Razor sharp chords mixed with gritty voices float from inside dark clubs and crowded bars.
A homeless man swings his Gandalf like beard as he jives down the middle of the street. His ripped shirt blows open in the breeze; giving him an underdog superhero cape made of rips and stains. One good shoe crunches into the pavement while his bare foot escapes to swing free. With palms raised to his heaven, he smiles into the oncoming storm.
It reminds me of my mother’s face; not because his inner peace oozes into the atmosphere. I can see her wrinkling nose and hear her sucking in her breath between puckered lips. I can feel her eyes cutting into my skin as she judges me from beyond.
“Such vulgarity. Here among these people, these bars … Who are you? I don’t know anymore.”
She’s always been right. Though I model her skirts and simple knit tops I’ve never been the girl she craved I would be. I drop my bag and grab the mans knotted hands. Vulgar or not, we can dance til the end.
Word of the day: Vulgar
Music: A mix of instrumental (The Echelon Effect, Lights and Motion, Chad Lawson)
Life is but the moments we make in it.
At least that’s what Edna thought she remembered him saying now. Sixty years on she supposed exact verbiage no longer really mattered.
The plane rattled down the runway. Edna watched the early morning horizon slip by. These moments always reminded her of her mother’s silk scarf floating away on the wind. The way it twisted, trying to escape the inevitable hand of fate it was dealt, and the way her mother ran after it, crimson nails just barely missing the straggling threads.
Had she known then how some people were capable of so much more … had she understood the intricacies of human emotions, fits of rage and the abilities of people to do things outside the realm of “normal” … Like kill others or freeze moments …
Edna settled back into her seat. It took so much out of her now, she figured she only had a few more times in her.
A few more things to see, to record.
A few more moments to live, to love.
Instinctively she reached into the old leather messenger bag, relishing in the old smell of cigars and aftershave, and patted the worn inner pocket. Her notebook, a verifiable tome of time, was secure inside.
I know this doesn’t really make sense in it’s brief form but it was something that struck me and I wanted to share here.
I almost didn’t post this because I feel like I’m getting kind of achy breaky hearty in my writing lately. I had a moment of “I should be more … positive, upbeat, happy, candle-lit dinners and walk on the beachy … whatever” but then I thought “no, this is what came out, this is what it is.” This blog, for me, is for more impromptu, practice/refining type writing so I’ve always told myself that what inspiration gets put out here is what it is.
WordPress Daily Prompt – Atmospheric
I can’t keep count
Of the moments
That have passed me by.
Each one sinking in like a hammer
To the heart,
Cracking the spirit,
Threatening to tear the soul.
It’s a mystery to me
Why I am pulled so.
Moments in time,
But I can’t keep count
Of the dreams I have
Or the nights I lie awake
When I feel that stirring,
Churning and rising,
From the places I strained
To hide it.
I can’t keep count
Of the mysteries
You inspire in me;
Of the memories
You awaken in me,
Like ancient spirits
Speaking a language
Cryptic and romantic.
Mostly I just can’t keep count
Of the moments
I wish you were here
Check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, there are new posts for you to read!
We travel these paths, burdened with purpose and prose, in hopes that we’ll not long travel alone.
In your eyes I find a spirit, a soul, a beacon that flashes through the darkness of my night.
A thousand words I know but not one that can express the way my soul reaches for yours.
Are our arms enough, will we be able to reach, when our spirits entangle across this space?
In my bones I ache, every inch of my being screams to stay, rattling my steps as I back away.
Because we’re just people, different, incomplete and the sum of our moments is lost on me.