Pulling Back the Curtains For a Time
I caught a glimpse of your eyes today. Those fascinating things people seem to over emphasize as the "window of a soul" and while the lens of the camera blended them bland I personified them from the views of my own thinking and how alike people are while they present themselves to others noting the clarity's of the photograph to be taken and the emotional collage of themselves kept hidden deep within. I considered for a moment the colors of the nebulous layers composing their over all composition then listened for the thoughts that followed wondering where you had collected the memories that had been gathered through your eyes over the years: what had caused them to linger, what had made them look away, what had drawn them in for a better view, what had caused them to squint, what had passed by them boringly never again to be appreciated by your viewing; then delivered all of those thoughts to my own experiences and how often it was others insisted that I observe what they appreciated rather than what I would have chosen for myself. Then again appreciating those moments for what they were, a shared moment with another life that I was, for the moment, involved with.
I considered the phrase "windows of the soul" regaling the sentiments I have heard from so many others over the years of twinklings and shinings, laughings and worries, intensities and dullness, animalistic and dazed, pained and relieved. Upon those thoughts my mind quickly correlated that while one persons definition of such conditions may bring about a better understanding of a moment that someone else might not have shared in, that in and of themselves, eyes have no emotion, they say nothing, show nothing, except the colors of a person to whom they belong. Story tellers do though; those poetic expressionists who can decorate with emotion the interior idea of an individual with the endless magnificence of the world it has seen over a lifetime. Comparing the eyes to pools of cooling waters, blues and greens and in betweens, unstirred by drifting winds. Likening a starry night to eyes as dark as velvets, as warm as welcoming coffee, as cold as polar ice, as enticing as purest pleasures, or as hostile as a threatening storm; building characterizations of shifty eyed thieves, nerved riddled netty's, flagrant violent drifters, calloused with indifference, blinded to anything except their own impulses. And in all of those ideas we understand not by what can be saw, but by what occurred within the individual's presence and what became of our lives by our experience with them and how they, with their own eyes, looked into ours, to set forth those moments when the window to the soul were famously aware that they were engaged with ours.
We compare them to our own, we remember the relation of the events as a whole, we connect to preset emotions that were alive and aware of our comforts and discomforts, our thoughts and our forbearance, reminding us again that those windows are often dirtied by our personal needs and wants preventing a clear vision of the situation in which we're in. Where our minds willingness to overlook or look away, wanting different results and casting out our own knowledge, brought a distorted vision of a cropped idea that we were unwilling to view for the truth that was so obviously there to see.
The windows of the soul, those expressionless values of visual opportunities, forever lead our thoughts being the most susceptible to opinion . Deciphering and determining what good and acceptable forms of living is worth our second glance and what's worth our prohibition to secure our own soulish thinking into a wholeness we can accept day by day to live with among the ordeals of events that pry at our attention for acceptance and rejections.
You offer me a glance of such a vision, pulling back the curtains for a time where I can review with my own sight the sultry tones of your windows to form an opinion and at first glance, ah; my darling, such a splendid vision of all heavens creation I see there. I dare not look too long for I know my impetuous longings to note every aspect of color I see there with the lustful fascinations of a child minded wonder to embellish with compliments the everlasting impressions that I would compare them to. And I better than anyone, would be perfectly content to spend hours of my day lost in thoughts of every sensual moment that the vision of your soul's crystal ball could provide to me to decorate your mind with a myriad of expressions that would liken you to the most splendid creations of life and love, and innocent explorations of tender kindnesses that would forever yield you helpless to see another as I see you and take from your willingness the possibility of you ever wanting to see another other than me. Shall I, for just a moment, raise a blush to your fair ivory skin by telling you that your eyes are of a color that has always been the most mesmerizing to my mind; for in it I see the newness of a spring morning where the tender new petals of a blooming green leaf still lingers in virgin tones of yellow-greens and how it softens my hardened mind to soft tones of morning light rising on moistened fields of evening's dew. How it's blending of lighted tones forming colors of hidden greens as cooling waters refresh my want to long for you. How I would, if only I could and you would allow, take you by the hand and lead you through a forest land to a place away from the world to a water's edge to show you a gentle river where nature's expert coloring of colors are the only honest companions to the eternal loveliness your eyes inspire inside me, that eases my wondering mind from all life's hassles, calming my desires for all else but their vision. And how contented I would be to remain silent in your presence while you observe and explain the every thought in your thinking while I sit in your presence observing your every expression and how I could indulge you to such a heaven as to see your eyes shine as rare jewels in celebration of existing inside our exploration. For I would, if only for one reason, to pour from my romanticized mind the everlasting longings of my own soul to see your eager gaze admire my presence the same way. To accept my simple gift of finding an equaled longing for such immeasurable gentleness, honestly returned for nothing more than the infatuations of an eager inception of genuine emotion.
Then it happens, the curtains close over your window and my mind returns again to a present moment where I remember such things are now just a non sense to many; such thoughts are for the therapist of those with lost dreams, such beauty has been forsaken by the innocent dreamers, for such dreamers have long since been tamed by the maniacal ambitions of the players in a game; the indifferent, instantaneous, insincere, individuality that herds humanity away from such thinkings, such observations, such contented moments of time; to bow their heads down to telecommunication devices, void of thought or emotion, for advice on how to live, how to think, how to describe, how to believe, how to infatuate, how to recreate, how to feign the opening of the windows of their soul to shared experiences of social interaction recreations, all longing to find a living soul to look into their eyes for more than a glance, more than a moment, more than a night, for more than a sale. Ugh!
