To let someone back in after destroying the foundation of which was believed to be strong, is considered either remarkably noteworthy or detrimentally careless. The story of a love so strong and true is not easily found. To give yourself back to the one who scorched you in the flames of their mistakes, and has beaten your heart until blue is not often times done or shared because why would we voluntarily expose ourselves to surly the most vulnerable position? To put your heart, mind, and soul back in the shaking and broken hands of the guilty... is this love? Is this forgiveness? Is this undeniably stupid of boundlessly noble? To tell a story of forgiveness is to tell a story of undeniable love.
.....
Stumbling out of the room at 2 am; the breakdown came. She realized the sin she had just committed as she looks back at the man unfamiliar to her. His hands were on her skin, his lips just kissing hers. As she falters through the hall and down the stairs, her mind begins to trace the night, from the first sip to the first kiss. As if she had been blinded, as if everything in her life had faded to the background of her mind, she had allowed the sin of the night to overtake her. But as she awoke to reality with a foreign kiss on her lips... guilt crippled her. Shame embraced her entire being... breaking and beating her down until there was barely a strand of herself hanging on. Inside she was screaming and yet she couldn't say a word. The sin had stolen her voice. The truth of the night swallowed her, and left her heart and soul shattered into a million shards of bloody regrets. Images flashed in her mind of the love of her life... his face after hearing of the mistakes she would have to share. She thought about his arms around her, so strong and secure. She thought about his voice saying her name, the way he articulated his words. She thought about his smell during their last embrace. She thought about his eyes and the kindness they hold. And as if he was already there with her, she could hear his heart breaking and feel his body pulling away. Leaving nothing but an empty ghost, a shell, and a reminder of what once was to follow her around, and haunt her through life as she would now walk without him. She falls into bed, begging to never wake up. Her body aches, and she silently breaks apart. She cries tears of guilt, tears of hate, tears of brokenness, tears of regret, and as the night turns into morning she becomes a hollow being crying tears of helplessness. The sin of the night was not one that could be forgotten, it was an ever-present scar that felt to be never ending in length and depth that sat in bold across her chest. Her veins, flowing to every inch of her body, felt as if they had been injected with fire and ice all at once. She could hear the words her love would say, and she broke a piece more knowing of the pain she would cause him. A pain so deep, and so severe that his breath would be taken away. His mind would wonder, thinking about every detail of the night, thinking to himself "why?" and begging for the nightmare to be just that. A fabrication of his mind designed and played out as he slept calmly in his bed. A fabrication that he would wake up from. His heart would tear him two different directions, and even with every justification he would be expected to hold his seems together, not to rip apart. He would be taken over by an undeserved and unwanted abyss of emotion and pain. One he never expected to be in, not with her. She thought about all of this. She beat herself and hated herself for all of this. She knew the consequences to come, she knew what she had lost. In a blunder of drunken stupidity, she had severed all connection to the one she truly and deeply loved. But as the moment came, and the words reluctantly and painfully left her lips... he forgave her.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
Patience is power:The legacy of the watchmaker.
In the heart of a bustling city, surrounded by the incessant hum of life, lived an old watchmaker named Elias. His shop, nestled between a bakery and a bookshop, was a relic of a bygone era. The sign above his door, painted in faded gold letters, read "Elias's Timepieces."Elias was renowned for his craft, not just for his meticulous repairs but for the clocks and watches he created. Each piece was a testament to his patience and precision. He often said, "Patience is power," a phrase he had learned from his grandfather, who had been a watchmaker before him. To Elias, these words were not just a motto but a way of life.One rainy afternoon, as Elias sat hunched over his workbench, adjusting the tiny gears of a grandfather clock, the doorbell chimed. He looked up to see a young man, no older than twenty, dripping water on the wooden floor. The young man held a pocket watch in his hand, its chain dangling loosely."Can I help you?" Elias asked, peering over his spectacles."My name is Thomas," the young man began. "This watch belonged to my father. It's been broken for years. I was hoping you could fix it."Elias took the watch from Thomas's hand and examined it. The casing was tarnished, and the hands were frozen at twelve. He opened the back and saw that the intricate mechanisms were caked with dust and rust. It was a challenge, but one Elias accepted without hesitation."This will take time," Elias said. "Patience is power, young man. Come back in a week."Thomas nodded, though his eyes betrayed his doubt. He left the shop, the bell jingling softly behind him.Elias set to work. Each evening, after the day's customers had left, he labored over the watch. He carefully cleaned each gear, replaced worn parts, and meticulously reassembled the delicate mechanism. The work required a steady hand and a calm mind. Elias found a strange solace in the task, losing himself in the rhythmic ticking of the clocks surrounding him.As the days passed, Thomas returned to the shop, watching Elias work, asking questions about the process. Elias answered each question patiently, teaching Thomas about the delicate balance of a watch's components, the importance of each tiny part working in harmony with the others.Thomas was fascinated. He began to understand why Elias valued patience so highly. The old man's dedication to his craft, his ability to lose himself in the minutiae, and his unwavering calm were qualities Thomas admired and aspired to.On the seventh day, Elias called Thomas into the workshop. The pocket watch lay on the workbench, gleaming as if it were new. Elias handed it to Thomas, who held it with a mixture of reverence and excitement. He wound the watch and listened as it began to tick, the sound steady and strong."It works," Thomas whispered, a smile spreading across his face."Indeed it does," Elias replied. "Remember, patience is power. With patience, you can achieve things others might think impossible."Thomas thanked Elias and left the shop, the watch safely tucked in his pocket. As he walked home, he thought about the lessons he had learned. He realized that his father's watch was more than just a timepiece; it was a symbol of the values his father had tried to impart, values that Elias had helped him understand more deeply.Years passed, and Thomas found himself returning to Elias's shop often, not just for repairs but for the wisdom the old watchmaker imparted. He learned the art of watchmaking, working alongside Elias, absorbing the skills and the mindset required for such a meticulous craft.When Elias grew too old to continue, he passed the shop on to Thomas. The young man, now older and wiser, continued the tradition, always remembering the lessons of patience and dedication he had learned. He placed a new sign above the door, in fresh gold letters: "Thomas's Timepieces." Below it, in smaller letters, he added, "Patience is Power."Thomas ran the shop with the same care and precision Elias had shown. He taught his own apprentices, sharing the wisdom that had been passed down to him. The shop thrived, a testament to the enduring power of patience and the legacy of a humble watchmaker who had understood that true power lies not in haste, but in the quiet strength of persistence.
By Eric anexis 3 days ago in Humans
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli5 days ago in Poets
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