The Romance of the Writer
Note the minds searching for the uniqueness of idea to expound upon while it hushes all other stimulus that invades it's inner sanctum realizing that phrase worthy cadence is in of itself the most essential element of bringing together the idea of moment. The idea of leading myself in thoughts to a yet unacquainted place where the romance of the writer is entwined with the words in the writing in an intimate arousing of the subject where all other would be subjects are lost to the attention of the mind's penetrating exercises in exploration. An inner galactic explorer on its venture to discover the confines of the eager mind it has acquainted itself with for years; reminiscing first one idea then another until it has resourced every formula of variant needed to feel appeased by the moments to which it has passed through. The euphoria of the meeting building to an avid pitch waiting anxiously for the moments when once again the eyes of the imploring flesh sees it's most desired affection; the decadence of the moments waiting to be tasted as a saving drop of water upon the softened lips of it's lover. The fingers of the individual fidgeting awkwardly through mundane tasks in the days past has wasted it's time prying the soul of mind in unmeant directions for its survival which is needing the breath of the passions living to release it from the everyday sentiments of the plastic screens separating it from what requires it, to where it would plunge with all haste, to define the ever wantoned design of it's being.
It is a place where the minds of millions dare not to go in search of for lack of confidence in the findings of the travelling required to breach it's thick walled etiquette, intimidated by the expanding visions that might lay before them. An environment of atmospheres where the scents of undisclosed objects wake future possibilities rather than memories of past experience; and the visionary quests change from first one scene then another under the all watchful eyes that search for the perfection of a meeting of the living with the creator of all creation; the impossible task of understanding the quantum variants of all possible lives to live; the supplications of the human condition molded from years of apostolic teachings only reaching as far as routine rather than experience.
The ideal surroundings are no more than willingness to begin in a room with nothing more than an expression taught writer and the unction to transform one's mind to describe distant mountain tops surrounded by steep cliffs that fall into bottomless valleys; then again into trails of lush greenery surrounding adventurous feet in search of solitude from the LED brightness of a brilliant city, encased with glass buildings, accompanied by like minded persons, who bring acknowledgement to hidden blooms of rare trees atop cave walls, like mountain laurel, taking care not to disturb the wildlife while gingerly stepping through brier barriers. Once there then onward to a secluded home of flowing drapes through open windows, plush carpets under tired feet, warm bath to melt away the sweaty smells from satisfied body of journey, to exquisite silks around damp skin, then lathered in lavish lotions and lain on thick cushions of untouchable softness where the body then frees mind, will and emotions to exhale the validations of their presence as natural as light appearing in all its varieties undaunted by the presence of dark or shadow knowing it's glow can not be vanquished. Living in the uninterrupted, with the complaints of in-valiant oppositionist, who have neither time nor want of such things, the hands explore vocabularies for things as simple as describing a silence in the moments where breathing is the rhythm of their thinking and the release from mandatory requirements to be, to think, to say this or that to appease and please a critic who is, was and will never be satisfied in the moments of anyone other than itself; find their opposition destroyed by the sounds of the breeze, the contented songs of birds, a cooing cat, and various other creatures going about their way unconcerned with the exploration of their activity.
To leave that where it is is then to venture through an array of elegant motifs placed in museums where the artists of our ancestries described their lives in the most available ways of their hands capabilities. Only to resurface among a foreign city where you can not understand the language of the predominating crowd around you yet are induced into happiness by the engulfing sights, sounds, and scenes while you stroll the vestibules of the town in search of food and accommodation with a dear friend who's companionship well fits your humor and thinking; pausing to take pictures of the things you find interesting, taking turns posing by landmarks of past days to celebrate the day you are both together where a million feet have trod before you and a million more will walk when you've moved on from this place.
Relinquishing those thoughts to a cloud of unknown quiet to refocus your visionary path into a time of becoming the vigilant wanderer of indescribable emotions that leads you to dare search for a lover for no more than the sake of knowing to question the flesh that epitomizes the demands of your own individuality who has the choice of their choosing in the way you would choose. Crossing eons of time lost in the sensual skin of the writers personal appeal, releasing their most intimate resources inside yourself to awaken and bring to life the breath of your longing to birth in them their pleasures. Once satisfied, leaving in understanding that the adventure shared would be carried elsewhere to a building where a work office demands a ringing phone, irritating coworkers, a perverted ill-tempered manager who insults your integrity, your life, your intelligence, your efforts and gloats in the fact that they never have to appreciate you as you are. The world around you is stale with the air of glossy tiles and stucco walls, flat white paints, and computer equipment; and the face in the mirror of the restroom in front of you doesn't seem to be no more alive than the digital picture of a person on your phone. Leaning forward you stare into your own eyes noting the subtle colors that compose them then drift back into memory of the moments of imagination where the birds woke you from a tree outside your bedroom window welcoming you to a new day and a lover questioning if they would ever see you again. With no promises made, as to not break them, the last whisper of their kiss lingering only momentarily as the next thought encourages the adventurous thinker into scaling the skies with the thoughts of a storm cloud, gathering rains over a dry valley, where even the most seasoned garden is silently whispering a prayer to a god, a goddess, a person, a passer bye to water it's wishes for survival; reaching past what is presently available into the atmospheres that surround it pleading for relief and more than a day's satisfaction.
