Breath deep, it’s beauty will not quickly diminish

I was listening to OMN the other day, there is one line of vocals in the entire track, used effectively as a loop that could potentially haunt the listener to the point where its reminder alone can inspire visions too clear to ignore, built of memories, even though they really shouldn’t. “I don’t think I can…” echoes long in the flower fields found in a place that was always there, but never really explored.

Its the little things that we notice when nothings really makes any sense. The little things we shared as nebulous as we could have been, the things that gave us pain– eventually or made our evening with happiness that they existed. The little details that shouldn’t have stood as any consequence, the little factoids about summers, and over sharing about adversities, accepted, but hard as fuck to forget.

The little things that we can’t get over,like the man who watched as the one he seemed to care about the most, wouldn’t look back at him when she got on the boat. How he waited for what felt like an eternity, with a hope filled gusto that just didn’t want to die, just hoping she’d look back, with the gut-retching anxiety that he would never see her again. A glance, the vindication of madness and want, that never came.

They’re usually veiled behind the oppressive nature of society’s collective fear of the dark even though we have one another, and the stars protecting us from above, instead shrouded by light we create to protect us. Alone the dark might scare us only because we don’t know what will come once the light shows us what was there when we wake up, that maybe, it won’t be same again. That maybe our light won’t be enough to illuminate this story about where we might end up. But who can say, as long as we know there can’t be any light but our own, why not just let the darkness take what it will.

The intricate details of intimate timelines of loss and pain, too hard to extrapolate from anecdotes that will never leave the creases of these neural pathways of enchantment and recollection. Too small to make sense outside of those moments in time where they bore themselves somewhere between economics and philosophy. Too complex to hope that simplicity would give clarity to what had washed over, even though it was the most obvious thing ever to have been seen.

They tend to be buried in the memories of utterances through admissions of fear and vulnerability that invariably sound over-zealous when trying to seem naturally aroused. Buried in the moments that ignore the idea that advice about sleep is usually good, but when sight of the present would be lost, so it remained ignored. The treasures to hold dear because things are so transient so prone to be warped and changed, like the charm named after a muse, to inspire even the dead. Aren’t thoughts things after all? Aren’t they just neural links that form with chemical reactions form, so why are about things at all? Why give them the satisfaction of them at all?

Its a question too complex to answer as a human who lives in a world where things are the objects for which we stand true instead of idea’s that last longer, they can’t be held or pay the bills. So we work with little things to get us through this existence, this perpetual grand stand that would confuse living with portraying the idea’s of what we’re told we’re supposed to be.

Old correspondences and one off text messages that haunt the cracks of the technology that couldn’t be affected by the instability of delete. Bleeding into everything there is to do, because the little words were all that needed to be heard, were the words that couldn’t be reset. Looping over and over, the sound waves bouncing around as the rides back home from the noise, were filled with the laughter and hopefully a smile.

It was never the grand standing, ever present fear of loss, or even the fear that unbeknownst to hope things probably wouldn’t work, that could have stopped the sewing needles and intricate crochet patterns from weaving themselves into the fabric that held the truth of being, the truth that cannot have its evidence present in the court of the things that make sense. Imprinted because the editor was given an ultimatum, to make sure the story stood honest, and true of the character that wouldn’t need to be defined, yet willing to accept that maddening pain that would follow the initial feeling.

The little things that hold us together, when other little things would hope to tear apart. The details of a concept not yet fully fleshed out, from memories that won’t fade, even though they were supposed to, as the light of the water crashing down, wondering, what’s going to happen…