The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

Writing is immortality. It is that flux between turning memories and fantasy into reality.

You get inspired, you fall in love with that feeling, you want to keep that spark alive, so you write. You write about what inspires you, you write about who inspires you. You write, and write, and write, until you realize the only thing surreal about what is written is that the encryptions are your reality transformed into the physical entity of writing.

There is a person behind the words.
There is a story within those words.
There is soul inside the poetry.
There is feeling in reality.

What is unwritten is only ever unfinished, and what is unfinished needs to be written. What needs to be written will be lived, and what was lived is thusly transcribed.

Write, darling, for it is your immortality.

I write, darling, for it is my immortality.

It is our immortality.

Write, darling, just write.

Until there is nothing left to say except the raw, wild, unfiltered, unencumbered, relentless, limitless feeling of what humans have come to call “inspiration”.

Write, darling, for it is immortality.

Just. Write.

~MG~

I don’t want someone to
fight for me.

I don’t want someone to
fight against me.

I want someone to
fight
with
me.

If that’s too much to ask,
then I’ll fight alone regardless.

I didn’t get this far
to make it
just here.


I didn’t get this far
by waiting around to prove my worth.

No,
I know what it’s like to be tired.

I know what exhaustion feels like.

I know what it’s like to want to give up.

But,

I also know what it’s like
to have no choice but to keep going.

And that,
m’dear,
is all I know.

So darling,
keep going.

With or without me.

I made it,
so can you.

Prove me right.

I dare you.

 

MG

Have you ever seen her write? 

Have you ever just sat, and watched her surrender as the paper devoured her soul, as the pen carved into the unmarked linings of reproduced trees?

I have. I’ve seen her write. I’ve fallen asleep to the image of her etching patches of her soul into her diary. I’ve typed up essays to the company of her writing soundlessly behind me. I’ve found myself in a cafe, sipping lattes to the gentle glaze of her pen romancing paper.

She would write, and rewrite, and write, and rewrite, until she was satisfied with what had manifested onto the sheet tightly gripped in her hand. Then, she would place it, ever so gently, onto the table, and read the words from a slight distance. The words, the reflections of truth coming from the depths of her soul. Words of wisdom echoing the truth of what she may or may not have consciously recognised.

But she always loved what she wrote. Always.

And through writing, she always, always loved.

That’s all I wanted, to be a part of that, to be a part of the writing. To watch, to embrace, to collaborate.

To write, and to love.

Ever so silently, in the corner, across the table, under the sheets. 

I wanted to write with her.

And I wanted her to write with me.

To write,
is to love.

To be writing,
is to be love.

~M.G.~

I watched
as she edged closer to my cliff.

I watched
as she inhaled my breath.

I watched
as she glanced down my abyss.

I watched
as she took the plunge.

I watched
as she spread her wings.

I watched
as she fell.

I let her fall
and I did not catch her
— with wings like those,
she was meant to fly.

~M.G.~

As the sun set behind the clouds on which they’d rested all day, I watched as my planet slowly spun into the shadows. I thought about how years ago, almost centuries ago, when “night fall” was seen as dangerous. When the human species started to fear the “demons” that came out to play — what all started as a simple rustle of a leaf or a flicker of a shadow became sanctioned curfews and implemented sleep schedules through labour and education.

It was merely the break of night, still, glimpses of the sun stealing its last bit of attention before slowly disappearing…

I closed my eyes and listened. My ears tuned into the music of cellos echoing the underlying waves of the beach, the sands under my feet as my toes gripped the shells. My heart tuned into the violins — the distant cries of dolphins, of seagulls, of creatures great and small. My soul tuned into the piano — the sounds of memories, of adventures, of visions and dreams.

That overwhelming feeling of being excited, fearful, adventurous, and free. The agonizing weight as my memories overtook me momentarily, replaced by a hopeful element of what is yet to come.

Walking along the beach, I realized that I was falling in love with the moment, with the experience. I was falling in love with the memory in the making. Neither time nor place mattered. All that mattered was the experience.

I was falling in love with whatever was manifesting inside of me, as the energy started to boil…

It was an exhilarating feeling, one that I wanted to hold for as long as it would, a beautiful resonance I wanted to prolong for as long as time stayed in my hand.

I was falling in love, again and again, with that exact moment in time.  As the cello picked up, as the flutes chimed in, as the song took a slow pause to breathe… It picked up again once all the instruments had held on for as long as they possibly could. The song was unfinished, and the resounding note that pulsed through my veins told me that what was unwritten was only unfinished.

I fell in love with that exact moment in time.

And so I journeyed on as the songs transitioned, one after another, after another, after another, until I had enough songs to create an entire soundtrack of all the groundbreaking moments that took my breath away…I traveled, on foot, through the waters, until I had no more fight left in me. Until I had no more energy, no more air.

Until I was suffocated by my own desire to fall in love with moments

I had reached a dead end and realized…all I’d ever wanted was to have a hand to hold as we fell in love with moments…together.

T’was always that simple.

~M.G.~

Her eyes echoed
Silenced screams
“You can abuse me.
But don’t you dare touch me.”

~M.G.~

%d bloggers like this: