Socks On (One Night Stand Sonnet)

Ever gone out in public with a hoody and sunglasses in a frantic effort to conceal your identity because of fear of bumping into that one person you never ever want to see again? - the person you had a one night stand with? (hey, we've all been there..) Here is a short sonnet to relay the amusing, but painfully heart-wrenching moment when you see them again, and again and again...

 This may or may not have been taken from personal experience... All I can tell you is this: Sod's Law is real. REAL I tell you!

Walking to the shop to buy some bread,
Aimlessly I browse for something else -
Then I catch your eye, wishing I am dead.
A spectre from the past, echoing my movements through the shelves,
Adamantly shrugs through my broken soul.
I cannot breathe, your gaze so sour and sweet,
Wide and wild eyed, like a demon doe.
All I can do is ignore you and tweet:
'It's the third time today - for surely I'm cursed!'
- The cellophane bag slips from my wet palm -
My voice of Regret thinks this choice to have been worst,
Foolishly thinking: 'it's just one night, what's the harm?'
But Oh! how I could not have been more wrong -
For who knew what horrors could occur with socks on!

Copyright © JRFB 2014

Miss Scorpio

She loves and loves but is not loved. For she is barren of the fertile fields to grow a child. All she wanted was to be allowed to love. But we always strive to do what is forbidden. And here it is: the rotten fruit of impoverished love.

The sky was black as charcoal pits, dusted with speckled stars

Ashen grey surrounds the land

Smothered with burning flowers.

The time when clouds shrivel away

When the Sun makes her bed

At the end of the day –

The Moon himself appears with Hope,

Of meeting his Love

Who sets the distant pole -

Where their love can never be found

For distance - darkness forbid it

And they are not Fated to be bound.

The time when Light-time creatures stop;

And Night-time villains stir

And children drift, still in their beds, like sweet little corpses.

Now a twisted dark shadow creeps from her hollow home,

Uncurling her limbs, unfolding her bones,

Like spindly branches against the yellow Moon’s glow.

She gasps a worn breath –

For she is alone.

Miss Scorpio is always alone – even past death –

From the moment she burst forth from the fiery pits below

Forming a woman in thin, black dress with lace like a spider’s webs,

She was alone.

But oh, how she despises having nobody to care

Nobody to hold, nobody to tend to,

Leaving her an empty phantom, wretched, torn, bare.

Every day is hell, every second, misery;

Yet it is all made lighter by the Moon

Who shines over her fears and wishes, eagerly.

He is her ambient Hope.

The Light deep beneath her blackened spirit.

That can never escape the prison where she chokes.

The Moon too is lost in despair,

But shines brightly each dark night

In false Hope and care.

Miss Scorpio plucks a star from the glistening skies

Where stars shine like jewels, mockingly with their togetherness.

She smothers its brightness; in her frail arms it lies;

Momentarily, the brimstone in her core rekindles,

There is a quiescent crispness in the air

As she smiles, skips, glows like a candle

Not caring for her life that burns away

With each hour that passes,

For she has found something to love! Just for one day -

Until that star quickly fades, from white to orange, to dull brown

Then to black, like the two charred, bottomless holes in her sockets.

The heat cools, her trembling arms release the star, her face twists into a frown

Hot tears streak down her dirt-speckled cheek

Scarring her dark and beautiful features

With deep channels, now trickling red down to her feet.

Says she: ‘This pain is slight,

‘Compared with the jolt that forever thumps my core’.

Now, the black ball of dimpled rock takes flight

Down from her body, frozen, scored, wild

Leaving her numb Soul barren, untouched,

Having held that dimming star, cradled like a child.

But Hope is the fuel for any fire.

Miss Scorpio – Nature's Widow –

Never did her efforts to love expire:

Miss Scorpio once walked in the Midnight Meadow

Stopped, picked a flower from the dark fields of green,

Shaking it with joy, as the wind sped her on with each blow

And she ran through the grove

With this new Heart’s desire towards the rays of tomorrow.

For it is so beautiful to have something to love –

But soon, the nodding flower’s petals

Dropped out one by one, escaping her desperate clutches in the cold breeze

Leaving a grey stalk, bent like soft metal

Flying this way and that as they fell

In wispy circles, through dark clouds

Flying to another part of hell.

