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Today I purchased freedom, a feeling become tangible in the form of a no-return boarding pass. The simplest of token holding the deepest of implication. Adventure, the enthralling disorientation and the bewildering social eccentricities.

Camp free of die hard

One day, Bruce Willis went camping.
The day was night and the night was bright,
alight with fire fed by desire,
but really desire was beer.
He drank all of it, which was a lot.
It was wild, a thing of beauty,
Even if a little blurry.
Then after a recurring warning
from a pubescent watchman,
into the woods he went a-wanderin,
can't let the terrorists win.
At some point someone got lost,
by a stream his ankle bust.
So he dialed for help, or so he thought.
Out of two numbers, he called help's mom...
She relinquished sleep, but not confusion.
In the end, all party from the party
healthily wound up home.
One day Bruce Willis went camping,
but really it was four youths...
The next day the landlord did not see the hilarity,
in a terms&agreement signed yours truly:
Bruce Willis.

              The Tent.

A matinee of morning memories

A childhood memory surfaces from the vague drowsiness. An image pours in as the mind defies the eyes,  still closed, baiting slumber. The September morning is lightly fogged, the wind content to stay dormant for as long as the sun won't force it to rouse, its only movements seen in the occasional rustle of leaves on the curtain of boreal forest, as if groaning on a lazy morrow... The other senses conform to this view. With each of those whispers the forest sends this way, a hint of pine is expressed. This scented air gently tiding in from the ajar window feels so moist the dew can almost be tasted. Slow and sporadic waves resound as occasional cars rolling by on the distant road, a soothing misapprehension issued from the stillness of the land, an acoustic reserved for the early birds. They too can be heard, chirping intermittently, somewhat indolent so few they number.

I bask in the memory, sleep can wait...

( ( ((Echoes from the heart)) ) )

Eerie stillness, the quiet of contemplation.
Such sadness, this certainty:
Through corporeal demise, the ethereal will cease.
Two ends at odds over an implied limitation.
However raging of an out-pour,
The dictum can never fully express,
What is innately an infinite feeling.
A tranquil one calculating, apprehensive, its veracity.
A restless other advocating, passionate, valiant obstinacy.

As it is voiced ever so softly,

The three words echo powerfully.

Live, Love, Laugh...

Under a cloud asking to share your umbrella

It kept coming, the dream, and I kept running, afraid. I wasn't alone in this, footprints all around, by the hundreds, their stride suggesting the same frantic flight. A general confusion, the sole discernible pattern, a lack of pursuit, the peril only figment. A societal plight, this unwillingness to fight. To share the deepest of secret, admit to the darkest of struggles would purge the fright, bring shine and a rainbow to the valley. There's so much more beauty in intimacy than in concealment.
Why not brave etiquette?

My thoughts in a nutshell

Every day, all day, I dream. These are of a wide spectrum of themes that qualify from mundane all the way to exceptional in their nature. Always have I been so disposed, a youthful naivete which allowed me to travel the world over within the confines of my mind, such a fertile ground where romance and adventure flourished. But as I aged, I have shed some of this attribute, ever so slightly after each trial I found myself confronted with. A mixture of hope and cynicism currently seems to be my defining character, the germans will have a word for it I am sure. Now hardly able to commit to feelings I hold, I wince as I entrust the scantest portion of my heart, this reluctance causing the very parting I seek to avoid pain from without fail. Also, the lack of faith I entertain towards the probability of my earthly pursuits makes reaching the location of various panoramas I wish to behold seemingly unfeasible, so I procrastinate instead. Is awareness of it all sufficient to restore the full potential of hope, let it unbalance favorably the scale so that I witness the world again from the roving perspective that I so love?