Phosphorescent Feelings

It was my skin understanding colour.

In the purple black-light everything was luminous: the things that would be and all the things that should. Minds were luminous. In the dark fantasy of colours to light up the night, we were all unleashing meaningless doodles on each other.
Methinks the majority hadn't a thought about intensity. Oh no.
But then there were those for whom it mattered not what graffiti was poured forth as much as how the urge to use the paint took over.

The trickles of phosphorescence were everywhere. Everyone was a little less mortal and a little more celestial; like some strange deity of a frigid land of night.

I had wings too.
Glowing wings.

And with each smudge of paint that I smeared on myself my eager skin was trying to learn the lure of feeling sights. 

Shiver

A lot of times, I'm not concerned with what a place looks like.

What does the air feel like? Does the chill hit your sense of smell with a crisp fragrance of fresh grass and a distant scent of the sea? Does it smell of the mossy woods?

What would my skin have to remember of the first sensation of a place?

It thrills me to think that the air could rush at me like sheets of paper. The idea that the warmth of the sun might feel different in a different hemisphere, in a different time zone. The shabby notion that all the world is the same-- places are just places-- is beyond me.

The road has become a habit.
Sense, a novelty. 

Let a New Breeze Blow

It sends a shudder through me to think that I am becoming steeped in the cynicism of the world. Time to open my eyes again.

They started to develop cataracts of monotony at around the same time that I thought I was getting to being mature. Where's my sense of wonderment?

I'm now glad of my work with children in the sphere that allowed them to spin free of an orbit and dance around the universe of possibility and pleasure.  I need to remember the look in their eyes when they learned something new. And most things were new. Where's the novelty in my life? When I can 'figure' and 'guess' every word that everyone's going to speak, when nothing surprises me, I become bland.

An oracle must have had an incredibly jaded point of view.

A Crane to Remember Levity By

Everything's so sticky. The inside of my mind is sludged all over with leaden toffee. Nauseating in its drab and monochromatic undulations. And it's not the sensuous call of a Doors song in the summer. It's not the crush and smother and smoulder of Gloria in the incandescent noonday sun. Its more like what I would imagine it to be if I were thrown in a pool of mozzarella and asked to swim. 

But then the sludge of this redundant tune-- slowed down to a thickly oozing tempo-- was suddenly illuminated, splashed into movement and coloured with the gold and pink.

Bizarre Lights and Cello Tones

...like the ribs of light that escape from the smoke that hangs around a flyover.

The notes had a will of their own. They took off from the length of the cello. They hung in the air, arched and taut. They were the epiphany that draws itself out from between the breaths in a perfect first kiss. Each note was the pause in breath and the quiver of nerves before a race, just under the skin of a performance.