Love & Long Days

It is amazing how long some days can be. Normally, people say that long days are bad days. But long days are also amazing. Long days can be wonderful, full of love, full of tenderness, full of light, full of dreams, full of hopes. Yes long days can be good too. 

Some days seem like dreams, fallen like embers from the sun. Some days can hurt all the way to the deepest core of the heart. Somedays both things happen, some days none of them. But as long as you can share a day with someone you love, as I love you, days will always be dreams come true. 

And you ask me why I love you. You ask me why I’m in love with you. Oh darling, if such answers had ever been written, love wouldn’t be as wonderful as it is. I just do, I just love you, truly. I love you with all my heart. And I don’t know why I fell in love with you, but I can’t tell you it is the most wonderful feeling.

So, thank you for all the long long days and nights. 

Random Persephone Story, Part IV.

In the darkness electric, Persephone went back through the ages to times before time. Times before love and the broken hearts, before Siegfried and the river. She went back to a time where she had never been hurt and she was sure she was dead. But still, for some bizarre motive, death granted her with a peace long forgotten. The soft light of her childhood fell gently upon her, filling enormous gaps within her memories. Memories before her first love, when she was four. Well, it was not love, for she was too young to love, but it was her first friendship. And it all was so simple and sweet. All so tranquil and flooded with childish laughter. All the memories that should have kept her here, all of the memories that should have healed all the broken hearts. But we are doomed to forget. And sometimes we forget we forget.

Persephone sat beneath a great willow tree and witnessed that pure joy. Those simple fantasies. Those simple dreams. Her long flowing hair was caressed by a gentle soft breeze. A summer breeze that flooded her heart with light. Enchanted she approached the little girl she once was. She wished she would have kept that simple and joyful spirit all along. But life and the world were not meant for children. And all children must grow up and forget. For that overwhelming joy, and that light heart, and all that laughter are not useful when it comes to survive. At least physically. Seems that our emotions evolved faster than our instincts. Or maybe, when we are four and so unbelievably happy, we just can’t imagine that feeling must end. So we go through all that joy as if it will be still here tomorrow. When are we forced to let go of that feeling? Why all childhoods must be spent and gone in the blink of an eye? Why must all lives be lived in the eternal condemn of forgetting that we used to be happy? Because such a memory could have saved more than one life, more than once.

She knelt by her own side and caressed her much younger self’s cheeks. They were softer than she could ever imagine. Her bright red hair was so full of life. Her smile was so tender. Yes, she was dead. And in death, or maybe in the poet’s kiss, she had found an eternal joy. Or at least the memory of what eternal joy should feel like. The girl’s green eyes met the ones of her older self and she felt sad. Her on eyes were so tired and gad cried so many unnecessary tears. The girl embraced herself and opened her heart to herself. And in the pure white light of happiness, Persephone poured her tears on her own young and joyful heart.   

Above the Blue & Random Persephone Story, Part III

Persephone walked down the broken street. Shards of what once were homes lied scattered across the wrinkled pavement. A blazing and blinding sun burned way up, way above the blue. A dusty wind blew with fury, making her walk slowly and cover her eyes. Her long coat floated behind her graceful figure, as she struggled to make her way through the war infested town. Life was long gone from this place, life was long gone from most places of the world. She had only enough water for another two days. For all she knew, she could be the last human alive.

The words from the poet had kept her going for the last month or so, but he seemed to be gone now. He told her to keep walking North, that water and new chances rested there. But she was almost dead, and there was no sign of anyone, not a mortal soul. War had taken them all. She fell. She had ran for so so long, she had fought so many battles, she had so many victories and some defeats. But this was the end. The end of all hope, the end of all dreams, and now the words of the poet seemed so far away, so lost in the dusty mist that covered the Earth, The blazing sun kept on burning her pale skin. All hope was gone, she surrendered to her own heart, she gave herself away to death and nature.

A sudden breeze, a sudden calm. Heaven, this must be heaven. She opened her eyes slowly, but she found her lids to heavy to let in the night. She felt gentle hands that caressed her, and arms that embraced. Yes, this should be heaven. Then she heard the voice, and the voice said the words from the poet. He must be the poet, this must be heaven! In darkness of joy, she kissed him deeply.   

