in a field of unknown, with which blue paint set me up for that first night in the illusion of paradise. Bounding free and finding another bandless shade of blue, a night dominated and discarded. It was all downhill from there.

My head spins in its socket. Music dreams blink in flickering phantasms. Itch in my spine. My leg shakes to a beat. My directive computes away. This illustrious, superior form. Powers to see further, think farther, feel forever. A sacrifice of reflexes and strength, imbalancing the scale of imagination, of dreams away from the mechanics of the world.

I feel time running slower, and glory in the fact I'm living every second so much more. It's enough to feel near immortal.

Elegant geometric prisms of mystic grey swirls infecting, refracting within the air around me, spinning and searching, dissipating invisible elements. Patterns of complex algorithms and physics besides.

We are all constantly trying to create, communicate ourselves. Project our soul, with all qualities, all choices, all personas, into our creations. We paint, we draw, we write, we listen to music, we dress, we vote, we eat, we watch, we do. All art is a message. And constructing such beauty does fill us with such reward. Part of us will live on, more immortal than our decaying flesh, capturing a snapshot of our soul at a blink in time. Because the only influence we can ever have on the world is what we have built, and what we have destroyed.

Flowering up from my chest, through my mouth in a rhythm of my heartbeat and sigh.

Sitting here in the not so distant past. Finishing beauties tested, dreaming of futures to return to, of vagaries brimmed with reveries inebriated and alluring. Searching in childhood drop-zones for elusive chronicles to further twist my every perception. The warmth and perfume of the besieging books that frighten and yet entrust us to worlds learned by those with time enough to fathom all in such great fictional delusion. Not so much lies in this past I find, and memory serves up much the same. I wander through, delicate tears of clouds do not beseech, the freeze of a burning tongue, with an urge to stare and stare again at curious beauties that now all seem so young.