I saw your eyes today. I won't bore you with the details or how my ever eager mind wrapped its self in thoughts of velvets and satin to seduce the thought of them to linger in my memory.
Jade Jaspers
I considered the phrase "windows of the soul" regaling the sentiments I have heard from so many others over the years of twinklings and shinings, laughings and worries, intensities and dullness, animalistic and dazed, pained and relieved. Upon those thoughts my mind quickly correlated that while one persons definition of such conditions may bring about a better understanding of a moment that someone else might not have shared in, that in and of themselves, eyes have no emotion, they say nothing, show nothing, except the colors of a person to whom they belong. Story tellers do though; those poetic expressionists who can decorate with emotion the interior idea of an individual with the endless magnificence of the world it has seen over a lifetime. Comparing the eyes to pools of cooling waters, blues and greens and in betweens, unstirred by drifting winds. Likening a starry night to eyes as dark as velvets, as warm as welcoming coffee, as cold as polar ice, as enticing as purest pleasures, or as hostile as a threatening storm; building characterizations of shifty eyed thieves, nerved riddled netty's, flagrant violent drifters, calloused with indifference, blinded to anything except their own impulses. And in all of those ideas we understand not by what can be saw, but by what occurred within the individual's presence and what became of our lives by our experience with them and how they, with their own eyes, looked into ours, to set forth those moments when the window to the soul were famously aware that they were engaged with ours.
We compare them to our own, we remember the relation of the events as a whole, we connect to preset emotions that were alive and aware of our comforts and discomforts, our thoughts and our forbearance, reminding us again that those windows are often dirtied by our personal needs and wants preventing a clear vision of the situation in which we're in. Where our minds willingness to overlook or look away, wanting different results and casting out our own knowledge, brought a distorted vision of a cropped idea that we were unwilling to view for the truth that was so obviously there to see.
The windows of the soul, those expressionless values of visual opportunities, forever lead our thoughts being the most susceptible to opinion . Deciphering and determining what good and acceptable forms of living is worth our second glance and what's worth our prohibition to secure our own soulish thinking into a wholeness we can accept day by day to live with among the ordeals of events that pry at our attention for acceptance and rejections.
You offer me a glance of such a vision, pulling back the curtains for a time where I can review with my own sight the sultry tones of your windows to form an opinion and at first glance, ah; my darling, such a splendid vision of all heavens creation I see there. I dare not look too long for I know my impetuous longings to note every aspect of color I see there with the lustful fascinations of a child minded wonder to embellish with compliments the everlasting impressions that I would compare them to. And I better than anyone, would be perfectly content to spend hours of my day lost in thoughts of every sensual moment that the vision of your soul's crystal ball could provide to me to decorate your mind with a myriad of expressions that would liken you to the most splendid creations of life and love, and innocent explorations of tender kindnesses that would forever yield you helpless to see another as I see you and take from your willingness the possibility of you ever wanting to see another other than me. Shall I, for just a moment, raise a blush to your fair ivory skin by telling you that your eyes are of a color that has always been the most mesmerizing to my mind; for in it I see the newness of a spring morning where the tender new petals of a blooming green leaf still lingers in virgin tones of yellow-greens and how it softens my hardened mind to soft tones of morning light rising on moistened fields of evening's dew. How it's blending of lighted tones forming colors of hidden greens as cooling waters refresh my want to long for you. How I would, if only I could and you would allow, take you by the hand and lead you through a forest land to a place away from the world to a water's edge to show you a gentle river where nature's expert coloring of colors are the only honest companions to the eternal loveliness your eyes inspire inside me, that eases my wondering mind from all life's hassles, calming my desires for all else but their vision. And how contented I would be to remain silent in your presence while you observe and explain the every thought in your thinking while I sit in your presence observing your every expression and how I could indulge you to such a heaven as to see your eyes shine as rare jewels in celebration of existing inside our exploration. For I would, if only for one reason, to pour from my romanticized mind the everlasting longings of my own soul to see your eager gaze admire my presence the same way. To accept my simple gift of finding an equaled longing for such immeasurable gentleness, honestly returned for nothing more than the infatuations of an eager inception of genuine emotion.
Then it happens, the curtains close over your window and my mind returns again to a present moment where I remember such things are now just a non sense to many; such thoughts are for the therapist of those with lost dreams, such beauty has been forsaken by the innocent dreamers, for such dreamers have long since been tamed by the maniacal ambitions of the players in a game; the indifferent, instantaneous, insincere, individuality that herds humanity away from such thinkings, such observations, such contented moments of time; to bow their heads down to telecommunication devices, void of thought or emotion, for advice on how to live, how to think, how to describe, how to believe, how to infatuate, how to recreate, how to feign the opening of the windows of their soul to shared experiences of social interaction recreations, all longing to find a living soul to look into their eyes for more than a glance, more than a moment, more than a night, for more than a sale. Ugh!
I saw your eyes today. I won't bore you with the details or how my ever eager mind wrapped its self in thoughts of velvets and satin to seduce the thought of them to linger in my memory.
Jade Jaspers
