Author: CGAyling

  • Of Eros, and Arete

    ~ Of Eros, and Arete ~
    ~
    Of memories,
    of who once we were.
    Of quests,
    to find who we might become.
    Of thoughts we have,
    yet think should not.
    Of lines we draw,
    only to cross.
    Of searching,
    through the sands of time.
    Of thoughts,
    that are themselves sublime.
    Of texture,
    touch,
    and taste.
    Of sensual curve,
    to slender waist.
    Of perfect fit,
    and delight’s slip.
    Of joyous dreams,
    to misery.
    Of Eros,
    and Arete.
    ~

    While you’re here, look around. Though you might find something to your taste, I am more confident you’ll find things that present opportunity for reflection.  If you’re interested in Poetry, there is a drop down on the right titled “Categories”, you might find more there…

  • Of heaven, and hell.

    a short poem in which I attempt to capture my sentiments on matters to which I do not subscribe, yet in which I hold hope for justice of a universal nature.

    ~ Of heaven, and hell ~

    Where will the kind forever dwell,
    in our hearts, not in our hells,
    and what of the greedy,
     and the cruel,
    dispersed into soon forgotten dust,
    if our universe proves just.

  • Traditional American Values…

    Why does it seem that every time I hear someone talking about “Traditional American Values” what they are really doing is selling spin?

    The phrase “Traditional American Values” is a leading statement designed to entice you into accepting something as truth.  The speaker is more interested in selling you on how they want you to behave than they are in discussing history.  You see, the truth of matters is that there is no such thing as Traditional American ValuesThis is not an opinion, it is a fact which I will illustrate in this post.  Yesterday I tweeted

    There is no such thing as “traditional American values”, the USA is a cultural melting pot, not a one pot kitchen that only cooks cabbage.

    One of the essential truths I believe about the USA is that it is a social melting pot.  I believe that the premise on which the USA grew to be a superpower is this: The USA cares naught about your origins, your culture, your religion, your gender, your race or any of the historical things that strive to mold you.  What the USA cares about is who you have the potential to become.  The USA cares about the real you, not about the you others would have you be.

    In my opinion, that is how the USA should remain – more concerned with who individuals might grow to be than how their history has tried to shape them.

    Must each of us abandon our heritage and the things we hold so dear?  Absolutely not.  I treasure my troubled past, and I hold my heritage in high esteem.  My culture and family did shape me, however I now have a family of my own, and it is much more important than me.

    The moral values I’ve developed had their origins in my past, and all of them are important to me.  Yet I hold one of my values higher than any other, and that is this: Provided they do no harm, everyone is entitled to their own values.

    And thus my taking exception to meaningless leading phrases like “Traditional American Values.”  Precisely whose traditional values is the speaker attempting to impose on me?  The Native Americans?  The Eskimos?  Perhaps the Apache, or maybe the Cheyenne, or any other unique tribe… for surely if anyone can be termed a Traditional American it is each and every one of these?  They all are the true traditionals, and much more so than any immigrant which the majority of us are.

    But no, that is not whose traditional values they are attempting to impose on us.  The values they are attempting to impose on us, are theirs.  Sorry, I am not buying since not only do I already have my own values but I think my values are of equal worth to yours, and yours, and yours as well.

    So, the next time you hear someone say “Traditional American Values” you would be well advised to turn on your brain, pay close attention, and listen with a skeptical ear.  The chance is good that what they’re about to tell you isn’t about values at all, but about them leading you by the nose onto their train of thought.

    Personally, I don’t like people telling me how to think, I particularly don’t like being led by my nose, and I really don’t want to get onto anyone else’s train.  For some reason the metaphor of trains just doesn’t sit well with me – it conjures visions of unwitting, innocent animals being shipped to the slaughter, and of tight-packed emaciated bodies en route to Auschwitz or Siberian Gulags.

    Traditional Values?” – you can keep yours, and I’ll keep mine.  Or even better, let us start a dialog about our differences.  Who knows, I might find some of your values to be better than the ones I already have and mix them in with mine.

    Sounds a little like a melting pot, doesn’t it?

  • Judgement!

    On one hand we’re required to make an endless series on judgments, yet on the other we face the societal ethic, “Judge not lest ye be judged.”

    Judgment is such an emotive, contradictory word isn’t it?  Here is a definition of judgment, “the ability to judge, make a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively, and wisely, especially in matters affecting action; good sense; discretion:…

    So what are we supposed to do?  Let’s consider these contradictions.

    Life absolutely requires us to make an almost endless series of judgments, in the form of minor decisions.  We cannot choose to opt out of making these judgments, because if we don’t choose we simply cannot function.  We face judgments constantly, and often without awareness or conscious thought.  Little choices in which we weigh the relative merits and choose.  Should I wear red or blue?  Should I take one lump, or two.  Should I speed up, or slow down?  If this food safe for my family?  Can I afford this?  Should I answer this telephone call or text right away, or can it wait?  Should I read Malmaxa, or go to bed early?  The list is quite literally endless.

