Headspace. in And The Rest.
- Sept. 20, 2015, 3:07 p.m.
- |
- Public
Stardust swirls behind our eyes, the internal cosmos of the mind: a nebula of fireflies, they shift and drift and mesmerise, twirling corkscrew-curlicues in iridescent silvered hues: frosted purples, lunar blues; copper, carmine and chartreuse. Auroral neural meteor showers, unfurling flares of firework-flowers: the prismatic-acrobatics of rainbow cascades, in petroleum spectrums of breathtaking shades.
Hypnotic, quixotic, kaleidoscopic: the dancing stars are effervescent, bathed in moonlight; phosphorescent; opaline and incandescent… still nothing astral is everpresent: ephemeral yet memorable, these pinprick jewels are evanescent. A constellation of contemplation, a starlight-pathway symphony, a latticework in filigree, a mirage of cartography: the illusion of a galaxy.
And a dumb daydream-weaver- a foolish believer- could prance pirouettes endlessly through the ether, imagining embers of stardust beneath her; a stepping-stone safety of coddled conceit, as she skips astral spirals on flyaway feet, convinced that the cosmos can keep her complete.
That relief of belief is for pixie-dust girls, whose sweet fairy feet neatly waltz starlit swirls: reality is gravity, the earthly force of clarity… and who are you to dream so wide, you hollow consolation prize: dressing up in the dregs of your slash-tattered pride, while you’re drowning in space behind smash-shattered eyes. Your fractured jack-o-lantern mask cracked open in a Chelsea smile- a studied portrait of denial- choking worthless, mirthless laughter on a helix-highway to disaster; a self-destructive nihilist, squeezed into the skin of a realist.
You stared into the solar system, a lacework of coronas glistened- the white-gold heat of cosmic frisson- captivated by the vision; too far gone to really listen. Too starstruck by the luminescence, to chart the stars and learn your lessons: distracted by a supernova, you let a bolide bowl you over.
Short-lived in the limelight, a starburst may shine bright (majestic but finite): ostentatious, baseless, specious- a momentary myth of hallucination, a stupid spectral speculation: that you could be special, celestial… you were born to stay earthbound: terrestrial.
Re-entering the atmosphere, shooting stars burn out and disappear; an immolation by cremation, the mirage of astral correlation; the shrapnel of a constellation: a pyrotechnic conflagration, fading to disintegration, a light-show of illuminations… all that combusts, reduced to dust, the starless vacuum of mistrust.
Whatever you pretend to be, you’re a valueless nonentity, a potpourri of space debris: behind your eyes are asteroids, cascading back to earth, destroyed (charred-shard proof of the truth that you already knew)… you were never a starscape: you’re only a void.
Mr. Mofo ⋅ September 20, 2015
I am very sorry, but I read this entire thing using my Carl Sagan voice.
Waiting For Sunrise Mr. Mofo ⋅ September 20, 2015
I am very sorry also, although mainly for Carl Sagan, a) because I had to google who the heck he was, and b) because apparently he's dead.... I'm sure the haunting voice of zombie-Carl brought a certain je ne sais quois to my ramblings, though :p
Mr. Mofo Waiting For Sunrise ⋅ September 20, 2015
You combined zombie Carl Sagan and je ne sais quois which made me giggle. Thanks much!
LoveSuicide ⋅ September 24, 2015
That relief of belief is for pixie-dust girls, whose sweet fairy feet neatly waltz starlit swirls: reality is gravity, the earthly force of clarity… and who are you to dream so wide, you hollow consolation prize: dressing up in the dregs of your slash-tattered pride, while you’re drowning in space behind smash-shattered eyes. Your fractured jack-o-lantern mask cracked open in a Chelsea smile- a studied portrait of denial- choking worthless, mirthless laughter on a helix-highway to disaster; a self-destructive nihilist, squeezed into the skin of a realist.
That and this are my favorite parts:
the starless vacuum of mistrust.
That phrase alone deserves a song to be written about it. Constructed meticulously to present the panoramic skyline and starscape you so dearly do not believe can be created from your heart.
Because that's what I take from this -- an internal and eternal disbelief that no matter how star-filled and fulfilled you present or appear to be... you never feel it deep within you. You are the void inside. And I am but a fragmented star in your sky.
Waiting For Sunrise LoveSuicide ⋅ September 28, 2015
Thank you.... you're right, of course: I am that void. I can dress it up any way I like, but it's all shiny giftwrap on an empty box. :/
LoveSuicide Waiting For Sunrise ⋅ September 28, 2015
You are anything but an empty box.
Besides, even if you were, we can always find the right things to fill you with. :)
colojojo ⋅ October 17, 2015
Beautiful piece. <3