Only moons will ever know.

Well after that pathetic excuse of freewriting that claims to hide within it some sort of philosophical theorizing, and moreover, set forth some strange, over-analyzed, drawn out truth (that turned out to be nothing more than a lonely metaphor that crossed the path of the creative prowl of the high mind) I present to you all a gift. The channeling of negative to make the memories positive.

Only moons my lady, only moons,
will rest their eyes upon this wine
flowing through our naked minds,
and reach the soul of drenched desires
soaking in the restless night...

Scarlet Hunter stole the moon from him. And no matter how long he was under her watch, or how bright she burned the memory in the dark, humid, summer sky, he never brought himself to face her. It was a void in his life that didn’t need incessant reminding. How can someone face the ghost of a million possibilities that vanished like they were never even there? There are now just faint dreams that once upon a time colored his most fantastic slumbers. Of course that melancholic presence in the sky had it’s unforgettable moments, but that’s what made it so hard – facing the ghost of a dream that escaped into the mist.

Late. July.
"I could sit out here forever with you. Just us. No one watching us but that lonely face in the moon.”
And then her voice returns. Something about the way the woods scream through the night. There’s a mysterious aura within the peacefulness of the gentle breeze; but for him, this peacefulness was a painful silence that called to him in strange whispers riding on the wind. Her voice lingered in the humid night – settling right beside him in the chair where she once was so nervous and excited. Scarlet Hunter was a sister of the summer wind, and every time she kissed his cheek, he fell back into the deep reverie of what may have happened.

“What are promises anyway? Just words to bind one’s insecurities, right? Well, we don’t need any promises – all we need is that moon up there. He’ll remember the promise of tonight.”
And of all the little things the great emperor of the night set upon his eyes while traveling the earth, none other than the memory of Scarlet Hunter became more apparent in his gaze. It was a sick nostalgia; like living in the house where your mother died – the quiet room at the end of the hall that sits and gathers dust only to remind you of the sweetness of her life. That moon had been gathering dust for 6 years now. Because, as he slowly realized, life is lived to die, and love is made to break. No matter what any cheap diamond distributor or evangelical religious junkie tells you, nothing lasts forever.


To be continued at a later date, if deserving.

As we sit and smoke or drink our minds away we wonder at the world. Where will we be after ten thousand circles around the same old tree of life? Still living - yes. Truly alive- maybe. Prepared for death - not close.
What is it about death that arrests my racing mind? The mystery of which she bears seems to be the seed of wonder, yet why does this bearer of burden surrender my living. The questions, the circles, the mysteries, the possibilities. And here I sit, cigarette in hand, mind miles away at sea undulating to the rhythm of the waves of wonder, and I wonder why I wonder...
Then I understood! Does the sea move because it wants to move, has to move, or is moved by something? Does my mind move because I want it to? Well, considering the fact that our minds control our bodies rather than the contrary it seems quite plausible to accept the notion that my mind does not move because I simply wish it to. Does my mind have to move? If for preserving life and maintaing the natural balance of things like in the case of the sea, then it's possible to recognize a natural balance and self-preservation rooted deep in the mind, but then why would the mind search for something that transcends the comprehensions of which it is capable? This would seem to knock the natural balance out of whack and contradict the notion of the mind moving because it has to.
This leads me to my dramatic conclusion! Our minds move because they are moved by something other than ourselves - sure, simple shaping and molding can alter and re-create the structure and usage of the mind, but the infinite regress must lead us to believe that there is a Higher Power. Why do I feel like this? -
Thanks to many long-houred discussions about life and death with many friends, my friend Tom made me recognize such a simple, yet possibly most profound truths I have thus far encountered in my attempts to refute a God ( not because I don't want to believe, but on the contrare my lady ). Tom pointed out that affections of love are our connection to a Higher Power - similar to the soul and the mind. These intangible, incorporeal ideas are felt everyday, yet have no concrete explanation; no scientific proof to explain why we feel the way we do, and why we think the way we do. Yes, psychology explains portions of this (the brain and its functions), but psychology does not explain how this feeling we feel can transcend all human emotions ... and it is here I've realized I cannot even explain why love seems to connect to a Higher Power. But the way I see it is that if something can take me out of my body and make me feel like I am experiencing something so much more powerful than simple human emtions, then it must be some Force reaching me - right? Or have I simply done way too many drugs that my mind is just lost in a jumble of bewildered correlations?

Well, my revelation:
The tide of love is directed by the hand above.