    Some judgments need to be made, and if we don’t make them someone will suffer for our indecision.  These judgments can be painful, but they must be made for moral, ethical, and safety reasons.  You hear what you know to be a lie.  You witness an assault.   You witness a theft.  You sit on a jury of your peers and have to decide the fate of a proven villain.  Do I spend the remnants of my paycheck buying food for my family, or health insurance?

    When you have to judge, don’t be judgmental.

    Some judgments are more judgmental than others.  Why don’t we like that person?  Exactly what about their statement angered us?  Does their difference warrant our angst?  Do they stand for something we abhor?  Do we understand them, and perhaps more to the point – do we understand our own reaction to them?

    Yes, we have to judge, but before we do, we should try to understand.

  • Is it art, or is it not?

    The tweet below initiated a discussion on the nature of art.  It also provoked this post, in which I’ll try and define, for myself, what art is.  Yes, I know I’m tackling a touchy subject for some, but that’s never stopped me before so I don’t see why it should now.

    If we paint with a broad brush, we should not expect fine art.

    Onward!  The following are my views on the nature of art, you’re entirely free to disagree.

    If someone has to tell you it’s art, it isn’t.

    I’ve had many people tell me various things are art.  If they don’t move me on some emotional level, then to me they are anything but art. I don’t care how smart, popular, or prolific the artist is.  I don’t care how brilliant and renowned the critic attempting to coach me on the meaning of art might be, or might believe they are. If it doesn’t make me care, then it is not art, least not to me.

    What art is not, is easier than to grasp than what art is. But art is not, simply because someone says, “it is.”

    Art, is soul essence, extracted.

    I know when I encounter art.  It doesn’t matter what form art takes, I just know.  And I think you all do too.  There is something very special about real art that makes it easily recognized. I think each of us has favorite art forms.  It might be music, painting, sculpture, poetry, or prose – what it is doesn’t matter so much as that it is.  And when we see it, we feel it as well.  If we don’t feel it, well then is it really art at all?

    Art is not created for cash, but for necessity.

    Can an artist prevent themselves creating art?  I don’t think they can.  Whatever their muse, if theirs is like mine, it wants out!  It needs out.  It will get out.  And we, the appreciators of their creativity, will be the richer for their muse’s escape.  Do artists release their muse for money?  If I sold mine, I don’t think it would ever return.  Am I saying artists shouldn’t make a living from their art?  Hard question, that.  I don’t think I am.

    Art is not arrogant.

    It might be bold, it might be brave, art might be bigoted, or free, but one of the things that art never is to me, is arrogant.  I’ve never gazed on a piece of art and felt it looking down on me.  Critics?  Another story entirely.  Artists?  Those few I’ve met have never been arrogant, indeed they have been as close to arrogance’s opposite as I can imagine.  The word?  Humble.  Perhaps humble people are more willing to bleed, and what is art if not a soul’s essence, reformed?

    Art is created, not accidental.

    Can there be such a thing as accidental art?  I firmly believe there cannot.  Yes, within nature are many beautiful, wonderful things, but art is more than that, and sometimes art is neither of those things.  Something essential about the nature of art is that it is created with deliberate intent to evoke emotion. By extension nature does not create art. Nature creates things with an intent of life, not of emotion. However, whatever art is, art invariably has soul.  Soul comes from the living, and to be released from its holder requires a conscious decision by the artist.  Art requires effort.  Art, it don’t come easy…

    Artists should be the last to label themselves so.

    Said it already, but I’ll say it again.  Humble.  Humility is not feigned.  The “artists” I’ve encountered who break this pattern are invariably the ones who need to explain their art.  Usually in a condescending manner expressing amazement we cannot perceive the magnificence of the emperor’s new clothes {reference intended}.

    Art needs no explanation.

    We get it, and it grabs us, or it isn’t art.

    Artists are indeed capable of creating stuff that simply isn’t art.

    Even the most prolific sometimes simply can’t.  Do you doubt me?  If you do {and who in their right mind would not}, then reflect on this next sentence.  If everything an artist creates is art, then the world’s sewage systems are treasure troves.

    And that, is a tiny piece of what art is, to me.

    {With the post completed, I’d like to mention how the tweet that started this wasn’t referring to art, per se. It was about how willing we are to apply broad labels to individuals.

    I write.  Tweets, thoughts, obscure thoughts, even a couple of books. I don’t consider what I do art, but it’s as close as I can come to creation.  Browse around my blog, read some samples of my work, who knows my words might touch you, and if they do… they’re art, least they are, to you.}

  • My daughter Julia’s review of Beltamar’s War.

