Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Christian Bixler Jan 2016
Many scoff when they hear of
things, said or done too often
for their palate. But the power
of the act lies not in repetition,
or its absence, but in the act
itself, whether it be performed
once, or a thousand, thousand
times, for as long as there is one
among the throng who is willing
to open himself once more to
wonder, the power of the act will
continue, forever, and for eternity.
Christian Bixler Dec 2015
Once I lay in Summers heat;
laid on the grass, 'neath a
tall swaying tree, sole
shade in that sunlit field.
I looked up through the rocking
limbs, through the myriad sighing
leaves, and saw a shining speck of
dust come floating in the breeze.
And I laughed to see it hanging there,
just floating in the breeze.
Christian Bixler Dec 2015
Life, the state of living.

Survival, the act of continuing the state of life.

To live, to be whole, to be happy, to bring joy to others.

To survive, to continue the state of life, with no regard for any but oneself.

Consider which one should choose.
Christian Bixler Dec 2015
I look at her face, and smile, and warmth
swells in my chest as I see her smile in turn.
Age has dulled her blazing beauty, and lies
on her now like a mantle of lead, bending her
back, arresting her tread. And yet our love has
grown, not withered, and our hearts speak truly to
one another, for we are joined, in heart and mind,
and we care for each other, more than we do
ourselves. As the years have passed, our forms
have withered, have become vessels of the most fragile
glass, through which the light of ours souls burn as stars
in the infinite heavens, and our souls communicate, one
with the other, for there is no boundary, no obstacle left,
so far down the road. We speak little, for our actions speak
more clearly than words, and when we do, we seek only to
confirm our love and our trust, unnecessarily, for we are one,
and forever will be, in this life, and beyond, together, for all
eternity.
A dream of hope and love and happiness. Shared in joy.
Christian Bixler Dec 2015
I sit in front of the fire and think, of olden
days, of yore. Of those moments which, by
virtue of their power, still shine golden, or
shimmer darkly, like ebony in a pool in the
dying light, out of the mists of age and forget-
fullness, this both a blessing and a curse, to one
who has lived so long as I. For I have seen many
triumphs and celebrations, and many more defeats
and fruitless victories, these like the long dark shadow
stretching out from the pillar of my accomplishments.
This pillar is the anchor of my life; without it, I would be
lost in the sea of my own wretched failures. And yet,
still, from my vantage point atop that shining monument
that enshrines all that was, is, and will be good in my life, still
the shadow grows, along with the pillar itself, for though
I have passed that point of sweet and soaring ****** at the
epitome of my life, and have long since begun the descending
spiral towards the grave, I am not yet dead. And yet, even as my pillar grows, so does my shadow, and its length grows longer as my years increase, and the memory of past failures compound one upon the other, until they are stretched far out to the distant horizon, and have filled it with darkness and shadows, for the sun is low, as my age ascends, and so the shadows lengthen. And yet. Through all of this, of the pain of my failures, of the tragedies of my defeats, of the defeats of others who were close to my heart, peace is with me, and I have no fear, and I am happy, and I give of myself to others, and expecting nothing, receive all, for the gratitude and happiness of others in response to ones generosity and love, is the greatest reward that one may hope to attain.
For I do not dwell only in the past, but in the present, and do not impose worry and fear upon my soul through vain speculations of what the future may bring, and instead live in the present, and think on the past, and act according to what I believe to be right, before the eyes of man, and the eyes of God. And all is right with me, and I am happy, and as I sit here before the hearth, the fire leaping merrily, and crackling like a thousand distant fireworks, I smile, and sink softly into sleep.
If one lives well, then one will die happy. It's as simple as that.
Christian Bixler Dec 2015
I once walked a lonely path,
that threaded its way so elegantly,
throughout that vast and wooded
sea. I had thought to walk for peace of
mind; for that calm and refreshing clarity,
that comes from long unbroken solitude.
But instead, to my increased confusion,
knowing as I do that all men walk with the
seeds of chaos and confusion buried in their
hearts, I found that my thoughts walked
with me, down that lonely mountain path.
My attention lingered, as it were, on the
roughness of the track, and from there leapt
from wood to sky, to consider the path itself.
Such a wondrous creature, this winding thing,
such a strange and marvelous structure! So simple
to see, to comprehend, upon ones first inspection,
but upon further query and strain of ones senses, one
sees that indeed, against all sane reason, it warrants some
further reflection! Oh true, very true, this thing of which I
speak, so endearingly, is merely a track, an ignominious scratch,
stretching its dusty way through these unending woods, but think, for a moment, simply think, about all this, all that I have to say, regarding this humble path. Think how it stretches, for miles, for years! All unbroken and unwearied continuing on through cracked gorge and wooded valley, over hills and mountains tall, never speaking a word of complaint or discomfort, only seeking to deposit its travelers at their desired destination, and continue on its way. Consider if you will the vastness of this earth, of the uncounted millions of miles that lie between her frozen poles. If you are certain of nothing, be certain of this; that this single path stretches the length and width of our planet entire, be it a dirt track through a sighing wood, or a goat path high among the jagged cliffs and peaks of Patagonia, or even the mighty ocean currents used by those unknowable dwellers of the capricious sea.  There is only one path, one long mighty river with innumerable tributaries, which stretches its way to the ends of the earth, and back again, and everywhere in between. Such were my thoughts that day, as I wended my way down that interminable path, and such was my concentration upon the fascinating madness that lay within them, that I hardly noticed that the sun was dying, and evening was coming on, and only when the light was gone, and the darkness began to weigh heavily on my soul, that I roused myself from these winding thoughts, and even as I did so, a light drizzle began to fall, which soon compounded into a driving rain, under which I was left to stumble and trip my way back down that terrible path, back to the small hamlet where it began, or passed. And yet I was glad, for I had gained, if not what I had desired, a thing of worth at least as great, if not more so, and that strange mad enlightenment which I had gained while walking the long and wearying miles of that mountain path would, I knew, remain with me, for better or for worse, for always, and for forever.
A strange train of thought. I really have no idea where it came from. Perhaps it was something I read awhile back. Whatever. Read if you will, comment if you do.
Christian Bixler Nov 2015
Drifting....seed caught in the wind of life,
one more among many; a grain in a storm
of a thousand sands. Wandering, lost in the
sighing ether, suspended between earth and
sky, it sees many things, and yet sees nothing.
Meaning is lost to it, feeling torn from its numb
grasp, in the hour of its waking. It has known
nothing, has felt nothing, save for the grey air of
the world without, and the grey within; there
where his heart had been.
A cold morning today....melancholy fills my heart and chills me, as the draft from cracked window paints the room in icy hue.
Next page