Capricious

39 - Soundscapes

"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time."
- Thomas Merton

Sound so visceral, crushing my chest with fusing senses of beauties so carefully chosen, trapping its audience within the epic story hidden between the strokes. The weight of it too much for me to comprehend, the subtle coordination of sound and perspective and art. Gazing into a pitter patter of brushstrokes, so delicately decided, the same raining down upon my ears, the scene changing with the sounds. Dots and daubs diffusing, dissipating, dissolving. Hypnotised I stare, for hours I could, at fantasy, at fusion, at future.

And dropping into another sudden encounter, to others an awkward situation, but with her it does not seem awkward at all. She is charged with fire, her theatrical talent and eye for beauty flaring as I test her. A fellow caprice she prides herself as I admire, so original and interesting she seems, another butterfly to my liking. We flirt a little, exploring her gaze to discover something more between the mysterious layers of the character she dares to show off. An elegance to the way she speaks, a touch of her homeland seeping through, it's in her tone and her style, how she carries herself, how she sits, how she leans. Laid back, but adventurous; not wanting to be tied into anything, yet cautious in her choice of vice. Some psychological exploration as the scene sets, finding ourselves more similar than he that brought us together, aware that I am intruding upon. A new world to explore, met upon a chance, and even though I've lost before I've started, that's never stopped me before.

My time away, juxtaposing my volatile selves against one another at home, returning somewhat different than how I was. Two sides so much clearer. One I was, darker, excelling from order, introverted yet smarter, unhealthy but deeper and devoted. Now I am brighter, thriving in chaos, extroverted yet wild, healthy and fun but prone to mistake. I am two different people, and each is in love with someone different, each has different passions, and each desires different things. A whirlwind within whirlwinds, too much, not enough, to be, to be. Yet how can I explain such a thing to someone else?

Winding up here, searching for something upon these walls, everything sings, yet everything only meaning whatever I mean it to be. So much emotion and story and beauty trapped within a frame, threatening to pull you in and shower over you at the same time. I can only take so much, such things make me so very hazy, too much to bear less I forgo some appreciation. Is it only artificial? Do I really understand? This is art, this is inspiration, this is a way of life I never thought could be forged alongside my mind. But now I take it with me, alongside so much else. Who am I now?

Living across the days simply by experiencing realms of beauty, one after the other, some together, anything to feel alive again. This is how I define myself, no wish to repeat, just interweaving responsibility and pleasure into what time I have left.

Our bodies roaming under sheets, hysterical giggling wrapped in each other and cream. Kisses slow and deep, breaking innocence, as confidently dirty as they come. Toffee skin under jet black hair, smile enchanting, laughter melting away the clouds. Fashionista touring the town, a European romance of attractions and vogue, playing the game on the tip of time. Selfies of the tastes we run through, joking through the days, hopes and dreams sprouting free, growing and glowing, sun rays streaming.

Like pentagonal frazzles, flying through the misty air. Wires of light twisting out, the pure shape of sound, waves flowing out to sea. I see figures forming and reforming in the clouds, electric storms ringing round, threatening to break us out. It was all a mistake, that time a poor self-choice is made, and you know you are missing something, and out of something. Still I try to use the time, but I bore of distractables, they cannot catch me in this restless state. And so I fall into lower states, take risks that were seemingly not risks at all, a little too prepared for comfort. Not being part of the contract, I wither and fry, basic tunes no seasoning to settle my flavour. This glowing door, passing out, lying beyond flecks of colour torn with memories not lived, that were only friends of friends and not mine. The sharp edges no worry having come this far, up to the summit, the sun hollowing solitary in the sky. I thirst a little, but I had no clue this was starting, like in dreams I turn up late, naked so to speak. I lie in the rhythms of the past, road hobbled along. Am I only to have others' ideas? No time to prepare, more time to repair, and yet I do not speak, for it shall work some way. So I sit in the sun, smoking in the secret garden, lacking curiosity and suffering for it so.