Telling Life Like Stories

My story is my self-love,

Framing my existence against odds and fate.

I’ve never not been telling myself

How I relate to everything I love.

Sometimes everything means nothing

Logic draws an empty shape

A void of anxiety or dread,

The overwhelming potential of a blank page.

In confrontation with this,

My beating heart vs the blind night,

I tell the tale of “I” and “Us”

Displacing emptiness with narrative form.

The sharpened edge of reality fades,

Never abating, but making space for creation.

I draw meaning out of thin air

And weave it as I’m best able.

I exist, therefore I tell a story.

I value truth and beauty because I listen.

Every fleeting moment is somewhere

Between a comedy, tragedy, and romance,

But even the finest prose,

Is little more than painted dust,

Fractals to be discarded and neglected,

Swallowed whole by eternity.

It’s an absurd story,

Sound and fury told by an idiot,

The dearest fantasy of my heart

Like late autumn leaves.

Absurdity, my idol,

Language of passions and pleasures,

Defying inevitable complexity

To take rapture in the fantastical.

Laugh at my solemnity,

Existence makes us lunatics,

The world is a journal for mad ramblings,

And it’s a story to be loved.

 

By Sanya Elswyth Walma.

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Assembling Meaning

Every story

Is an empathetic connection,

People and ideas

Equally entrenched in my heart.

When you speak

You create meaning to decipher,

A flowery grove

Suspended in the callus void.

Consciousness creates.

Every fantasy enriches thought.

Images and ideals

Are the angels of mortal Gods.

Artfully imperfect,

Our subtle cracks, Nature’s profundity.

Our deepest griefs

Akin to scribbles drawn with passion.

 

Souls exist in meaning exists in thought

Expressed in art to be interpreted imperfectly

By the senses of living things.

Read, write, listen, and think,

So even the damned find salvation.