This is for the ones who lay in bed past midnight, their mind a muddle of thoughts so different they don't make sense no matter how you string them together. For the ones who think of tragedy and love in the same breath it takes the heart to beat, for the one who tries to get out of bed but just can't breathe, it hurts so much. These are the ramblings of a complete stranger, each definition a musing that stands alone, each word a story all its own.
Telluric adj. [te-loo r-ik]
When hate becomes so prevalent we forget where we came from and where we’re going. When skin color, and religion, and politics are easy reasons to kill. When being human is more like being a monster. When tragedy happens and all we think of is hate and fear. When death comes like a soldier in the night and takes everything you care about. When the tears burn tracks across your flesh and all you can think about is what you should have done, instead of what you did. When your neighbor suffers and you can only be thankful it wasn’t you.
I read the news today. A boy died and the nation cried foul.
I read the news today. A bomb fell on thousands of innocents and no one said a word.
I read the news today. A baton brought riots in place of peace.
At a funeral, a priest puts man to rest and he says,
“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” Genesis 3:19
and love makes fools of us all, but I wonder if that is true because the sun falls up like a bomb comes down, bright and fast and hot until suddenly the world is filled with light and in that one startling moment, before the bomb falls, before the bullet fires, before the sun rises, we are all the same, of skin, of breath, of heart, of soul…
…then the bomb sets the world on fire, the bullet sears through flesh and the light of the sun exposes all of our differences and that is all we can see, as if that was all we ever saw to begin with.
Fugacious adj. [fyoo-gey-shuh s]
All it took was a moment, a meeting, a touch. The way our eyes met across the room. A half smile on cheeks tinted red. A step. A dance. A hand at the small of my back, heat that curls my toes. A feeling like wine warming my belly, that gentle, half-dazed lull of contentment.
All it took was a moment, a dinner, a ring. The way your hands shake as you meet my eyes. A gasp, then eyes wet with tears. An answer. A touch of gold over skin soft as a flower, joy that sets my heart to dancing. A feeling like chocolate and junipers, love like the feel of your hand at the small of my back.
All it took was a moment, a kiss, one night. The way love fills out the curve of my belly. Your hand against my flesh, the life that kicks against it. A moment. Debates over names and colors and toys. A feeling like baby shoes in the palm of my hand, a tsunami, so powerful, that I’m lost in that joy.
A moment. All it took was a moment.
Empyreal adj. [em-pir-ee-uh l]
They fill the pitch of night, dots of light in the sky, more beautiful than any diamond to grace a silver band. We attach stories to them, give them names, use them to guide across oceans as vast and dark as any man’s soul.
Cassiopeia sits upon her throne, cast into the sky as punishment for her vainity, even as her daughter took her place amongst by the sea monster Cetus. Orion hunts across the night, his belt a shining reminder of the rivalry between Artemis and Apollo, even as the scorpion scuttles behind his back.
We give them names, try to predict out futures, use them as maps to our inner selves. Something so small, something most of us will never see off this small planet. They’re magic, and mystery, and faith.
And yet. And yet some say a star is nothing more than a luminous ball of gas, mostly hydrogen and helium, held together by its own gravity, but where is the mystery in that?
Innervate v. [ih-nur-veyt]
The way my stomach churns and clenches, the way the butterflies tear at my insides with claw like wings.
When the nerves are so tight inside of me I might as well be a canary singing in a coal mine, a warning that I’ll eventually run out of breath, that this isn’t safe. This is what the anticipation of the sound of your voice builds inside of me and then there is release, because I knew it was coming, and I survived, even though your words are still sweet like poison in my mouth.
Habitual, adj. [huh-bich-oo-uh l]
You love ink the way an addict loves drugs. Actually, you love everything the way an addict loves drugs. Your body is covered in a mosaic of art and creativity, needles piercing skin, eyes piercing heart, exuberance piercing life. You approach living with such soul shattering intensity, I can’t help but to hate you for it even as I love you for it.
Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like if I was like you and you were like me. What is it like to not feel fear, or nerves, or insecurities?
What is it like to live as if every day is your last? What is it like to know, at the end of the day, that you have squeezed out as much pulp, as much life, as is possible to eke out?
What is it like to have that needle move across your flesh, etching art into your skin like classic epics of battles won and lost?
