The End

I have decided to end this blog.  

The final threshold arrives, yet closure remains a staging ground for subsequent transit. 

Those attuned to the cadence of these transmissions will witness an inevitable resumption. 

Inward, Outward

I sit in the quiet room across from the doctor. Words tumble out, dense and heavy as oak planks. We select each syllable like a rare spice, tasting it, placing it carefully on the laminate table between us. I lift a tiny paper cup to my lips; the cold water tastes like an icy mountain spring drawn from deep beneath the bedrock. My old psychic pain fractures, recedes, and dissolves into a brilliant, temporary geometry - a simple misalignment of crystals awaiting the lapidary’s firm, loving touch.

The heavy security door clicks open. The outside world hits me in a blinding, instantaneous flash. The city rushes forward with the deafening roar of a million churning lives. I step out onto asphalt that surges like a river of molten glass and roaring steel. The scent of exhaust fumes carries the rich aroma of human ambition. Beneath my boots, the subway rumble feels like the steady heartbeat of a benevolent titan.

I move back and forth across this border. I weave continuously between white, silent halls and roaring, sunlit avenues, mastering the supreme art of perpetual rebirth. Every exit marks a grand victory; every entry marks a beautiful retreat into the spirit's workshop. The city looms around me - massive, terrifying, incandescently bright - and I march directly through its center, my heart roaring, luminous, and completely reborn.

Corday's Blush

The severed head of Charlotte, freshly shorn,
Still burned with crimson heat beneath the slap,
A sudden spark to close the violent gap
Between the iron blade and quiet morn.
The sneering rogue who struck the cooling cheek
Awoke a silent fire, fierce and bleak,
Before the fading mind could die reborn.

Across the scaffold, blood and marble blend,
As dark directives urge the final leap,
Where sovereign voices guide the soul to sleep,
And draw the weary martyr to her end.
This hidden master calls from shadowed halls,
Where every whisper breaks as darkness falls,
And bids the broken spirit to descend.

Chord of the Flower Calling

In the night, a string I hear,
A whisper faint, yet always near.
It winds the mind with tone so low,
Sonic where reason cannot go.
The bloom it speaks of, petals black,
A flower's song that calls me back.

It draws me to the edge of thought,
Where sense and sanity are fraught.
I listen close, yet dread to know
The secrets whispered soft and slow.
For in that tune, a terror deep,
A path where shadows ever creep.

It sings of skies, forever dark,
Of fears that leave their haunting mark.
The melody, both sweet and grim,
A hymn that pulls me to the rim.
I fear the truth its voice may bring,
Yet still, I feel the urge to cling.

Everything Rolls Downward Again

In the Sisyphean cycle of the boulder’s ascent and its inevitable fall, we observe the very essence of human endeavor: an endless pursuit of dreams as fleeting as the morning mist. Such is the nature of our ambition, forever reaching towards ideals that slip through our fingers like wisps of vapor.

The End

Thinking a lot about ending things. 

Words ring hollow. 

The wind whistles through the reeds. The tide pulls back, leaving only salt and stones.

Wonder and Inquiry

Science, too, partakes of wonder. A microscope reveals ciliary forests; equations shimmer with austere elegance; laboratory benches gleam beneath antiseptic light. Inquiry binds humility to audacity.