Midnight Blues

A man sits alone at the crossroad. The bells begin to chime, and there is no sign of the devil. His gentle guitar rest silently by his side. The deep night freezes for a moment, but the wind keeps of flowing, and flows still. No hell’s gates have been opened. And what does the blues man feel? Some regret, or maybe some relief? Maybe God above has given him a chance to keep his soul. Or maybe the devil has other business to take care of. Or maybe it was all a legend, and all the blues man can find in a crossroad at midnight in Mississippi, is himself. And that, my friends, tells a lot about us bluesmen. Maybe all we were looking for was ourselves. But how do we find us? Where do we start looking? I guess it is then when we start playing the blues. We play the blues to find ourselves. We play the blues to tell a story, we give them many names and many characters, but in the end, it is just ourselves, a mortal soul and a guitar. Walking hand in hand under the blazing sun, under thunder and rain.

That’s why we sing the blues, why we play the blues, why we get the blues. To remind ourselves of who we are. Who we are without make up and disguises. We strip the soul in a twelve bar blues under a sunny afternoon. We are all blues, we are one everlasting blues. We have our ups and downs. We can be the Stones one day, and a Howling Wolf the next, cause in the end, they are the same. We are all so similar, all so fragile and broken. That’s why I play the blues when the night comes and you are not here. That’s why I play the blues every time my souls is shattered or enlightened. It is me who I play to. It is me who plays to create a mirror. That’s why I play the blues when the cold comes and you are not here to warm me. So I don’t feel so alone. So a gentle guitar can sing to me, even if all she can sing is my own words. It is better than walking alone in the streets, praying for rain to come. That’s why I play the blues when I cry over memories that every passing day bury themselves deeper in the mist. So I can say I know pain, and therefor I have known joy. That’s why i play the blues when I see you part ways from my side, so I can remember the joy of your presence near me. That’s why I play a Midnight Blues, to carry you to sleep, while I tell you who I am, and that I love you.

No, I never found the devil in a crossroad at midnight in Mississippi nor in Louisiana. I just found myself playing the blues. I just found my self, loving you.        

Liar

“You really think you can redeem your soul?” Amanda said amused. “Well, at least you are not as stupid as to pretend you can regain innocence. Because truth is, you and Samantha are just like me. Your souls are spent. You crossed the stygian river and left your last coin behind. And no matter for how long you beg, the ferryman won’t take you back. Can you deny it, Farthel? Can you tell me you can stand your ground forever? It is cute to see you play knight for a year, but you should see that the time to play is over and it is time to get real. Cause your heart is black and your soul lost. You, as well as me, are on the fastest way to hell. And well, why should you care? You are the one with a death sentence from the lips of a lover. You are the one who craves for the immortality gained from the blood. The clock is ticking, kid. Do you think you will be still be here after your 27th winter?”

“Shut up, blue eyes. The day I die, I die and there is nothing I can do. Immortality is still a dream, but I doubt I’ll ever suffer it without love.”

“Oh, love! Trust me, you are looking for the wrong kind of love. You are not Galahad, my lord. You are a deranged libertine who has spent more than one night in arms or sin and kept within the legs of despair. You are the one who came to me in search for death, you are the one who used to walk down the crooked way asking God or the Devil to slain his heart. But no matter how many times you bleed for her, no matter how many times you cry for her, no matter how much you swear that you love her, you are still one of us. You still can feel the hunger, the craving desire for flesh and blood. It was easier a year ago, when you walked with only death for real. Death is still real kid, and if you are lucky, you will suffer her.”

“So? Don’t you think she and I deserve a chance to redeem our souls? Why do you must try to keep us as deranged beings from the deepest pits? Are you too afraid of being alone, are you too afraid of growing up? What is it that you have against us? Why can’t you see us happy?”

“Because it is a waste of time. But go, run to the arms or your sweet white maiden. And crave for the treasure between her thighs, and burn for the taste of her lips, and waste your words and breath on her. But tell me, once a sweet child from the deepest pits come along, what will then you do? Once the wayward and the wild come to your side, when all you ever dreamt of comes, what then? You are like us. You’ll sell your soul to the highest bidder as long as they can make you forget your misery. And once that sweet maiden of yours stop being the highest bidder, or once she goes in her way, looking for the white prince you are not, what then? How many nights before you bury yourself in fire like hair and seas like eyes?”