Such is the individual delving into the mind of the unknown world it craves, to sate the known world in which it is present; to ease the burden of their want, and please the unfulfilled queries of their thinking that cries to them like a newborn child in search of comfort from a caring parent who never hesitates to quench the discomfort of its offspring that is unable to tend to it's own needs.
Jade Jaspers
It is a place where the minds of millions dare not to go in search of for lack of confidence in the findings of the travelling required to breach it's thick walled etiquette, intimidated by the expanding visions that might lay before them. An environment of atmospheres where the scents of undisclosed objects wake future possibilities rather than memories of past experience; and the visionary quests change from first one scene then another under the all watchful eyes that search for the perfection of a meeting of the living with the creator of all creation; the impossible task of understanding the quantum variants of all possible lives to live; the supplications of the human condition molded from years of apostolic teachings only reaching as far as routine rather than experience.
The ideal surroundings are no more than willingness to begin in a room with nothing more than an expression taught writer and the unction to transform one's mind to describe distant mountain tops surrounded by steep cliffs that fall into bottomless valleys; then again into trails of lush greenery surrounding adventurous feet in search of solitude from the LED brightness of a brilliant city, encased with glass buildings, accompanied by like minded persons, who bring acknowledgement to hidden blooms of rare trees atop cave walls, like mountain laurel, taking care not to disturb the wildlife while gingerly stepping through brier barriers. Once there then onward to a secluded home of flowing drapes through open windows, plush carpets under tired feet, warm bath to melt away the sweaty smells from satisfied body of journey, to exquisite silks around damp skin, then lathered in lavish lotions and lain on thick cushions of untouchable softness where the body then frees mind, will and emotions to exhale the validations of their presence as natural as light appearing in all its varieties undaunted by the presence of dark or shadow knowing it's glow can not be vanquished. Living in the uninterrupted, with the complaints of in-valiant oppositionist, who have neither time nor want of such things, the hands explore vocabularies for things as simple as describing a silence in the moments where breathing is the rhythm of their thinking and the release from mandatory requirements to be, to think, to say this or that to appease and please a critic who is, was and will never be satisfied in the moments of anyone other than itself; find their opposition destroyed by the sounds of the breeze, the contented songs of birds, a cooing cat, and various other creatures going about their way unconcerned with the exploration of their activity.
To leave that where it is is then to venture through an array of elegant motifs placed in museums where the artists of our ancestries described their lives in the most available ways of their hands capabilities. Only to resurface among a foreign city where you can not understand the language of the predominating crowd around you yet are induced into happiness by the engulfing sights, sounds, and scenes while you stroll the vestibules of the town in search of food and accommodation with a dear friend who's companionship well fits your humor and thinking; pausing to take pictures of the things you find interesting, taking turns posing by landmarks of past days to celebrate the day you are both together where a million feet have trod before you and a million more will walk when you've moved on from this place.
Relinquishing those thoughts to a cloud of unknown quiet to refocus your visionary path into a time of becoming the vigilant wanderer of indescribable emotions that leads you to dare search for a lover for no more than the sake of knowing to question the flesh that epitomizes the demands of your own individuality who has the choice of their choosing in the way you would choose. Crossing eons of time lost in the sensual skin of the writers personal appeal, releasing their most intimate resources inside yourself to awaken and bring to life the breath of your longing to birth in them their pleasures. Once satisfied, leaving in understanding that the adventure shared would be carried elsewhere to a building where a work office demands a ringing phone, irritating coworkers, a perverted ill-tempered manager who insults your integrity, your life, your intelligence, your efforts and gloats in the fact that they never have to appreciate you as you are. The world around you is stale with the air of glossy tiles and stucco walls, flat white paints, and computer equipment; and the face in the mirror of the restroom in front of you doesn't seem to be no more alive than the digital picture of a person on your phone. Leaning forward you stare into your own eyes noting the subtle colors that compose them then drift back into memory of the moments of imagination where the birds woke you from a tree outside your bedroom window welcoming you to a new day and a lover questioning if they would ever see you again. With no promises made, as to not break them, the last whisper of their kiss lingering only momentarily as the next thought encourages the adventurous thinker into scaling the skies with the thoughts of a storm cloud, gathering rains over a dry valley, where even the most seasoned garden is silently whispering a prayer to a god, a goddess, a person, a passer bye to water it's wishes for survival; reaching past what is presently available into the atmospheres that surround it pleading for relief and more than a day's satisfaction.
Such is the individual delving into the mind of the unknown world it craves, to sate the known world in which it is present; to ease the burden of their want, and please the unfulfilled queries of their thinking that cries to them like a newborn child in search of comfort from a caring parent who never hesitates to quench the discomfort of its offspring that is unable to tend to it's own needs.
Jade Jaspers
