I’m obsessed with words, scratching mental letters into threaded blue jeans, squeaky wooden table tops, barren midnight swaths of bed sheets soaked in ink:
A cloth woven on a mental loom, frameworks of English threaded with fine threads of phrases, each spun of intertwining tufts of verbage dyed to minute vibrancy by the arrangement of 26 simple shapes.
The cloth often likens to a photograph, broken down to pixels, numbered quantities of red, green, and blue. The visual cloth of symmetrical water or geometric fire: Language of paradoxical symbolism, existing in the Duat of expression at once sliding in and out of focus with the earth. A conceptualization of a pinch of the world.
Music is woven of many materials, of flowing vibrations which conjure engraved images of sparotic movement; a soaring dance of invisible energy.
A time capsule doesn't enclose, it preserves, waiting to tell of other times.
It's contents are concealed In the crackling layered leaves on the forest floor, An old metal chest in the atic, Or a sprawl of rust red barns, beneath the autum mountains.
The treasures are worn, each scratch a memory, each dent a keepsake, forming time's universal writing, it's poetry, raw yet beautiful.
To reserve indefinitley, to lock away from birth under glass, would be to deprive of it's life, of it's story.
What value has an antique that has never been part of the time it represents?
So could we tread on tip toe across life, eating only the purest of foods, moving cautiously to reserve our strength, shying from chances like a horse from the unexpected, reserving all for the future.