26 Oct 2016

A morning dressed in milky pastels and butter scotch cream, the unwrinkled silk of the soundless sky, every leaf still, smiling, butterflies in pairs, fluttering in slow motion, in coordinated iridescence, grass humming Brahms under its breath… Marcus, such a morning would be almost unbearable.

Some would liken its perfection to love.

Only if they haven’t felt the blistering chaos of a thunderstorm, the monsoon flashing, breaking against the waiting hills, the exquisite agony of parched earth as the deluge descends, life shuddering below, its baked heart finding a beat again. Love is not a peaceful lake etched into the curved hip of the land. Love should be selfish, it should be biased, it has to be argument, it has to be passion, it has to be a million unreasonable questions, rippling contradictions, a maelstrom instead of a patterned drizzle.

The worst, the best of storms, still pass into the lightening quiet.

Isn’t that why they are so beautiful, so alive while they last?

the higher Icarus rose
the faster his wings melted
for a while, the sky held him


22 thoughts on “26 Oct 2016

  1. Riding the wild horse called love or wind or storm is the exquisite heroic tale of Romanticism–but so is the ideal of resting in perfection — how could either last? I love the Icarus image, as he dared both in one assent. What’s odd to me about these shimmering polarities is that the Immortals are no better at them than mortals are! All of Greek drama attests to that.


  2. OMG this is so beautifully written I really enjoyed it Very expressive
    ‘Love is not a peaceful lake etched into the curved hip of the land. ‘ Great and no it isn’t that is not reality even if we wish Thinking about it we need the contrast, we respect the silence after a big storm. We wouldn’t if things were always perfect. That said I do find as you get older that the storms lessen, and that’s a kind of peaceful and acceptable love too.


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