i found myself reading the words of Bukowski as he describes a series of meaningless moments aspects of a journey seemingly trifling prosaic and unremarkable in the manner recounted
a bus stops at a cafe in the hills lightly touched by a newly-falling snow of food and coffee he says both were good the waitress rare the cook effervescent the dishwasher commodious
as the snow swirls beyond the window he describes the scene as beautiful but curious certain it will forever be beautiful in that way he wished to stay yet returned to the bus nonetheless when the driver beckoned
the other passengers spoke or read or tried to sleep and none had noticed the beauty of that moment that something could be so poignant to one while being mundane to others is worth remembering i guess
Soft lyrics billow from the next room, Wrapping their syllables around my body. Drenching my skin in warm, buttery tunes. Floating behind the words on the page, As I watch the stories unfurl from my book. Sometimes I forget that I’m reading, I can see everything as clearly as the island From my beach on a still July morning. My eyes stop seeing and my fingers no longer turn the pages, I am part of the tale. Engulfed by the stark poetry of being alive. A passive, invisible witness to the lives of the characters, As they run across my mind and live onwards in my imagination.
A little outpouring of how it feels to be lost in a good book with some relaxing music playing in another room
A few throw in their Towel. Some drown in a Pool of Tears. A few fight life, like Fighters. Others suffer through the Years. Few string up their sentences and bleed with words they Write. Writing Prose and Poetry, they hardly sleep at Night. Fighting their daylight Battles and waging a War with the World. Their Words at times hold Promise. Alas like a stone they’re Hurled. Words don't decay or rotten. I read them as I lie down in Bed. For Others they seem all forgotten. I'll keep reading them, till I'm Dead.
"Parerga und Paralipomena - Aphorismen zur Lebensweisheit" ("Appendices and Omissions - Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life",1851, Arthur Schopenhauer): "Buying books would be a fine thing, if you could buy the time to read them as well, but buying books is often confused with acquiring their content."
The wind rises in the courtyard baring extraordinary imaginings faithful oscillations of space time evanescence of life and death always mutedly move side to side the wind rises the whole range of experiences of a flower-like butterfly venturing through the damp and dusty it makes the bronze in the night cry in its reply a rustling sound woke me up its the sycamore castle outside that carries the burden of dawn the tree is just like a book opened birds, insects etc are inserted in the pages i walk into the bones to eavesdrop on the breath of this minute to learn its calmness and indifference towards the coming and going of multifarious clouds.
a flat white cools far too quickly for prolonged enjoyment steaming the window above the table where it rests next to it my latest trial of literature at times lengthy of word ponderous but probing while others lesser in page number though not in meaning brief yet pointed but always formidable enough in name or title to impress a wandering eye