Once young

Devastated men once young,

Are now trying to climb out of that pit of lonely spaces,

And somehow fill a cup which has never been empty. 

Young men staring at the reflection,

The lake saying nothing back-

Wanting approval- the hands of a healer. 

Pour him another,

Light up again,

Numb the senses until memory is just a word. 

Once someone’s baby

Now all grown up,

Their faces long in the setting sun.

westward love By Turhon

She tries not to look,

Scorched earth, and the muteness of red clay,

And dust circulated about the air. 

Searching westward

For something brokenhearted,

She gave her love something to wish for. 

Miles of bleached skylines

Act as an enclosure,

Caged within the rattlesnakes realm,

Waiting for plateaus to morph into an oceanic paradise.

A few more miles

And soulmates shall meet,

And half her world will blossom.

By Marcel Proust. Photo By jodie Marie Reynolds

Perhaps the immobility of the things that surround us is forced upon them by our conviction that they are themselves, and not anything else, and by the immobility of our conceptions of them. For it always happened that when I awoke like this, and my mind struggled in an unsuccessful attempt to discover where I was, everything would be moving round me through the darkness: things, places, years. My body, still too heavy with sleep to move, would make an effort to construe the form which its tiredness took as an orientation of its various members, so as to induce from that where the wall lay and the furniture stood, to piece together and to give a name to the house in which it must be living. Its memory, the composite memory of its ribs, knees, and shoulder-blades offered it a whole series of rooms in which it had at one time or another slept; while the unseen walls kept changing, adapting themselves to the shape of each successive room that it remembered, whirling madly through the darkness. And even before my brain, lingering in consideration of when things had happened and of what they had looked like, had collected sufficient impressions to enable it to identify the room, it, my body, would recall from each room in succession what the bed was like, where the doors were, how daylight came in at the windows, whether there was a passage outside, what I had had in my mind when I went to sleep, and had found there when I awoke. The stiffened side underneath my body would, for instance, in trying to fix its position, imagine itself to be lying, face to the wall, in a big bed with a canopy; and at once I would say to myself, “Why, I must have gone to sleep after all, and Mamma never came to say good night!” for I was in the country with my grandfather, who died years ago; and my body, the side upon which I was lying, loyally preserving from the past an impression which my mind should never have forgotten, brought back before my eyes the glimmering flame of the night-light in its bowl of Bohemian glass, shaped like an urn and hung by chains from the ceiling, and the chimney-piece of Siena marble in my bedroom at Combray, in my great-aunt’s house, in those far distant days which, at the moment of waking, seemed present without being clearly denned, but would become plainer in a little while when I was properly awake.” 
― Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way