New Horizons

Soft jazz plays in the background. The night is cool, the wind playful, the air filled with the undiscernable shallow mumbling of various lovers. We are all together here but no one looks at each other. I carry the drink back to my table, smiling slightly, letting my gaze deepen-- my eyes, smouldering, intent upon the beautiful sight before me. As I sit with a hopeful sigh, I smile more widely at my love. Sweet memories bring us closer-- quiet nights, rainy days, late mornings, disturbed only by the thrumming of my heart, the gasps of heady breaths, the moans of boundless pleasure. I grasp the benevolent in my ever waiting hands and lower my lips, parting them slightly, only to breathe once before it all begins. And then it does. The creaminess of mayonnaise, it's smooth richness along with a thick  layer of cheese, at perfect harmony with the crisp, rough texture of my chicken parm. As my bite deepens, the sound of pure love escapes my body as it claims my soul, my thoughts

I like washing dishes. What I don't like is being told to do it. The idea of an over pampered, French speaking (kind of), self-proclaimed beauty reduced to soaping up dirty dishes infested with the salivated germs of the less worthy sapiens around her, disgusts me.  And yet, I secretly enjoy the sanctity of cleaning the unclean, coupled with the sensory amusement in the sound of the gushing water, the slippery feel of the soap and the purity of the gritty green sponge. It's almost fantastic, playing around with the soft, cloud-like foam, its many facets reflecting the bright light. The shine of stainless steel, the squeak of freshly cleaned glass is like the emergence of Aphrodite from the waves of the sea.  The perception of such chores as menial, manual labor is, in that meditative state, completely forgotten.  It is unfortunate though, as I wash my hands (twice!) with dermatologically tested "100% effective" hand wash and then proceed to moisturize them wit

Clarity is an oddly selfish state of mind. Without the trivia of other beings, their lives and flaws, their happiness or unhappiness, our minds tune to their inner burrows of self-preserving bliss. It is then in that cavern that we see the crack of dawn, the rise of the sun, the faces of the moon-- all uninterrupted, undisturbed by the facets of ordinary human tendencies. We forget our qualms, our anxiety. We look instead, for our life's purpose.  However, if everyone lived in total clarity of thought, of their actions and their consequences, perhaps all would lead unjustly tedious lives. Or perhaps only then would the world truly become those of equals, of man and nature alike and truly be for everyone and everything?  Or would such clarity force some to lack empathy, leading to the destruction of everything we urge ourselves to forget for that moment of Clarity.  

Whisperings and soft speeches, blurtings and loud blunderings. But mostly whispering. They tickle my visible brain. Of whom do they utter and what, I ask. Whispering, madly away? Small, short breaths, a sudden intake of—small, short…shallow. Why now, to stop? I force my head to turn. No smile today, I see? Not today, says me. Long sighs, short breaths. Whispering again.  I look down at the muted words. But even text, it does deceive. Why so small, that I may not read? I am neon once again, glowing bright, subject of those whispering. Whispering,  madly away.