Miss Scorpio’s Soul bleeds

As her red tears slowly streak down her dark dress

Down like a deadly bullet surpassing time itself, as it speeds

Through a hard granite chest

Containing the Treasures of Life,

Repelled, ricocheted, is forced down to a grim death.

*

*

*

Miss Scorpio is still waiting for Life to start

For a fraction of joy, for a sign from above, –

As her dark Soul will never rest until it possesses a Heart.

 

Copyright © JRFB 2013

Missing

My heart is chafing, shaking with
      blood
tinged by ardent desires;
My soul is crying for your touch as you briskly
Part from me -

Two Souls,  two incomplete
fragments can
Never
Splice - together -
The fusion is irrepable
despite the grinding of my bones;
the melting of my heart -

(we will never weld together)

Gold and grey are clashing titans;
The Sea and Sky are forever apart.

Looking down, my glisting brown eyes
feel your light, feel your life

Beaming, teasing, being
in My world of shaded hearts:

    but I will never reach you.

The plunge is deep -






Copyright © JRFB 2013

Mrs Dalloway, You Have Made Me See..

ღ

(For those of you who know me, you may be aware of my Virginia Woolf obsession and of 'Mrs Dalloway' being my favourite novel. I actually wrote this post about a year ago, and the fact that what I talk about here - about how this novel captures some of my soul - is still relevant today, shows the potency of such an authentic work of art. I truly love it. 'Mrs Dalloway' will always be my first love in literature).

*

When I first read Mrs Dalloway, it gave me a continuous headache and a strong desire to throw the damn thing out my window, in the hope of ridding myself of such an unfathomable collection of the whispers of post-menopausal women and pathetic old men. But it was not until the second (and third, fourth, fifth...) reading and actual studying of it, when I became engrossed.

Then, having completely retreated from my formerly contemptuous 'I-don't-give-a-shit-Virginia' attitude of - in my newfound opinion, one of the greatest Modernist novels of all time - Mrs Dalloway, I decided that not only for the purpose of learning, but also for leisure it would be a good idea to watch the cinematic version.

In short, it majorly changed my apprehension of Peter Walsh. From my perception (something V Woolf, as I like to call her, is rather good at blurring and exploring in her novels), he was a pathetic, overly emotional wreck who spent his entire life chasing pretty women, pristine with their 'lips cut with a knife'; or to put it bluntly, an emotionally tarnished, perverse sugar daddy.

However, my eyes have been opened, as the pathos evoked from when he says with an admirable attempt to withhold tears, 'For God's sake, Clarissa, I love you!' reduced me to a crumpled heap soiled with the tears the fellow did not shed. I understand now. He really loved her - and that man, Richard, stole half of his heart before him. I can relate. He offers his soul to the one whom he cannot bear to live without and she scatters it into the 'mist' with the wave of her hand. And for what reason?

'You want too much' - surely, Clarissa, it is best to want the whole of a person rather than the just the qualities you can view from a safe distance, those which you can shape through a certain tweaking?

She broke his heart, and it took him 40 more years to realise just how much he loves her, whether he chooses to believe that those feelings are eternal or not. On their reunion these 40 later, he admits that the scarring yet significant memory of Clarissa's bitter rejection had 'spoilt his life'.

Arguably, I believe that as a consequence, this fateful decision spoilt Clarissa's life too. They both lament about how they think the other has wasted their potential by not achieving any of the things that they were capable of, therefore, to me it is obvious that the mistake lies in their failed conciliation of hearts; they should have married! Not Clarissa and Richard. And, as a result, Clarissa loses track of her true identity and Peter takes to creeping on attractive young women young enough to be his daughters.

Oh how the Fates are cruel!

Furthermore, what also captivated me was the chemistry and delicate romance between Clarissa and Sally. In the novel, the scene is candied with youthful ardency at that 'exquisite' moment when Sally's lips softly join Clarissa's, igniting a realisation that she undeniably was in love with her (though not fully appreciating this sensation at the time). In the film, this tender air of beauty and serenity manages to focus on the two girls, dancing, somehow innocently, yet as if intoxicated off each other's gaiety. During this moment, I felt caught up in the exuberance and let out an elated sigh. There is was. 'The most exquisite moment' of Clarissa Dalloway's whole life; and I felt it.

This scene, was not only touching, but I think one of the reasons I flashed a shade of euphoric gold was because it lead me to fantasise about my own 'exquisite' moment of love; the cornerstone moment when my fragile heart will be -finally- requited.

