and Star is the language of night
and night is an under-understood feeling of ineffable space
where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen
into particles 'n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real ...
then our shadows slow-diving on the ground are reminders of the night we always carry 'round...
Yes! greatness in another brings us all up; no one is left behind. When a Writer or Poet lifts the veil, revealing reality, we are all made more by this feat! Nature always sends us Visionaries, Poets, Mystics; just-in-time mutations bent by infinity. They take us to the next evolutionary level.
our hero's are conflicted, hanging cross-wise, riddled with choices; pock-marks on their skin, topographically hardened by their spirit of humanity...
if poetry can fill the gap where words are whirl'ds inside the brain, if another voice can boom as thunder to release my tears like rain; if rhyme and rhythm can move my heart like streams that rush to the sea, where waves all gather, but disagree; if a writer writes infused with fire and lonely empty space, in a feeling that's numinously-moving through us, though irrational and out of place; if sHe can jingle in fractal-frissons that goose-bump tingles up my spine, then I've read another piece of beautiful, in a viscer-real voice that 'feels' like it's mine, in another heart-felt work of conflicted-yearning blooming as human-kind...
nonetheless, a writer writes and never stops writing and rewrites and writes again and again ... and we never stop writing, except to Dream, perhaps to reach for that Star in that Star crowded Sky, and bring that Star to the end of our Pen, and write like plasma all over again ...
see the French root of courage, 'with heart' -- viva la couer, à la vie ... like Nietzsche painted in his marvellous, 'Thus spoke Zarathustra', we are a 'bridge,' an interim response toward a loftier goal, toward a farther further place which our hearts do show -- we're the quantum-foam on this sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We're a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We're this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet which longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!
inside out withoutta' doubt ... it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of 'reason' nor the fatal-skin we're in, uncluttered by the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliche' of mediocrity!
Art reveals the passion of creative-destruction imbued with sentimental-reality -- and so it is in the heart of the Art-Martyrs where flames of confliction become a book of dreams written in the night of the 'Laylat al-Qadr', the night of storms, when they'll speak in tongues that flower into flames so hot and bright that they'll consume the Moon and the Stars and sear the secular eyes of all who cannot see this Love...
'if there's no mass to catch my fall, is my velocity vector toward forever' -- of the two universal laws of living in time and space matters, i.e., the law of falling and the law of catching up, the former is often given a bad rap due to the physics of terminal velocity, which kinda scares us, i.e., the terminal part -- nonetheless, this falling is part of why things move in space and why the second law, which we're more myopic about, is also very important, as this is why planets ellipse around Suns and why Poets are always falling in Love...
Nota Bena: on journaling: if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are these curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as a circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly ...
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