Sometimes I feel i am finally, sane, from you.
Sometimes I think I am finally crazy.
I finally, lost it.
H.Himinljomi
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
In a green hill there is a lake, running slowly and freely. Therein are the most breath-taking prismatic schools of fish.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.
Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.
My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.
I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.
...
to be continued.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.
Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.
My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.
I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.
...
to be continued.