Seeing something I so much wish to experience in my own life through literature, cinema, music, even in someone else's life, makes the past mistakes of risking a broken heart undeniably worth it. 

The outcome of loving someone could indeed end disastrously, and, like Peter Walsh, you could spend the rest of your days living in a world tainted by pernicious remorse for that one person who denied you of everything: love (if there is such a thing).

Nevertheless, there is always a possibility of triumph: if they return your affections, like Sally and Clarissa, surely the grievous risk is justified?

I would rather have my heart broken a thousand times, existing with a slither of hope that an exquisite love will journey my way, than have my passions acquiescently, obediently ordered to the corner of my mind in self pity, the shadows of ethereal desire swimming around my head.

Love is worth everything.

 

Copyright © JRFB 2013 

Words I wish I could speak

I am writing this for you because I am tired of not being able to express how grateful I am. These words are the best I can come up with for now, but still don't do you justice...


Before I knew you, my life was epitomised by a vacant nothingness, an ill-fitting vision of trying to be like everybody else. I felt misunderstood and oppressed; depressed; like nothing I did was good enough, like my whole life was a mistake - frightened, outcasted, alone.

But my soul became blazed with illuminated passions when your influence stole into my heart, when perpetual flames of elation ignited in my veins. You made me realise that I am not just 'weird', a 'misfit', an 'alien' - I am merely myself, Jaguar, and my thoughts and actions are what comprise me, make me special.

Your tender love and ardent cares for humanity astonish me; I can honestly say that I have never felt more comfortable and ready to accept myself than when I think of your valiant and admirable outlook on life. Your words, your aura, are so pure; a light in a once dark world, where phantoms chased me, now soothes away the pain of being different and encourages innovativeness and self-expression.

This has never happened to me before, and at times, it overwhelms me; but know this: your soul - celestial, radiant, opalescent - is the most beautiful presence I have ever felt. You are everything I could ever hope for. I can only thank the Fates for leading me to you.

You really have changed my life.

Now I am much more poised and content with my inner-self, and I owe it all to you; your Phoenix love, burning incandescent over me gives me strength, honour, elation.

Jessica to me, you are truly exquisite. I hope that one day I can meet you and experience your ethereal beauty first hand.


Jaguar



Copyright © JRFB 2012 

I'm still learning.

THIS SUMMER has been hopeless in terms of enhancing my academic skills, but I think now with August coming to a close, and the warm colours and autumnal shades of September falling upon us, I am one step closer to "finding myself".

A friend and I set this task as our number one priority this summer - and I think I may have (somehow) unconsciously accomplished this. Although I have been intoxicated for a good 4 weeks and I must have drunk about ten times my body weight in alcoholic beverages (spirits to let my spirits soar), I think that over the past few months I have learnt a thing or two...

This summer I realise that I am more comfortable and confident as a person. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm trying to live as I am and not as someone may think I should live.

I'm odd, but not a misfit but when caged up with tame canaries, I become the wild finch: solitary, outcast, frozen in apprehension. I like to form my own opinions about entities in life, and not to have my mind poisoned before being given a chance to speculate. What good is it to be human, to possess free will, only to have that privilege oppressed, wasted?

To be short, I am Jaguar: nothing more, nothing less. I believe that true identity lies deep within the soul; I was born to grow into myself, not into this person or that person; what good is it to try and 'guide' someone through life when in reality this only results in a twisted map and a desolate soul?





Copyright © JRFB 2012

Life of a ‘Veronica’

From reading any of my other posts, it could be said that Life is a prominent theme within my thoughts. But I am often vague and spiritual in my posts, never specifying what it is exactly that captivates me so. Well today, dear readers, I will reveal what it is that transfixes me in my Life.

There are only two people in my Life who inspire and excite me to such an extent that I cry tears of exquisite elation when they do something I deem fantastic; under their influence I have discovered a myriad of previously conceals traits about myself and my true identity. They have taught me not to be afraid of being who I truly am and doubt that I would have the courage to be the person I am now without this reassurance, this power, that they inspire within me.

From the moment I saw the two dark yet pale, minute yet glorious, obscure yet pure women aptly placed in a gothic church conveying their experiences of being unable to be physically present with loved ones, my eyes amplified, my ears pricked and my skin grew cold. This opened the window to my soul leaving me defenceless, infatuated, and asphyxiated with pure intrigue and alacrity.