    Magic of demise is misting the air here, drifting into the life of all around, poisoning it.

    All those who bear the marks will be forgiven.

    Living a lie, yes most are.

    Memories are warped by the color of their jewels.

    Apprehension felt by the young waiting for their skin to be carved along with their fate.

    Xenophobic Men killing for nothing but hate.

    Although there is bad in this world of mine,

    I see there is someone great

    slicing through the dark to avenge my kin and to spread the

    light.

    This is my final word.

    {Tonight my daughter Julia asked me to read her poem, and see if I knew what it meant. It appears above, verbatim. Julia first read Beltamar’s War at about age ten, she is about to read it again, but I think she grasped it quite well on her first pass.}

  • Generosity’s Tax.

    In Twitter I’ve seen innumerable people saying a “proper retweet” is done by prepending “RT” to whatever the person you’re retweeting said.

    No.

    Perhaps that was true before the advent of Twitter’s embedded “Retweet” links, but no longer.  A proper retweet is performed by clicking Retweet.  Including “RT” in the words you’ve just ripped from someone else’s timeline is not proper at all.  Indeed, it’s like placing a use tax on your generosity.

    Taxed generosity isn’t generosity at all.

    Perhaps if manually RT’ing took less effort than clicking “Retweet”…?  The point is moot, since manually RT’ing takes significantly more effort than clicking the retweet link.  Worse, manually RT’ing corrupts the words – they never remain exactly same as they were when said.  Even if you keep every word and every piece of punctuation, a manual RT never looks precisely the same as the original – and most manual RT’ers don’t bother because it takes too much effort.  To me this proves they’re only interested in forcefully injecting their name into the conversation.

    Recently Twitter added a great feature.  On the “Interactions” page of your profile you now get informed every time someone favorites or retweets something you’ve retweeted.  Twitter does that when you retweet the “real proper” way – with “Favorite” or “Retweet”.  What an awesome feature – now you know just how far your charity {and your influence} goes.  And best of all, it really is charity – because only you know of the good deed you’ve done.

    I’ve also seen it said that using “RT” allows you to add a comment to the thread {which is truly bizarre since there is a link called “Reply” specifically for that purpose}.  It doesn’t add content, it hijacks the conversation by forcibly inserting something completely superfluous into it, namely your “look at me, look at me” @handle.  What if you add your “RT” in a legitimate reply to the thread?  Read what I’ve already said about taxing your generosity.

    “RT” is not a stamp of approval on a Tweet, it is a stamp of “I was here!”  A manual “RT” has become another form of obnoxious graffiti in the virtual world.

    Don’t get me wrong.  When graffiti is art, I approve.  In fact, my Twitter timeline is covered with that type of unadulterated virtual art – they’re called Tweets.

    So am I saying I never use “RT”?  No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.  I manually “RT”, but only under two circumstances I’ve found so far.

    The first is when I want to repeat something a private account holder said.  Tweets from locked, or private, accounts don’t have a retweet link.  In order to grant attribution I have no option but to place my “I was here!” stamp on their words.

    The second circumstance is when they never actually tweeted the words, but they did say them.  For example, words from their Twitter profile.

    Which brings me to the issue of plagiarism.  Perhaps people think stealing another person’s words is a “no injury” crime.  It isn’t.  Regardless of monetary value, authors, writers, and everyday people should receive credit for their contributions to the written word.

    To me, the written word is the highest form of art.

    Words can make us laugh, or cry.  Words can fill our mind with images of things that cannot be.  Words can make our heart feel light, or they can crush it in a vice.  Words are the foundation upon which deeds are built.  More than any other art, words literally change the world.

    No decent person would ever steal a piece of music and claim they composed it.  No decent person would duplicate a picture and claim they painted it.  No decent person would make a mold of a sculpture, recast it, and claim they chiseled it from their heart.  No decent person would tear a page from the most sacred texts and claim they wrote it.

    No decent person steals another person’s words and claims them as their own inspired thoughts, penned to paper of a real or virtual nature.  Call this by a fancy word like “plagiarism” if you like – I call it exactly what it is.

    Theft.

    Decent people don’t steal.  {Well, certain circumstances might force decent people to steal.  However, the operative word in that sentence is “force”.}

    Look at the example below, and tell me if this is an accident.  Perhaps a rare wind of inspiration blew on two people at almost the same time.  Before you decide, peer close at the thumbnails in the upper part of the image.  In order to spare them embarrassment, I’ve blocked the person’s name from the image.  If they have a conscience, it should goad them to change their ways.  If not, well I might remove the blocks and see if that plants the seeds of conscience.

    Is imitation the most sincere form of flattery, or is it just stealing?
    Is imitation the most sincere form of flattery, or is it just stealing?

