Build

In business, you don't look at the days, you look at the dates.

I've had my fair share of Khadi apparel and bag-wearing, hovering-rover days. I may have to wait until this December to relive them. It's not so much about the wearing as it is about the free spiritedness.

It may be white this time, over the oranges and reds of yore. Crisp, freshly starched, and pressed. It may not sync well with my brown self, but I am allowed relaxations then, or even a complexion change meanwhile.



(I'm bored of my few-line posts, too. But I guess it's the selfish me not wanting to kill the thoughts just so they're brief.)

You know what the surge would do? Make Rome roam.

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Like the double-edged swords that why and why not can be in independence.

Is this a day of space?
or one from?

-

To view Medina from a Mecca,

-

To watch a crowd that sways in unison from an altitude with just you and no other person.

Selene

Rotund moon,
as the one in the sky today;
nights of the full moon,
(clear, & without the chariots!)
the backyard of the hostel,
and the beach campus.

Paul Valkens was one of them; flipping open the sacred veil, private to, well, whoever it concerned, each time he saw the need; leaving the wounds, essence and other such guarded territories open, to the skies, and vanishing a day before the full moon. The whoevers bled for him after. They did not know what to do with their stripped selves. They poured themselves to others, resorted to fighting their hitherto battles of the mind, verbally with others, chanted for him to come back so they could divulge themselves to him alone and did other such things of expressed instability and desperation just so they don't lose the ground to their selves.

He only did good, but he never knew, or perhaps, wanted to finish up, Paul. Valkens.

They were never grateful to him, the whoevers.

Monsoon Retreat

In the hills,
by the sea,
our home.

What evens out patience lost to anger and patience lost to insecurity?

A flying kiss laden with a wish for You each night.
Dare a gentle touch or brazen breeze wake you from sleep.

For what end?

What am I holding on to?
A butterfly?
Should I let it free?
You don't have the heart to.
But I should; for the one month it gets to live a life of its own.
It always did.

---

The plea in the eyes are not being seen. Not being. Should the sockets be emptied? The soul killed? The head rationed?

The moon summoned?

I read that butterflies taste with their feet and there was a soothing breeze in the head. It did get me lighter.

-

I see the horizon, my love. Oh yes, I do now!
It's not too far.

How long should one wait? :|

Shadows of ourselves,

Short, long and oblique, we are

shadows of ourselves.

"Strangers in the night

Two lonely people, we were

strangers in the night."

I heard a theatrical voice saying "I don't care, do I?" "I don't, do I?" just as indifferently.

-

Ah, the feeling of the sun and ice on my eyes;
Orange juice.

Ooh, how refreshing! I just need to pack and leave on my trip now!

Is this why I am a child of the Tropic of Cancer?

After you.
'fore your dreams.
and this bovine day!

-

Get it straight.
I'm not after imagery for their
ohdearLord, beauty, etc.
But the game of it.
(Only for this moment.)

Experiment V - Zebra Love

Conjure up your love and romance and stir it with the one who wants or has to be charmed for however long.

Who needs a match, oh Wizard?
Who lights your love?
You, right?


Why don't you stir it up.
Stir it up for you and her
or Him.

Heh, why do you need to?
You don't want to, grumpy.
Just like sweet and sticky nectar.