I could have watched the two angelic figures on my television screen for hours, and the 4 minute song seemed perpetual, and the unknown force of ardour was growing more potent with each second as it drew me into a new world.

When the song’s intricate melodies had died away from reality, the unthwarted echoes of what I believe to be absolute ecstasy began to orbit the halls of my mind. The pure light which I had just heard, perceived, felt was the most exquisite moment of my life. Nothing has ever captivated me so.

 To this day, I cannot describe what it feels like to be constantly attached to people you have never physically met by silver ties of immeasurable, terrifying, magical Faith. Thin and wispy like a spider’s web, Faith is what connects all of us. Subconsciously, I rely on my Faith of 'The Veronicas' to guide me in reality and to inspire my dreams.

This Friday, after a three year interval of not hearing any new music, 'The Veronicas' will release their first single from their new album. My zeal leads me to believe that ‘Lolita’ will indeed entrance and entice me as much as ‘Untouched’ did on first hearing it. This feeling is novel, unique, fascinating and totally unexplainable. Whenever I feel weak, 'The Veronicas' give me vigour, I feel charged whenever I listen to their music and utterly at peace.

Being a 'Veronica' is unbelievable, the energy received from a song, a tweet, a video is beautiful; the friends I have made, wonderful; the hope of one day meeting my idols and telling them how much I admire, rely on, and cherish them, infinite.

                                                                             **

All that I can gather from this is that from all earnestness, from the pits of my soul, I am perpetually grateful for everything you have done for not only me but for others too. Prior to my knowledge of you, I often felt a pang of vacancy, void of any hope and indeed Faith; my Life, barren of a reason for my tangible being. This love gives me purpose, gives me light! My passions will never cease, with disregard to my sentiments, it is not something which can be controlled, but that is the splendour of being a 'Veronica'. Every day is different, each day unsystematically brings with it an opportunity to be myself and to discover the secrets of dreaming. 

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Soup: A thought on categorising Life...

Labels are supposed to create a sense of order and a sense of categorisation in order to avoid any chance of chaos arising. Yet, think about how traumatic it can be for someone who identifies themselves as a Tomato Soup, but really they have doubts about their 'soupability' and perhaps would prefer to be a Minestrone.

We all share similar ingredients, but each is an individual because of the secret substance within; we are all cans of different flavours.

Finding yourself consuming Asian Prawn Soup without knowing it is Asian Prawn Soup because the label has fallen off is far more exciting, daring and intriguing than having specific knowledge of the ingredients, as it leaves more scope for one to interpret it in different ways, therefore appealing to a wider range of customers. 

I, for example could be less vague with this topic and pinpoint that I am of course referring to teenage fashion and how it is arguably less individual and more of an social stigma for one to say
 'I'm Indie, I don't follow rules and that's why I bought this red snapback...'
 - the fact that one needs to brand oneself is a labeling statement in itself. But this is not purely about trends and fashion (although it may be interpreted in this way by all means), this soup metaphor is about YOU, about individuality, about not having to complicate things by ironically trying to categorise them. 

As soon as you say 'I am this' or 'I am that', the walls around the statement cement together, encasing you in a make-shift prison, disallowing any departure of something which does not befit the label. 

To summarise, my advice is this: be free, be fluid and for God's sake, be something that you feel comfortable being... Be simply yourself, and leave the labeling to cans.





Copyright © JRFB 2012

The Minons

While TV's blare ~ mindnumbing

While the students study ~ boring

While the second hand emigrates back to 12 ~ tick

tick.

While the night moves on ~ slowly

*

The Minons glide past – carefree -

Their purple cloaks shift and quiver as the night unravels,

Yet the air is still.

*

While the cold night shivers in echoes of the last night

and the night before...

The Minons go to where we are not, do not know, and never

shall be.

For the Minons, their flight has just begun.

hearts screaming; minds pulsing; eyes fixed:

They know all that is Unknown to us.

*

Beyond the superficial cosmic din that we call space

Beyond the immortals

Beyond Mars, Neptune and Jupiter -

Lies the People of Minacia.

*

There, the fruit grows bigger – fuller - juicier.

and the corn.

and Their minds.

*

While late night programs seem to be entertaining...

At Minacia, such a thought is trivial. Foolish. Unthinkable.

It is beyond enlightenment.

