A Piece of Prose

A moment of breathlessness stops time.

Love.  Death.  Such art.  Art itself.

Time freezes to allow the slow but all too quick consumption of an emotion so much larger than this life can possibly constrain.  Delicious, savored, devoured...all at once.

Almost as if...

The stars halt their ecstatic motion to gaze down upon the eruptions that destroy the bounds of the universe itself.  Time capsules planted, crystallized and frozen in details so very precise, the shapes, the outlines traced by the fingers of human consciousness to paint a picture in impossible detail.  As if to relive perfection again and again.  Such art.  Meant to steal away your awareness and melt away all that surrounds you.  The Earth beneath your feet to vanish into nothingness.

To cease to exist in the now.  Vanish from this timeline altogether, to remove your spirit away to an enveloping something "other than".  Defiance to be anchored by mankind's  deepest understanding of physics.

Loopholes in the concrete math.

To offer up your soul with a faith so blind as to experience that ethereal "other than".

To allow that very muse to aid you in the offering of love to another, to encapsulate them in your "other than".

Even in the darkest moments when agony and misery slice you to the bone, still eliminating the atmosphere and gravity that surrounds you.  Stealing away pieces of you and wrapping them so neatly to tuck away on a shelf you find yourself revisiting time after time, without time ticking away at all.  Those moments swell inside of you.  Grow limitless.

It's an exquisite art.

In the same way that a soft kiss is an art relished when the world stands perfectly still.

In the way that allowing a rattling of your soul to sound out as a fierce beat with which to dance along freely without shame.  To find in delicate prose those perfect and...breathless...moments in time.

In the swirls and lines of color to see and feel a yearning to relive all of those timeless and perfect "other than"s.

To hear in a gentle rhythm all of the whispered "goodbyes" and "hellos", so delicate and tender in the dark, in the eloquent release of time itself.

To experience and hold all of those macrocosms and whirling orbits of time lost again and again, stealing time, halting time. 

Such art.

Lost in seeing without seeing at all.  Gazing with eyes wide shut, examining the impeccable shake and rumble of a life truly lived.  To hold in your hand a life exalted beyond the physical dwelling of your human form, as a masterpiece hung on the walls of corridors winding through your very quintessence.   A mess of sound, fury; a sharply cornered and lined packed box so juxtaposed as to exist as a completely incomprehensible "other than".

To paint with words and pauses.  To speak in color and texture.  To see a hushed promise with ears and hear with subtle stare.

Every guttural cry and laugh and tear and smile, a proof of teeming, searing, seeping life.  Opening your core to the experience of illustrious "being".  Never JUST being, as to be, to truly exist in a revolving, spinning, twirling world pushing and pulling the high tides and low tides of each soul it creates from an energy indestructable...

Breathlessness.

Sacred and unfathomable.

Without even one word
Let alone each paragraph I've written
Able to capture its essence.