The Unquiet Void

Filling the void (no.1)

1

A night. Its moments twist and turn in on one another; a scrunched up canvas made up of dark greens; patches of deepest black; a vortex of tarmac, lights and souls. A certain beautiful confusion brought about by speed and a cutting through. Comrades lost in a dense fog found through their voices, full of quiet joy. A holy morning rising too soon. Things would tumble off this precipice, this solidest of foundations into an abyss which supports life like never before.

2

It is as if we sit like dwarfs upon the shoulders of great masters, it is not our duty to attempt to elevate ourselves to equal heights, but still there is a driving force within us, always burning slowly, at times fiercely, the want is there to maneuver within this vast cosmos, the effects of which hopefully will not be so insignificant. Always sifting through darkness, the signs are minute, and silence descends over sharpened perceptions, within this we fail to exist yet there are paths previously traversed, etched on the earth that have led us before, as we take to them repeatedly. they change with us determining our experience of them, at the end we find ourselves anew, grey, freezing and lost. Found only by ourselves. Without heritage, and completeness.

3

I would sit and wait, absorbing all you had to offer,
With heady smoke that rests on the air,
In wait of the uncontrollable wind, spiraling, unfading,
To eventually dissipate  like the first fires,
Waiting once more, unknowing, stealthily under earth,
Caressing all in this life, passing on to the next,
Charcoal scents drift over oceans,
Rising and flowing, shrouding the shore,
We are invisible now, to each other,
Coal colored waves smolder under a grey sun,
The darkness, born to watch the fires burn,
Never in solitude, witnessing existence,
Thick golden veins glisten overhead,
Our past comes with the storms,
Forgotten with the final exhalation of unknown men,
Passing on from unknown lands,
Reminiscent of unknowable wells beneath the sands,
Providing life for all the splendor in the hostile deserts,
The sinking fossil, closer than in life to its great host,
The abyss hangs, bleeding over us,
Cascading, rolling, foaming wildly and forever,
Until the fires engulf mountains, snows stolen away,
For what is taken,
May be taken back,
Fires cleanse the blood,
Till our hearts rest ashen.

4

The closer you get to death, the further you are from pinning it down. That is why funerals are the things least concerned with death in the world. A crime scene, too. If you look at people’s faces, they are all taken out of it by the idea of death. Death looks past looks addressed to it, and puts people off. They look elsewhere and start to have fun. That’s a relief, no doubt. This is probably why people request that no one should take their funeral seriously; they don’t want to be the one responsible for people really feeling like they could jump in the grave with them. It’s a necessary lie, but one whose existence we try to destroy every time we visit the grave. We know we should be there too.

5

When two people misunderstand each other, it becomes literal – physical. You start to mishear them, and guess at an answer. Then the same thing happens to you. The words trail off and fade away and lose volume and you walk away from each other, and can’t look each other in the eye – it’s painful.

 6

I believe it even stranger undertaking fresh endeavors, it is often that with the beginnings of new journeys, one feels a great sadness an overbearing and persistent depression, that is not lifted until some mile-stones have been reached. Who is to say when they will be crossed or even confronted? They shift with time that is never born of the present, so it lingers and with its upsetting weight it drives, and burns slowly at the back of the mind, always manoeuvring and invading other thoughts in the unyielding garden of the mind. When will they produce and flourish to send away the negativity set upon by new beginnings, it is noticeably the same with the end of journeys, that is why one must feel as though you can never take things far enough.

7
I’m alone in this room, prisoner of authority and power.
I’m alone as I claw away at the ground, my fingers grasping for answers.
I’m alone as I begin to make friends with the earth, the insects, the madness.
I’m alone.
I stand up, touching the walls, like the touch of a virgin thought.
I speak to the stones, knowing they will never say anything but the truth.
I converse with etchings in the rock, tapestry woven with time lost.
I scream.
The tears begin to sting, burning embers within fogs of silence.
I breathe the stillness in the air and smell the scent of degeneration.
I hear the echoes of my memories, some old, some new but all the same -
they play out like haunting odes to another life, gradually fading away.
I’m alone.
So alone.

8

I don’t know why it is this way, why there is so much obsession with unreality, why I have met only a handful of people intrigued by reality, surely there is no mystery in the unreal, what is there to determine from something inherently false? The strength of an impression left upon me is truly long lasting when mystery enshrouds reality, obfuscating and masking it like ominous mists cascading down mountain sides disappearing then reappearing in an instant.

9

Certain moments make you ask a question too dangerous to consider for too long. “Have I really been living at all up until now? Does my life really only consist of these handful of moments, these particular times when I can feel everything, and my focus is not wayward – a special contentment without complacency?” and “Could it really be that it has taken me this long?”

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.

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She wasn’t there to watch over me,
No, she was not there,
I took off,
All over town,
Because she wasn’t around,
Nobody is there to watch me,
No, no-one waits above,
I’ll roam from this town,
To the other,
Without anybody to love.

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But he can’t kill me Lord, but he can’t kill me.

(Words and photographs from the unquiet void.)

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