Beyond life

Beyond love -

Ropes of tires and

Strings of fires.

*

The Minons compel us to cease

like a downhill rally, We must

decline.

To us, colour is merely colour -

but at Minacia, colour is not seen, nor heard...

It is felt; they thrive off sensations.

Love – is - simple, shapeless -

like a cold shadow under the afternoon's sun.

*

The Minons marry the day and disturb the night.

The Minons seduce the day.

The Minons rape the night

- tearing at the still air - groping

the darkness till it

bleeds and grows yet

darker. They inhale the stench of self-pity; smothering

Their lungs, as the essence trickles into Their soul.

*

*

*

They are indelible, infallible, perpetual.

*

*

I would know.

*

*

Because they came for me.

While Life's disruptions blared

While heaven's fires blazed,

They came.

-Jaguar **Disclaimer: 'The Minons' are imaginary beings who shun humanity and believe that their own way of existence is a far more substantial way of living**

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Discrimination

Throughout my entire life I have been brought up to perceive other Human beings as equals and that it is wrong  to judge by one’s shade of melanin, or by one’s size of feet and certainly not by one’s preferred Church clothes. Of course these are perhaps peculiar features which one could judge a person on, but I’d just like to point out that prejudging someone on their race is just as ridiculous are prejudging someone because they are wearing a rather unflattering brown jacket which does not indeed match their skin in any way and so they definitely do not have a sense of taste or style in any way.

It is very well for one to say ‘I do not judge, I love everyone’, because that is obviously heinous blasphemy to the laws of discrimination. Everybody hates someone. This is not meant to be an indirect attack on the conduct of which we, as humans live our lives, but is merely a statement relatable to us all, even if we fail to admit it. Everyone hates someone, be it because once someone asked to borrow your blue gel pen in pre-school and then never returned it, conjuring up a livid fire of hatred and causing you to make a personal vendetta against that person; or perhaps whilst in your public library, you simply saw someone who you preferred to show distain for, rather than gentle indifference. Indeed, distain can cause pleasure (for the conjuror anyway). Sometimes it is simply nice to not like a person; it shows variety within your range of emotions and human interaction.

However, I am in no way encouraging a rebellion within humanity, sparked by a few controversial words by a nomadic misanthropist who loathes her very existence and that of everyone around her. I am highlighting how it is perhaps worse to pretend that we all get along like bees in an beehive (exclude the episodes when the drone bees gang-rape the Queen and then brutally force her to lay eggs for the remainder of her short life…..) and that we should get off our do-gooder’s high-horse and just admit that there are some entities in Life that we cannot control: our abilities to hate.

Hopefully we are all mature enough not to actually show our hatred, but to at least show a sense of civility and false affections. Yes, here I am accusing humanity to be superficial and that behind every smile there is a pernicious abhorrence for just about anything that dares to show even a glimpse of nuisance. So what? Hate is hate, and like deathly fire, once sparked, it will intensify as time goes on, with only [holy] water to threaten its nefarious glow.

Disclaimer: After reading this prose you will perhaps hate me, the creator of such monstrous and disreputable thoughts. Good. I hate you too. Now get out of my yard.

Only Daria understands me...

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Rouge

I gaze at the fruit as she pulls at its soft skin, tearing it with her teeth which appear to glow a luminous white in contrast to the unforgettable bright reds and oranges as they ooze out.

What was once a pristine, spherical lump of softness is now a misshapen, ugly, mangled mess. She sucks at it - the innards being absorbed from one organism into another. But no matter how natural the process, this image before my eyes disturbs me. For nothing so lovely should be treated in such a dishonourable way. The fruit, (barely recognisable) seems to bleed small fragments of life in its desperate attempt not to prolong its own, but to begin the life of others. Only one escapes, as it glides down the chin of the oppressor, in one long slippery movement.

The others were not so lucky.

The fruit breathes its last breath and collapses in on itself, exhaling a sigh as juices protrude - from ripe, tender skin to a wrinkled, shrivelled husk; thus mirroring the lives of our own species. It is a very strange spectre; like watching a plump, new born baby with skin as soft and smooth as a pearl of the sea suddenly merge into the archaic, crippled old man it is destined to become after a lifetime of memories, wither away into the darkness from whence it came.

