Subtle love..

Vintage Surreal Illustrations by Catrin Welz-Stein _ Art and Design

She touched the night sky with whispers from soul hoping to glimpse his inner world too, for she knew the waves she felt could not be diminished into obscurity, a knowing like this was rare..  Her fingers played her chest as she felt the heartbeat within, loud as ever she knew his beat and he felt hers too.  Matched, they had strung a tune upon the wind and left a mark undeniable to pulses.  His electric vibes had travelled far and wide, no imaginary friend could ever deny, for this was real..  Strange maybe but true in a somewhat fictitious world we apparel in, unsatisfactory even, maybe for some,  but ever more prominent than surreal were the chords that had struck.  The potent spiral’s had formed their heart’s embracing and caressing their notions, notions of the very real..  Only the solemn on-looker would deny this very bond but for the real that it was..  Not materialistic by measure but as vibrant as ever, a note from the angelic..  Responding she returned majestically the gift of a higher level, majestic its very honour and sweet its touch,  felt by the strings of their hearts entwined and pulled into oneness.   An existence like no other, a unity of loves abode..  Love kissed on the very wind and returned by the breeze..  Even the very elements had joined their play.  Their essence matched by nature and nature understood, she knew their fate .   A language like no other a whispering from old souls.  Beckoning  from hearts..  Rekindled by fate..  Sealed by the true beauty..  Essence of one true love.

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Whimsicle minds..

Free Fallin’

 

Anywhere was possible and everything accessible, even the majesty of the low’s, the highs or even just a mishmash of any event excitable or not.  The wondrous awe and capacity for spinning tale’s or weaving tapestry’s of any wonder or magnificence and equally any deprived abode, would always be fine pickings for the lustrous mind..  The same could be said for the non-spontaneous, the grim or the macabre.  Yes, the mind could luncheon out anywhere with any venue and equally any tall order as it so desired.  The very fact that it is a functioning orgasm of no fixed abode makes it a bit of a gypsy in terms of  roaming and doing what it so very well likes..

She sat in motion surroundings with moving people of vehicles gauging their way past her whilst she sipped her coffee potently fixed pondering her day with motionless vigour.  Whispering to self she baited the next coming of steps, trawling through that pondering whimsical mind of hers she so very often would caress.  Now her aim was obviously that of  pleasure, for self deprivation was never a tantalizing dish to savour not for any abode and certainly not of any  of hers.  She gave great thought to the steps ahead between sips, before plunging into emotion.  Triggering that ball pool of varying emotions, which were always needed to grasp and salvage the very missions she had in mind to hand.  This was always her engine for firing up her tasks..  One wrong move though or incorrect emotion of balance and the non-correspondent to her whimsical thoughts would be condemned to misery, for both were either a match or discord, the slightest deviant would suffice either.  Simply put, she’d finally grasped the idea after long trawling’s through endless pits of discomfort and unease.  To work though both had to match, yes agree or else mayhem would strike or at least turmoil her existing world.  Yes, it is no joke or coincidence that mind, emotion and body have to share the same bed, their driving force ‘intent,’ yes for without her there is no-show.  So, my friends my point for this mini philosophical debatable story, or rather point, is that without the equal collaboration or valour of harmonious sync for all these three amigo’s, one’s show may be doomed to un-success or at least mediocre existence..  That is until acknowledged, always a familiar and wanting case in myself anyhow at the very least.  But and yet, yes my most curious form to date is acknowledging that this fine trio must collaborate from heart in order for any fine spirit to sore..  Yes sore!  Fine flying my beautiful friends..  Namaste.

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The pull..

    

old vintage clock

old vintage clock in sepia

Churning are the notions of what seemingly are supposed to be of great importance to ones own character and structure, rather than a grasping of the very real, which sometimes lays dormant under the superficial architecture we often get engrossed in.  All be it unwittingly so, a story to hand expectedly read and to follow through.  Our hearts are  sometimes dry through this pre ordered way of life forced by the daily grind and tasks ahead coupled with expectations.  The truth will always argue the difference, coming from that hardened pull and vestibule of knowing which one can neither deny or suffer when all bets are off.  That is to say when we finally listen to our own recordings and song which has been playing all along sweetly as ever but falling on death ears.  We are our own match, match perfect if only we’d listen.  Baited, stifled and stagnant are the suffocation of others whims that drown out our own in the occupation of vanity.  For, for vanity’s sake it is a mere blowing in the wind before turning to dust below sky-fall, solemn and less seductive than anticipated.  We are a mere grasp at what is and that what is, is unabated in love.  Our song is refreshing when listened to but barely the few ever do.  A becoming of home awaits the magnificent.  True beauty will always lie within.  The story unfolds.

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