Marked With a Code

Eyes are so intricate and unique. No one will ever have the same. An imprint of our own. I used to think that when I gazed into someone's eyes it didn't mean much, despite popular belief. But, after years of gazing, I think you find a tiny piece of that person in their eyes. Like a shap-shot taken years ago, the memory is distant but alive. Not only do you find them, you can feel them. Their warmth or passion. Their rage or worry. There is always a degree of rawness to eyes. They say things we don't mean to tell. They spill our secrets, even when we don't know how. I could fall in love with eyes, I really could. And each eye colour has it's own beauty. Brown are warm. Blue are fragile. Green are wistful. Hazel are sincere. But beneath the colour remains layers of identity. Whether it be the physical strands of colour interlacing with others or our emotions spilling through, the layers create who we are. They tag us, mark us, with a DNA code. When it comes down to it, we're all just a code. A code created of timeless hues.

Wander The Sky

Sometimes I watch the moon and its veil of clouds. Riding in and out of vision, like a thought surfacing in a foggy mind. I wonder what it would be like to wander the sky, shifting from sight. The stark, still moon contrasts the hazy, hovering clouds. I suppose the two simulate morals versus thoughts; we try to keep our ethics in order, while our minds whizz with hopes. The wind whispers possibilities and the ground restores balance. The trees ache outwards and the rain pushes inward. The constant strain and tension fill the natural world as it does our minds. Our external bodies expand outwards and our minds expand inwards, perhaps infinitely. Perhaps the rain is infinite. Each tear-shaped drop, another memory, hope, or will. Each shatters into the rough ground, insuring balance, insuring we don't lose ourselves and float towards the moon. Because no one can know what it is like to wander the sky, shifting from sight.

Brush Strokes

How we feel can be hidden by the mask we offer the world. An illusion portrays to others our emotions, like a reflection in stirred water, our mask flexes and bends. Despite the lack of connectivity within ourselves, our feelings can be mirrored onto the world around us. When we're upset we focus on the pattering rain or the whistling wind. When we're pissed we focus on the backlash or facial expressions of others. We exaggerate our world to fit how we feel. Someone may have appeared to shoot you a dirty look, when they could have been trying to sneeze or were in pain. We make our surroundings reflect our emotions, whether we realize it or not. When we're overly happy, we notice couples laughing and kids smiling. Although sometimes people feel as though they are disconnected from this realm, we are actually creating it. A subjective version, but none the less shaping it. It's sort of beautiful when you think about it. Like an artist painting to music, the outcome echos their mental state. A rough dry stroke for anger and a light, water-downed stroke for tranquility. We are literally painting our world. Paint it right.

Dissolving Snowflakes

Recently I've found it hard to write and I think that's because I want to write the truth. I don't want to put something into the world that isn't real, honest, and pure. But, in reality, we're all unpure to a certain extent; the white lies, makeup, the clothes, those smiles we pull our lips into. Still, I've always wanted my writing to feel honest to me and to you. I think that's just what all new writers want, but I've written about things I don't believe in, like true love. Maybe that's a lie, maybe I do believe in it but I'm trying to convince myself that I don't, because I haven't found it yet. This is where the line of honesty blurs. The once calm shoreline begins to wash in and out, following the tide. But what's the tide? Is it who we are? Who we think we are? What we want to be? It's like trying to grasp a snowflake; it dissolves before you can capture it's uniqueness, before you can see what it really is. Besides the degree of purity in my writing, I've been wondering what to write about. I have so many thoughts and ideas that it becomes so overwhelming, other days, not so much. All of this aside, I'm going to keep up with this site and embrace the words. However they come.

Storms

I think one of the most beautiful treasures in the world is the calm before the storm. The look in someone's eye before the battling words are spoken. The excited, pounded hearts before a treacherous journey. The warm breeze drifting softly over your skin before the sharp downpour. It's truly beautiful. A moment of hope, a softened state in which time idles and the future disintegrates, like ashes blowing in the wind. I suppose the storm may be substituted, used as a metaphor. Before you're boyfriend opens his mouth and reveals his betrayal, you become soft, vulnerable, hopeful, warm, but once the words hit you, it all sinks. The moment before everything is blown to pieces is beautiful, the distraught of tension. We force it upon ourselves. We hope he says everything is fine. We hope the adventure will follow according to plan. We hope the rain will wait until we reach the door. We hope. The calm before the storm is simply a state of hopefulness, a state in which we ponder the possibilities.