- New York, NY
- Last Record:
- Joined: May 05, 2010
One is a number. It falls between zero and two. It is the first. It is the singular. Without one, there would only be zero. Nothing. One is existence. One is grand, the best, the head honcho, and lonely. One’s self is the first thought. It is selfish and self-assured. We are individual, like the one. The idea of one makes us competitive. We want to be the one in the eyes of our peers. But one can be more than one. It can be more than it is. Together, we can be one. As a collective, we are one. We can have one mind, one heart, one love. Unity is one. So one is one and more than one. One is existence and not just a number between zero and two.
To hold on, I thought,
was a bravery.
I held so tight
onto that wild hope
that it passed from me.
To slide into those feelings
was a dream.
To slide out again,
worse than to lose.
I want to, true,
I cannot bear the thought of you.
My city is not the greatest in the world.
It has, literally, the most hearts.
But not the most heart.
It has, figuratively, the most strangers
and thus, the most negligence.
Pride is found inside one's soul.
So how can pride come from a city
of wandering eyes and crooked lives?
My surroundings do not mimic
the atmosphere of my soul.
And so, do not fret your troubled minds.
For no matter where you are,
you are not home;
for home is where the heart is.
smashed a piece of glass at 1500 frames per second played back at 24 frames per sec Filmed using The Olympus i-speed 3. thank you Olympus for letting me play with your toys :)
The light crept closer and closer,
vicariously balancing itself on the third rail
as if falling off would lead to its demise.
The archaic creation of man, meeting
with his own fruitions; such a vexing sight.
My soul cried out to the deafening,
unwanted screeching of human chatter
(a reminder, ironically, of how alone
I really was) that even my nervous bruxism
could not drown out. And within moments,
I was begging it for forgiveness;
feebly begging it to stop.
But there, in the distance, as per my surmise,
the reverent light at the end of the tunnel
comes into fruition, and glorious silence
follows suit, sweeping into my body
like the synthetic wind that takes with it all it touches.
And I lift my head, thankful that there is still
something in this world that can silence all
who surround me. And my prosaic,
lackluster being wonders at the beauty
of such horrid an existence.