Musings is a series of creative, experimental expositions of ideas, observations or thoughts with a specific focus on fictionalizing reality and visual writing, using style as visual accompaniment. Style takes secondary focus in Musings.
My heart is withering like a wrinkly, old prune and I feel it dropping out of me. It is ugly and heavy, a shriveled up boulder. It falls on dead lilacs, dried lilacs. This I write with ink of rose cataracts. Dumb lilacs.
I watch the evening devoid of carbon and devoid of oxide. I have become a decaying carcass. The night sky is infinite and dotted and dashed and the dandelions are feathery and whisper-y and dance-y. They speak to me through the breeze -- it is the only way to speak to a blinded, deafened, deadened carcass.
I feel on my skin their quiet little kisses. Ballerinas. They tiptoe through starlight in their slender, silky way. Every dried up crevice and drooping cranny on my body can feel it and I am filled with an incomprehension I do not want mollified. It is gentle. Calm. Soft, but an almost painful kind of soft. It is a pas de deux on the slopes of the breeze, and through my division, I feel an unexpected tug.
No longer dead lilacs, dumb lilacs, though I still write from rose cataracts. I now paint with my crushed flower heart -- rose red, violet and ivy green, hazel. Colorful carcass of a flower child raised.
The above was written with a very specific experience as reference in mind. I knew I wanted this to be a response post to a piece I wrote earlier on in the year called Forest Child, which is about guilt destroying the guilty. I wanted this to be a thistle heart turned crushed flower heart, fig tree limbs turned dances in the wind.
I had the visual, but not the idea.
And then that one moment that's always been lurking in my subconscious crept into my mind; it was that one specific moment I began to see colors in my grayscale world, and that one specific moment where my heart that was filled with so much dejection and skepticism for the universe became a palette to create my own planets and constellations and cosmos from. Guilty, angry, dejected or not, the touch that broke my freezing blood streams into shards of pulses was a liberation I didn't know I needed, and I've remembered it ever since.
What I know is that this feeling is universal. There are catalysts a myriad, and whether it be a person, event or epiphany, I know this: we are all flower children reaching for the sky. We shoulder our way through the dark and damp soil to feel the sunlight in open air. We grow, we twist, we bloom into breeds. Acacias, hibiscus, white water lilies. We are filled with colors that splatter when crushed, brightly and brightly and brightly and brightly, and when the time comes while fallen that we may be kissed by the breeze, we will rise up again, painting our faces with the crushed ashes of our soul.