O

That's all there is to say.

Lest I Should Forget..

Nostalgia always brings with it a deep remorse for lost appreciation. Yet, the beauty of imprinted signs leaves aside the fallen heights of desire, and emboldens us to embrace our blood's calling once again.

Renewal aside, we remain the same and only sheath each brilliant sword with but a cloth of farce. And farce forgot, we remain allied alongside our shield.

It is in our advance that we clasp from behind, so that our future shall not forget. That is a must to accept; my sword cannot be left behind.

I am.

Lessons Learned

Between one heart beat and the next, we seem unable to acknowledge the possibility that we may fail. That all we work towards may never bear the fruit of our efforts, of our dedication, and of our time that we spent, mastering and honing each skill that we use. The intensity of our pride in the lives that we build, blinds us to the truth of our mortality. A shock when it is realised, and amounted to dust when our soothing words of 'not yet' give rise to the ruins that we build for ourselves in that which lays beyond our sight, away from all we know.

We spend our time as hypocrites, languidly idolising the memories we created, having been made in the intensity we wished to gain. Drained and wrung dry, to hoard in the short space we perceive.

One would think that death would awaken us to the reality of life, to the dreams cut short. Again. Another life, another friend. Were they lucky enough to have planned for their now? Did they have the wisdom to prepare? That, I don't know. But tomorrow may not wait for our fruit and so it is the seeds in which we need to invest our lives. Another push. Another time to grow.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.

Poised

Recoil. Recline. And Strike.

To accept the power that you wield can only mean a rented choice to covet all that is already yours. Sucked into the emptiness of a void world, each extension slowly drifting past, catching onto moments of meaning, a whispering line on the blank platter of instruments to communicate; we make that choice.

Raised in dug grounds, in an attempt to stain the latched, we work to familiarise, to recite; frozen in a grabbing hope towards the dawn.

First or third? You choose.