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.