Entry 16 - Patterns. And the Nature of Such.

Patterns, of a sword, of a man, of a thought, curl around themselves, wrapping together like vines – each separate one definable, yes, but so blended with the other that it can’t be confined. Everything living/dead/inanimate creates these vines and extends outward to form a lace-work of energy surrounding and incorporating one, me. I can feel it…the sense of closeness of protection like a soft blanket around my shoulders. They say if your heart is too full, you can’t see anything but what filled it. Would that be selfishness? Love? As the ultimate form of selfishness? Even as we hold it up as selflessness? If you fill your heart with your beloved, isn’t that self-absorption? Where your world centers. Other gifts are ignored, other needs put aside and an unthinking consuming takes over your self. Love blinds, hurts, and cannot last. My heart is full of other things. My friends come and go as brief interruptions in a primarily slow and solitary world. A world that breathes temperately and at a glacial pace. Things come slowly with mild emotions that seem to drift away as quickly as they’ve come. Tiny ripples in the sea of my own mind.

Cold against skin, like skimming fingers through cool water, almost soft sharpened with an element of danger slid along the edge. Balanced, brilliant in the light. Metal folded, bent, remade. Tempered in a more desperate flame that licks and dodges its maker. The two tied, locked together one to another. Shaping patterns, single notes, partial phrases given harmony and depth when combined. I can catch it, change the patterns, tempt the flames into my own hand. They dart like serpents through my fingers, rollicking in constant motion and caught. Burning itself to death. So empty, as if the world shows only its surface, and we’ve forgotten what other layers are there to explore.