My history with blogs has been a long yet splintered path. Traversing across all sorts of engines and domains, criss-crossing back and forth, as if I were Goldilocks searching for the one that is just right.
In between periods where I don’t write at all. I have discovered, I write when I am upset, when I am disturbed, when I am otherwise emotionally unbalanced. When not an out but an OUT is in need. But why bother with blogs at all? Why not a diary or their more demure twins, journals?
In response, I have a quote:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
from Percy Brysshe Shelley’s poem Ozymandias
One of my favorite poems of all time.
Man, with his need to carve his own image upon the world, as if without such an object one would not be able to prove one’s existence, the sands of the desert about Ozymandias’ once colossal monolith to the power of time to scour away… practically everything. What once was important, once monolithic, now diminished to leftover soap chips of its former self. But what remains? Beneath the soapsuds, among the leftovers, that has carried over? Ensue despair.
But when is despair ever an acceptable answer?
So I say I shall settle down here once again. Pick up the digital pen to power and make my own mark upon the virtual lands. Again.
I suppose, once again, we shall see.
For anyone who wishes to know where the inception for this blog’s name/theme, read further. It’s a short. Of sorts. Well, either a short or mid-sized prose.
From Great Heights
From great heights, I take a breath. Deep, the frigid air enters. Chilling from the inside out.
Blue is the scenario before me. The scenery cast in the early morning tempers of the sky giant slumbering awake. Frosty clouds rolling not so far away, his breath drawing mine out. Like I am caught upon a thread, white floating out. Warmth drawn in three dimensions, taking shape in space, evidence of my small place in existence. And I a speck, so small, an ant would be a monster. A behemoth of the proportions of a large hill or a small mountain, threatening to crush me unnoticed underneath.
Blue is my lungs, calling out for air. Purple veins draining oxygen further down and deeper in. Purple veins draining precious oxygen from the thin air. Briefly redder then blue then red again then blue. Fluctuating about a purple hue. Just barely enough. To get by.
Blue is my heart. Caught, now hiding. Red welts puckering the flesh of the organ where once it had been cut, slashed in ribbons, and bleeding out, frozen. Waiting.
Blue is the light, waves scattering above. Randomness generating the orderly procession of colors filtering out along the horizon.
From such great heights. Cassini flies.
Above the theys and the thems. The mes and Is, without a care for the yous and whos and whatsitsfaces. She spreads her wings and I watch her glide.
Pull in. Tighter, closer. Pull in. Downwards, inwards. For you will get hurt.
Don’t fly so high. That is what I think, for myself, but oh do I love the flight. The soaring, banked curves, close calls but no danger. Because I am good. Splendid. Glorious. No fear. The thrill of the wind, your hair standing on end as everything rushes on by, blurring kaleidoscopes into a messy hue with the best auto-focused by adrenaline-powered sharpened sights and heightened wits. Stone ruins by the cliff, ivy growing in creeping tendrils, green against gray. Red tailed hawk come home to roost, three beaks chirping to have their tiny tummies filled.
Pull in. Tighter now. Closer in, further down. For you will bleed.
And I cannot bear. To see your still form, splattered body against the hard canvass. Some ledge of rock, pine dotted turf, some path they walk, some place no one ventures. Because I cannot bear to feel. To be immobilized by the potential something, the potential failure. The crash that may come and probably will. And yet, your flight is glorious and I cannot tear my eyes from your form.
An aphrodisiac. The unpredictability, the potential for something larger, greater, more. Enthralling, thrilling, tantalizing. And my frozen heart quavers. Half-wishing to be in flight. To soar alongside, to share in this blue world.
Pull in. Closer. Further.
My hand half-moves. Mind still disconnected from the body. Reaching to grasp ahold of your feathers, your trailing cape. Red tipped tail waving hello. Join me, Cassini waves. And for a moment I recall those times. The so-called better ones, when I too soared. And before my mind can catch myself, I remember. Joined in flight, soaring. I remember.
The hunk of half-reaching blue diminishing to the stature of an ant, then to that if a neighboring giant were an ant crawling beneath giants. And it is as if the world was mine. Yours now. I watch. Blue blue world. Half a hope, caught in my throat. I can barely breath. My body frozen. I am gasping. Waiting.
Day breaks. Haze lifts. The blue bleached by bright lights, I forget my shortness of breath. And that Cassini flies.