*

It no longer resists. The oppressor has won and celebratorily wipes her mouth with a handkerchief of the same white as her teeth. Horrified, she is taken aback when she catches sight of a dark red, clotting like blood as it seeps into the open pores of the handkerchief; the blood of her victim.

As she frantically rushes to the nearest pale of water, to inspect the damage done to her mouth - where the danger had begun - the one and only spawn of life from the fruit lies still on the damp earth. Silent; waiting. Waiting for Light to come, to appear from hiding and nurture its growth. The girl screams with hysteria as her blood-shot eyes spark after fearfully gazing at her mouth in the pale.

Dripping with cold, dark, sparkling blood, its smell is repulsive - like decrepit jagged metal rusting on the side of a deserted road. Although no one is around, the smell lingers, adding a weight to the air, hoping to intoxicate the next living man, woman, child, or fruit that has the misfortune to come across it.

The seed of life listens, but does no hear; it breathes but does not inhale; it grows, it flourishes, it lives. For it comes - even the darkness and dreariness of the commotion and horror cannot obstruct the pureness of nature's gift to our troubled world: Light.

Comforted by the warmth of Light, as if by instinct, the seed of Life stretches its roots down passed the screams of death and into the cool earth, embracing a chance for new life to begin.

The sounds of the girl are lost. Only nature can be heard now. The inculpable, pure shoots sprout from the spawn of the fruit, slowly curling and uncurling in euphoric replenishment. Energy is re-released back into the soil, the earth quivers with excitement as it soaks up the new Life. 

Much time may pass, yet still in the garden of men, although nature seems to be lost, the strong, tall steams; the broad thick leaves; the glorious, ripe red fruits all remain on the tomato plant - spawned from death. And not a single fruit from this plant of righteousness is to be harmed.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

My gift to you

The best thing about life? You don't have to be miserable, if it suits you better. To see the world through rose petaled specs is more rewarding than defiling the gift of being alive.
Time is limited on this side of paradise, so I would advise overlooking the strenuous 'ache' of beingness and appreciating the ardent flames of life!

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Life: an entity we can all enjoy

Life is something precious. I feel that we sometimes forget this, overlook it,or focus solely on what isn't going right. Life can be guided and misguided; shaped and re-shaped; lit up and distinguished. My Life is something which I have learnt to value very much. Although I am fortunate enough to have never experienced a mishap which would alter my way of living for the rest of my existence, it is this reason that I feel blessed to breathe the fresh breeze every day, to feel the pulse of the Earth under my toes.

 Of course there are those days where all rational thinking about the sanctity of Life is lost, and I much rather would stay enclosed, stuffed between the bed and the duvet, blocking the Sun and all other sources of vitality from my clouded mind. I have appropriately called them my 'Dark Days'. They occur approximately once a fortnight, and everything seems to crumble to lonesome, fragile dust and self-pity (and loathing). I seem to forget that this moment is fleeting and I will soon return to my headquarters of optimism, golden hope and a genuine adoration for the spiritual connection between Light and Life that I feel when everything is running smoothly.

Life is exquisite, differential, purposeful; but only if you allow it to be.

Every day, having been roused from the bed of dreams where my soul is allowed to explore beyond the 'limitations' of Life, I seek to discover an intention for my waking, a reason for my rupture of sweet slumbers. I discovered this: each day is different, therefore each day there is something different to live for.

I did not have to look far, for I did not even leave the house; gazing at the burning Sun, inhaling an air of light, darkness, joy and sorrow, I realised. The slight tittering and fluttering of morning birds, ecstatically soaring around the sky, seemed to burst into lurid colours: deep greens and browns surrounded the light, bursting like works of fires, shattering into burning shards of feathery glass. There; the smell of recently mowed grass, sharp and sweet like an exotic fruit juices invaded my nostrils, overcoming any doubt of whether to turn of the light and retreat back into sweet sleep. 

This beauty, this euphoria, these sensations which Life provokes within, surely make vitality Victor in this battle - a skirmish between dreams and reality day and night, light and death. Yet, on both sides, the adversaries seem to drift together, blurring any such boundaries between them. In short, there is no distinction. Life is what you want it to be; it may indeed be lived through Death, or Imagination or Midnight Hours.

Each day I try to perceive Life as something new, a Friend, a Lover, a Stranger - all are equally as satisfying a seach other. All are unique. 

I adore Life and its changeability.This is the beauty of Nature, of the Soul.

Copyright © JRFB 2012