Feelings Don't Fade

Feelings are soft, immeasurable things
Delicate like thin, nurtured glass
Exposed as a growing flower in the wild
Yet when they break, they become hard
A wall of bricks no sledgehammer can dent
The lone tree in a field
impervious to the logger's axe
Feelings don't fade, don't die
They rearrange

A Frame In Time

There was a moment in time I sought to recapture, to frame and preserve upon my wall like a colourful innocent butterfly. For this end, to science I strove, pouring my eyes into calculations and theoretical equations in hopes of creating a machine to achieve my goal. My vision faded and my knowledge gained little traction. Eventually my books and journals of science lay by my doors, sprouting flowers of dust while their pages turned to gold. To history I adventured next, searching through the ages of great victors to see how they sustained such power and pride, thinking surely such a glorious framed moment was a pittance of a task to them. Instead of perfection I was greeted by tragedy, dulling my taste and saddening my resolve for such ambition: how absolute power was so absolutely corrupting to lead one down a path of cruelty and indifference. To literature then, expressions of pure creativity to inspire fresh ideas within me. I read book after book, compelled by stories but inspired to my specific action by none of them. My hearing became clogged by so many ideas that meant nothing to my purpose, like muffled traffic within my ears. Now to public service, the noblest of commitments, that I might rediscover such similar virtue deep within the commons of humankind. Countless hours I worked with unfortunate others, in hopes of both recapturing my precious moment and creating one for them. My sensation of touch numbed from the effects of sifting through these sad lives, as I felt I was hardly making an important enough difference until the moment I then felt nothing at all. At last I caved for commerce, to make quick pursuit of wealth that I might simply purchase my lost moment and hang that poor butterfly on my wall. Deals and trades, transactions and handshakes, feeding chum to the numbers in my chequebook. These swingings of assets were not all prosperous, for despite improving experience my ability to smell out bad deals from good ones deteriorated and crashed. Now I was senseless, drifting within a void I was incapable of understanding and without the tools to interact with it. I pondered my precious moment, now blurred, silent and drained of all vividness, and through those inflicted limitations I could not understand why I had worked so hard to chase and capture the spirit of it. The moment yes, had truly been worthy of such dedication and honour -- whispered my memories while guiding my hand through the nothingness. The moment could have been revisited, like an old town where the colours of paint on the houses fade and peel in the rain. But the butterfly is meant for flight, not a cage in a frame of glass.

The Word Slipped From Your Lips

The piano kicks into a tune and my hands go cold, my ears sensitive to the touch of notes and my eyes escorted away on vacation. Without vision the world is an open place, a void of empty nothingness like a blank page with a nearby pen being uncapped. Images unreal in substance but real in thought flash like recollections of colour. A reminder they exist within this void, this space so small and so large. The piano changes melody and vision returns: a wooden room with framed pictures, chairs occupied by people, a window dripping with weakened frost, candlelight providing a flickering glow to these surroundings. You're sitting across the table, staring out into something though perhaps nothing. You're quiet. You don't look my way. On the surface I don't want you to. The tune changes again and a singer appears, belting out an awkward falsetto. It works, like strawberry jam on a bacon sandwich, like a laugh track at the beginning of a show, like a pair of glasses when there's a cold wind outside. Your lips move, forming something that cannot be heard even by you. Still you are quiet, still you don't look my way. Back into an instrumental now, vision vanishes again. Words replace colour in our void, meaningless words useless even within the realm of thought. To see them is to disbelieve them, they are props, ghosts, cons posing as truth. The word that escaped from you in silence will not be found here. The word is no mystery, no illusion. You're quiet. The piano melody slows down. Vision returns and the room is darker, the candles have flickered out. No one cares or no one notices. These departed open flames leave a scent in the wooden room, how easily it all could've burned. Instead the wax has melted to nothing. Now the song ends, there is a polite cheer, while the band says a final word. The word is no mystery, no illusion.

The Chicken Sandwich

The first bite was about as delicious as Daniel could've possibly hoped. Tangy coleslaw, creamy aioli and a pinch of spice. This had been a good decision without a doubt.

'Danny... it isn't easy to say this, but... *sigh* ...it's time I move on with my life. I need to spread my wings.'

Daniel's second bite into the sandwich introduced a touch of ham into the combination. Salty but slightly sweet, a strange sensation on the tongue.

'You know I've always wanted to travel... work abroad for a year at least. I mean, we've talked about this before. You know we have.'

A third bite and now more than half of the sandwich was gone. This was Daniel's most disappointing chomp thus far, containing very little of the main chicken attraction. It was mostly just bread and sauce.

'I'm sorry to have to do this, honestly. It's not easy to say how I feel, or what I'm going through. I hope you can understand.'

The next bite of the sandwich was harshly bitter, like the bun had been soaked in pickle juice forgotten in the sun. Daniel felt around in his mouth and there was also a jalapeno kicking around, which wasn't supposed to be there. Someone had been dishonest. One bite left now.

'I should go. I'll keep in touch... okay?'

Daniel's last bite was a mix of bitter and sweet flavours. This sandwich had given him some wonderful moments in a short period of time, but there had been significant disappointment in other moments. Here was a mix of those vivid tastes, a compilation of everything delicious and everything repulsive. Sure, there would be other chicken sandwiches, but never one exactly like this.