The feather-light merriment sprinkled on your face like freckles transport me to coy winter evenings. Nights enveloped in star-eyed tinkering and bodies intertwined. The invitations to intimacy. The consuming lust. The urgency. The strange two sparks. The diamond glints of you and me…but this isn’t about moonstruck lovers. This is about saturated actuality and hellish body-waning strife. It’s about the permeable people who lend themselves to others. The workaholic husband. The smoke-addict mother. The tantrum-throwing child. The hopelessly boring student and endlessly fascinating artist. Some of us are geniuses. Some of us with top hats and low grins, soft cheekbones and narrow chins. Some of us are crazy. Some of us with stardust-skin and fairytale shimmers in our eyes. Still, we all of us shed our youthful layers, get selfish, and love in vast scales. For this reason I made a box of steel and hid it in my head. In the circle of inward thought, arbitrary murkiness, and light oblivion it appears to me. Every now and then it shows me things special and meaningful. It reveals to me the transmogrification of the human heart. In it, I find resonating thunderous love, waves of philosophical reflection, fiery ecstasy, creative acts, and extremes. Heavy with illumination, I see myself standing there by the nebulous and safe loops of past to present, hazy in between and half-cut with tainted air. I linger near the beckoning margins, ten thousand notorious specks floating in my head.