“Love can last forever, blue eyes.”

“If you are going to play Dwight, at least go back to the barmaid; she brings a far more real side of you.”

“And you are a hateful immature bitch that just loves to mess up with people and hurt them because they can move on, while she remains stuck on her miserable life.”

“Maybe. But tell me Farthel, in whose legs but mines will you bury your pain when your heart breaks, because it will be broken. You know how she hurts.” 

Dead silence fell on the phone.

I still drift through the stages of this life deceiving. Still I keep my wings, for even us fallen angels can fly. And maybe I lost too much before I knew it. And maybe I wasted too much before I knew the price to be payed. But still, I know I can redeem a soul once black as night. I’ll rather die trying than buried and wasted in the legs of a whore who sells her sex in exchange of empty bliss to fool her utterly broken heart. I’ll keep on loving you, my love. Still… the fear remains. The death sentence remains…. and the lust and weakness will be there forevermore.     

Love

Love, just maybe a Kiss.
Love, all sound and bliss.
Love, for thee to miss.
Love, for me to kiss.

We may say, we love
But, can we see a dove?
She keeps one at heart
I keep mine in Heaven.

A heart can be Heaven
A heart can be Haven.
My heart can be warm
My heart can be harm.

Have I told you, that I love you?
I may not say it too often, yet-
With every breath-
I say it to the angels of the deep.

Could I show you how to fly?
When January embers and all is dry
As we rise through Spring and cry
Should I show you how to fly?

Love is you, love is me
Could love be
all we need?
Can love set us free?

Glass Shadows

*Continuing the Prog Rock title rip offs and the “Songs of the Rapture” saga.*

She said she was not having a great morning, so she jumped out of my bed and danced through the door. I was not having much of a ball, myself. I was barely aware of who she was and where I met her. I should begin to get used to such feelings. Afterall, that’s all you get when war and bombs scar the surface of the Earth on a daily basis. You give yourself to everybody, hoping to forget that a bomb or a bullet might take you away any second. Most of the water is polluted, the air is rotten and the soil dry. There is no much time. And the world insists that the solution is filling other parts of the world with lead, uranium and disease. They all proclaim to carry the message of salvation, they all assure they are the good guys who will rid of all evil the Earth. But they all do the same. Money has stop bothering us, since there is nothing to buy. War will eat us all, war will vanquish us into the sky.

She comes out of the bathroom. She is incredible beautiful. I cannot yet believe that there are people who think such beauty should be erased, that there are people who are not aware of such beauty. Her long red hair hangs gracefully from the sides of her face. Her heart-shaped mouth smiles gently. Her green eyes shine with such raw power, with such raw anger and desperation. Her soft skin glows in her nakedness. This might be the last time I contemplate such beauty. She may die later, or so may I. Or maybe war will make us part ways, to find our graves long from here. It used to matter, those partings. We used to cry when we were torn apart from our beloved ones. Now, no one loves, no one cares to love. Love brings too many tears and there is no time to cry. We wither, we wane. It all will be over one day. All life on the Earth will slowly fade, until the sterile planet will be swallowed by the swollen sun. She comes to my bed and kisses me. And for a moment there, all the horrors and nightmares are swiftly put aside.  

Paper Angels

(Yes, going through a slightly Mostly Autumn fever. Don’t worry kids, I’ll be back in my life drowning addiction on Emilie Autumn soon.) Hopefully…

Just a single note, that’s all I asked from her. Just a single perfect note beyond both knowledge and will. Drifting,maybe even falling we were. And all we could do was cut paper angels. All we could do was sending them flying through the window. Time was running out of itself. Time was dying and no one could tell us why. Eventually we got tired of asking why. No, no one gave us a five year warning, as Bowie sang. Time just began to wither and fall. Time just began to die. We were left with a guitar and the music to drown are feverish hearts. We will die here, but we have music. And music will play until the end of time. We have all the music and all the time. Well, not all the time, because time is clocking away its last seconds.

