ariande, cynic

The labyrinth is gone, my god of blood and honey quiet
     the walls
             dissolved, the spaces empty and
     blue,  
 nothing but
      blue    
limitless empty  
     blue sky blue sky blue skies from now on

my thread found I rebound returned and gathered secure...

so long ago, I forgot:

       Who sought Theseus? I seek my minotaur. 

this post brought to you by the letters a, q, insomnia and Gary Numan covers

It could start with
A stray hair
A right word:
deep and giving

encompassing and
vast like the sea

ephemeral as language
subtle as thought
fragile as skin
dense as underneath

interlaced capillaries, harmony, pace
rising and thrumming
with a strong steady bass
a driving staccato
a harmonic plateau
like my feet on the dancefloor
like a photon's crash
and a synapse's fire

untitled

Can't sleep.

It's been raining, and it's quiet, and the pooling light reminds me of why I love the night so much. It's only when light is fractured, discrete and intense like this that you really appreciate how truly special it is. There's the cracked, diffuse glow of LEDs off the electronics, the ebb and brightness from the headlights of passing cars, the steady warm pooling under the door from the incandescent bulb in the hallway.

The darkness is snug around you, too. I imagine this is how it might be deep, deep in the ocean, where the sunlight barely penetrates and the only light is cast by the bioluminescent fishes, like gems cast thoughtlessly across a jeweler's velvet cloth.

I suppose it's a cliche -- all goth girls, we should love the night. It's in the by-laws somewhere. But for its sanctity, I love it. For the cold, perfect ache of starlight to the aurora of a streetlamp reflected in an oil slick puddle, for all the light that darkness contains, this is why I love the night.