A Moment In Reflection

Today my head is full of the ten thousand things. They call to me like children yearning to be born, singing the delicate muscle of dawn. Wings cast upon the myth of creation.

I hear the narrator’s voice sprouting somewhere deep within my throat, it tastes a wise resonance whose vibration connects my head and my heart in romantic union. The words fall out of me at these times, water bursting through the levy of distraction.

Cool night air surrenders into day dream before me and I watch the azure wave that precedes the sun’s golden entrance. Does this also have a name?

This morning I awoke to the metronome of timekeepers. Heard the distant chime of traffic meeting train. Swam in the breath of my friend, sleep - as if it were some mantra of resurrection. A gust of your breath dances with leaves.

The lungs of everything.

Outside, the day is still waking and the people move in silent duty. They fill these streets and cars and trams without a word - the collusion of the civilian soul. To some it might seem oppressive.

Today I find it strangely comforting. No one need speak. The private respect of strangers in the crowd.

I step onto a ship that surfs the avenue, piloted by electricity, drunken with dawn. The road pulsates at the rate of mountain’s heartbeat. The glass is melting too - but none of us shall witness their long flood. Each heartbeat a microcosm of rhythm, each lifetime a song being spun to its crawl.

As we travel I watch a mess of angles gather on the horizon ahead, curving with the contours of bitumen, threaded with the powerline of stitching.

This whole city is a sculpture of robot DNA, each cell a perfect cube in the machinery of commerce and architecture, straight lines carved from earth and mortar, surrendered by rock gods with metallic skeletons. This is an age of concrete, where the world becomes manifest. Where the dreaming is cast into echoes forgotten in the breaking of day. Where magic is only rumour and money is plastic, made from oil, burning always, painting the sky.

My fellow passengers, I want to ask them:

How did this miracle first birth, wandering mind?

Who seeded the rivers under skin, or painted the stellar canvas of stars?

What breath performed this insurrection of spirit and matter?

This music of light and sound?

This aching of curiosity?

This ocean of desire?

We catch glimpse of the culprit in the threaded notes of poets’ dancing quills upon the page of histories. We hear the evidence in our minds’ eye whispering the endorphins of love to our virgin physiology, intoxicating us with spells of breath and flesh. We are drawn to its lustful gravity, calling to us from the end of all things.

Language speaks of its faceless persona, powered with the vessels of all our lives’ metaphor.

When I look at you I see a world of mirrors, reflecting the impossible truth, the gaze of a mirrorball, scattered into moments. We are fragments each and everyone.

These eyes of ours, they drink in colour, chew on form, grasp for meaning, taste lights echo potions. Nestled between each blink - an ocean. A sky within each pupil.

We are but curious birds perched upon evolution’s vast family tree.

And You, who never ceases to surprise me.

I do not want to even name you.

Not today.

From THE BOOK OF PORTALS