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Moments, A Lamentation
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Moments, A Lamentation
A twenty-something jack-of-all-trades that has simple been exploring the craft of writing for longer than he can remember. Whilst humour is a fickle mistress that comes and goes, he must admit that tragedy and romance consume the bulk of his creative efforts.
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|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (17)
Alexandria (Poetry) Just a quick little verse I scribbled down one day on a whim celebrating the destruction of knowledge. [24 words] [History]
Ballad Of The Opiate King (Poetry) - [151 words]
Birds (Poetry) Oh, the things we do... [159 words] [Romance]
Collected Poems (Poetry) A collection of some of the poetry I've written over the years; most of it follows the same or similar rhyming scheme and cadence (yes, most of it rhymes... sorry folks), but the material covered vari... [1,331 words]
Consciousness Stream 1 (Poetry) A relatively lengthy piece I simply spit out one day whilst feeling inexplicably intoxicated (for I was under no influence). [300 words] [Mind]
How She Stirs Not At All (Short Stories) - [319 words]
I Should Think It Like A Fist (Non-Fiction) A semi-conscious rant on language, love and whatever else I found offensive that day. [493 words] [Psychology]
I Think You'd Like Her (Short Stories) A soliloquy of sorts, we find a young man reflecting on a love now lost. [1,440 words] [Romance]
Mere Life Less Love (Non-Fiction) A short projection of private thoughts regarding love and life. [276 words]
Of Art, Pt. 1 (Non-Fiction) An undulating rant on Art and its relevance to civilized life. [489 words] [Psychology]
Princes And Lesser (Poetry) An exercise in entendre. [117 words] [Literary Fiction]
Reflections On A Sunrise (Short Stories) A very old fable I stumbled across that I had written some years ago. I still reading it from time to time, I like what I was trying to do here, inspirational and all of that. [1,037 words] [Fable]
Stranded At Dusk (Short Stories) I've labeled this as a short story, although my original intent was to develop this into a longer work, possibly a novella or full-length novel. [1,690 words] [Thriller]
Sunday Morning (Short Stories) Memories. Just... memories. [458 words] [Literary Fiction]
The Mad Diarist (Short Stories) The first fragments of a diary have been discovered buried beneath the dust of an old condemned building. The author's identity remains a mystery. [347 words] [Horror]
The Opiate King (Poetry) In Memorium of a Great Man. [151 words] [Mystical]
Worlds Apart (Short Stories) A series of piggybacking streams of consciousness, effectively stages of one man's reflection on the woman he's left for reasons (and duration) unknown. [1,595 words] [Relationships]
Moments, A Lamentation
And this is how it happens. Moments, like this. One day at a time. Agonizingly poetic, like the acrylic of my life having dried and set overnight while I slept.
I stir to wakefulness slowly, carefully as if not to smudge or streak the residue of my dreams. Equatorial sunlight stretches through my bedroom window like some freshly stirred feline, my face already warm with the day�s convection. A day beautiful by any measure, perfectly tailored, seamless in its stitching, frayed only by my own imperfect body. I had a way out last night. My ticket punched, my luggage aside, her hand against the glass, and still did I stand like some pillar of salt as she steamed away into the night. And so she waits. And I wait. Still, losing all composure one tear at a time, my body draining, falling away into the cracks of the platform at my feet. My mistress, she waits, if only in my mind, rather it I how has left her behind.
And so the violins of night fade away, given to the chorus outside my window. There is alway music in this place. In this sphere. Music composed by gods ensconced in worlds apart, and played by our own mortal philharmonic. The winds, the strings, the rhythm kept by metronomic rainfall somewhere. Always echoing, speeding, slowing, undulating toward some anticipated crescendo at the turning of life.
It was never supposed to be this way, this coming to terms with mortality. To address casually the finity of life like it were some weekend transit schedule fluxed by holiday commuters. Ushered into life, protected, paired, committed in a grand maternal union and then to suffer the rapture of love falling away in some breach of contract you never prepared for. Losing dependancy as life slowly idles down to some grey moment of absolution having turned its back as death fixes a coach. Time is relentless, yet merciful. There is no grace in death, nor escaping abandon. To die alone. To live! To play like child kings upon a gilded stage and then exeunt into the shallows, bracken with permeating darkness.
And so we are consumed in life by a single flame burning blue. Stroking her mane as it all expires. Bleeding. Crying. Crying. Returning our water to the earth.
We are naught but the weight of shadows, our lives little more than the imprints left on the bedsheet of the world. An ounce of light in the universe proper. A metric tonne those who love us. A stepping stone to those we love. A shoreless tide when these people are not one and the samee.
I smoothe her pillow, my nostrils searching frantically for her scent while my eyes sit helpless, waiting pensively to deliver the news. Still crippled with sleep, my feet hobble themselves into their slippers, my toes creeping into place in completion of the morning serial.
It is done.
It has not even begun.
I write her and wait for her to right me.
All is inert within my trembling heart.
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© 2007 Gregory Novak
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