Reflections
Far away a butterfly flaps its wings. Somewhere in a back street of a city a newspaper is spun by a dervish of filth, finally settling on the still body of a man. It lies there; proclaiming to the world that someone somewhere doesn’t care any more. In time it rots, and all that is left is the bones of what was real once. There’s a truth in the flap of butterfly wings, but no one can read the wind.
The burning heart of a loss to come stings the eyelids, causing a flinch and a twinge in the most tender parts of the soul. There’s nothing that can be done about it. Loss and gain are relative terms, and rationalisation is a waste of time.
The great I Am is crushed by the force of habit.
Bloodless passions created from whispers and promises, and everything that doesn’t matter. Wretched feeling, when numb life is the only refuge. Hiding from the reflection in a room with four walls. Someone always opens the door, letting what is inside see what is outside.
Writers encrypt life so that people think there is something that they can’t see. Everyone can see the same thing, and it seems that those who don’t ask don’t get disappointed.
