Quiet is the Evening, Peace is full of Soul

A quiet evening, all who came to play are sleeping.  The ghost of the silence comes from the world of shadow, of mystery and pain.  It is this exclusive silence where creativity reigns.  The winds wash away our sorrows just like sin is cleansed by divine love.  We all wish for our dreams to come true, and yet there is a modicum of fear.  Can you feel the bliss, call the spirit and make the Muse yours?  Shower on me the radiance of joy, the transcendence of love and the redemption by her kiss.  I see her and all the answers are explained.  There are the small moments we share together when all seems right.  There are the moments away from her when all is not.  I cry tears from her memory, when she smiled good night last night.  I was left with the residue of her perfume, her poignent little beauty that she doesn't even realize and the way she briskly walks because she's running late.  It's like dancing.  When a woman has her own style, an independence from forced fashion, and a voice that is unique unto itself, she has grace.  

She has true beauty and her beauty is sublime.   

Music is in the heat and soul

Night reflects the cool moon that shimmers above me.  It is robust and full, but hidden behind the various clouds that pass lazily by.  It is cool, not cold, but cool enough to feel the air.  It is quiet, but not too quiet, the kind of silence that is cause for concern.  Today's burden is of quaint design.  I no longer feel the pain of today's petty frustrations and lost moments.  Does one notice those little moments that maybe the right word, the phrasing or glance may have changed a conversation's outcome?  Is it so easy to recall what could have been or what should have been. The ipod is plugged in, and I am tuned out.  The songs dance in my head and some of them remind me of simple, happier times.  I am not the nostalgic type- at all.  I deplore most sentiment because clinging to the past negates the present.  It is the present we live in after all, the past is only a memory.  Memories are like a double-edged sword- they are a constant to what was, but also can bind us to that- like a trap, and there is no key or password that can relinquish their power to sway one's fancy and whims.  It is the present we live in, the current, evolving, constant and most alive present.  That is the power and grace we strive for.  The past is really gone, the future is so close, but not here yet.  It is the tease that can also divert us from the living moment.  The future is like a most beautiful woman, seductive and tempting, within arms reach but really not accessible.  So we stare at her forgetting where we are as the seconds whittle away to hours.  

I speak to this moment because this moment is all I have.  I am blessed with riches and good health.  I enjoy the solitude of this moment writing.  It is because seclusion brings out my voice, that voice that whispers to me in a most unconventional way.  Its a musical voice.  There is melody and cadence and constant rhythm.  There are notes and words and a particular beauty because the music is mine.  Notice that with music we claim it like no other art.  You can own a painting but it's not really yours.  You can own a library but the books are available to all.  Music can be purchased by anyone, and yet, we claim songs as ours.  They resonate to us, they sing to us and represent a moment, a feeling that is unique and individual only to us.  And the feelings last forever, they are imprinted on our consciousness with an exactness like mathematics.  

It is getting colder and I am getting sleepy.  I shall continue this post.  Angel of the Divine Sword?  Part of another story.