We still have a piano, and some piano strings to replace the ones in our veins. We have everything we need to die, and we keep on throwing paper angels to the sky. I know this sounds sad, but is quite beautiful. Sorrow and misery were always here, joy has taken some time away. Everybody failed to tell her that she will not come back, because she took all the time to go away, and left none to return. But, oh well, we don’t complain. We’ve got paper angels and all we need is love. But love is beginning to fade as well, so we don’t bother much. Sex keeps the fun alive, and maybe some other diversions come to slither time. And so we will die.    

Fireside

“Come on and dance,” she said with a fragrant smile in her face. “The Fire dance will soon begin. We come from valleys and hills, from deep oceans and highest skies. Feel the music feel your veins, feel the the fire warm your head. Tonight we spin and dance, tonight we surrender to music and fire. Come strangers and join us, come and see what was forever hidden for you. The bonfires of magic burn till dawn, the spirit of tonight will linger with you forever. Come on, strangers, you’ve got nothing to lose.” With grand eyes and perfumed smile, she showed us the way through both forest and hill. She gave us her hand and we walked through worlds untold and unseen. She was radiant under the soft moonlight.

“Fireside is where we go, the ancient faeries lighted them first, aeons ago. We keep their secret and will, and forever we dance in this night, and forever we live for this night. We are the fire guardians, we keep the wheel of time spinning, we keep safe the light and warm the spirit. And you are welcome to join us. Have a cup of tea and forget all sorrows. Here we never sing Gloomy Sunday. Or maybe we do, sometimes when the night ends too soon and there is no more singing. For we all have lost here. You are not the only ones that have cried over a lover’s grave. But don’t you worry, most of the time, the pain is gone. Sometimes we may sing Gloomy Sunday, but we can forget about that as the night falls. So come with us strangers, join us in a world beyond the veil, join us in our secret little world.”

Without a second to doubt, I felt my heart singing Gloomy Sunday once again. So, as if putting a gun to my head, or as if jumping from a bridge, I followed this fairy’s child through the wind. I offered her all I had and she took it gently and grateful. I know I will die soon if I stay, I know I will live long and forgotten in this misty world. So I fell for and with her. Her beauty more radiant and powerful as we approached the moon and the fires. So, I left it for the world to sing Gloomy Sunday for me. I am gone and forgotten in the fireside.   

Small Reflexion on Abortion Laws

It is maybe because elections in the United States are coming closer, or maybe I am paying more attention and spending more time than usual with political and religious discussions (two subject that I don’t like very much, but can’t avoid). And as always, there is some new hot topic within this discussions. Some time ago, it was (and maybe still is) evolution. Now it seems that a lot of people, mostly religious people, are going nuts because of the chance of legal abortions. And as far as I can see (which might not be much) it is one of the strongest arguments against Obama’s campaign. I might be wrong about that, but I’m sure that at least one person has used it. But that got me thinking.

When something is legalized (abortion, a new drug, anything) it means it is accessible to the people. To every single citizen, no matter their belief, race, age, wealth, etc. But that doesn’t mean you have to use it. If pot becomes legal tomorrow, that doesn’t mean you have to go out, buy a joint and smoke it. It only means you can. It means that it is within your power to analyze your current situation and choose what to do. No one will force you to abort or to smoke pot. It only means that if you want, you can. But if your religion or moral standards are against that particular subject, you can say no. No, even if I was raped, I won’t abort. Even if I’m only 16 and the father of the child won’t marry or support me, I won’t have an abortion. But if the girl next door says “damn, this baby might ruin my plans, and I have no moral argument against abortion, well I just may get one.” Yes, you can give babies in adoption, that’s also a choice. And it is one you can go through. But still, you can’t be forced to give away your child in adoption. You can’t be forced to go through all nine months of pregnancy. You can’t be forced to deliver a child if you don’t want to.

Legalizing abortion is only giving all women another option. You just can’t rule out an option open to everyone just based on faith. Because this option is open for atheist women, or for women who are not sure of what they believe in, but are sure they want an abortion. My point: I find it stupid to ban a law open to everyone, based on the spiritual believes of some. You can protest, you can say is wrong, you can offer other options, but you can’t ban options.