    Don’t misunderstand me.  Inspiration is quite literally everywhere, and I would deny it to no one.  Do I never re-frame another person’s thoughts?  Of course I do.  However, the words I use are my own, and they are often contrary to the inspiring thought.  {Such is my nature, for which I am not sorry.}  If my words inspire you to creativity then go for it, and more power to you – I am truly delighted when I see signs of this.  However if my words touch you in some way, and you wish to share them, then please grant me that which I grant every borrowed sentence I use – attribution.

    Thank you.

  • Marks of Family

    Our beloved daughter Julia sent me the image below.

    Lotus blossoms
    Lotus blossoms

    The wording down the image’s side is a quote from my work, Malmaxa.

    While writing the first book in the series, Beltamar’s War, I asked each of my children how they envisaged their marks. My interpretation of Julia’s description appears below, personally rendered into art that strives to emulate the words used to capture a mental image of her dream.

    My interpretation of my daughter's symbol.
    My interpretation of my daughter’s symbol.

    Some say, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” I don’t hold this to be true, there are many things a picture cannot capture, yet words can. Thoughts take this to another level entirely – they are elusive and hard to depict in either image, or word, yet artists manage.

    Were you in Malmaxa, how would your marks of family appear?

    Would you wear their symbols etched upon on your flesh, or in your heart?

  • What, is Soul?

    A few days ago I realized something I intuitively understood when I was very young, yet somehow managed to forget.  Or perhaps more likely, the grindstone of life gradually wore those memories away.  That sudden intuition unlocked the memory of my former knowledge, a strange sort of Déjà vu that prompted a condensed version of this post.

    Where look the wise, to their feet, or to the skies? Seek heaven everywhere, in the earth, and in the air.

    What I’m talking about, is unity.

    When still a toddler I knew the world was alive, and the sun, the stars and moon, and every comet too.  Everything I saw, and all the things too tiny for me to see, or too vast to comprehend was one.  No division of ground and sky, of living and not alive, of heaven and earth.  Those divisions all came later, and as I learnt them, I forgot the truer knowledge of unity.

    Unity…  In another word, oneness.

    How do we forget that we are one with nature?  How have we forgotten that the world on which we dwell is a sibling to the other planets, which in their turn form a single solar body?  See beyond the limits of your eyes and you will see that we are one – one, with the sun itself.  Then gaze further, into infinity itself – realization soon comes that our sun, in unity with a myriad other stars, forms a singular galaxy.  Open your mind still further, and comprehension comes that our galaxy combines with billions of others to form a single universe.

    Everything that is, is one.

    We are, therefore we are one.

    If you’re still here…

    {Believe me – I understand fully if you left a while back. Until a few days ago, I’d have done as I’ve somehow been taught… I’d have snorted derisively and thought, “Metaphysical gobble-de-gook.”  That thought would have closed my mind and led my attention elsewhere.}

    … if you’re still here, you might be interested to know the circumstances in which this revelation came.  I shared this with a confidante on Twitter, however I know she won’t mind my disclosing parts of our conversation. {How do I know that?  I’m confident you’ll figure it out soon, if you have not already.}

    Anyway…

    Feeling trapped in a bad place in my life, I sat down and cradled my head in my hands.  That motion caused me to gaze downward, downward at the inanimate tile beneath my feet.

    When things seem terrible, it’s good – for better times must come.

    Within that inanimate tile, I perceived a face.  A living face cast in stone.  As I looked into its eyes, they looked into mine.

    In that instant I realized we are all connected.  Not just that stony face and me, but all of us.  All, of everything.

    Soul is not only of the living, it is of all, it encompasses us completely and permeates everything.  Yet we don’t see it.  I wonder how we lost that capacity?  By closing our hearts to things we think don’t directly affect us?

    How foolish is that?

    Everything affects us, and everything affects everything else.

    We are not and cannot be alone.

    However, we’re alive, and stone is not.  But stone is from where we come, and to whence we will return. And that stone?  From dust it came, and to dust it will return.  And the dust? That dust once coalesced from space.  And space?  Space is not as empty as we think, for space bonds planets to their sun, suns into galaxies, galaxies into the universe we know, and perhaps the universe we know is not as limited as we make it seem.

    Within us lie enormous quantities of  empty space, in the eerily similar downward spiraling scale of size.  How can that be?  And what do I mean by “eerily similar”?

    We’re alive!  We’re not inanimate matter floating through empty space!

    How certain are we of those assertions?  Look deeper than the surface using a magnifying scale and you’ll see. Rivers flow through our veins, they empty into the lakes of our hearts and our sinuses.  Air seamlessly traverses the walls of our lungs, bonds with the iron in our blood, and is transported throughout our system where it is released only to be recaptured and returned to our lungs where it is exhaled as carbon dioxide, a product the trees consume.  Within us, within our actual physical bodies, air and water are everywhere.

    Now increase the scale of magnification a million fold and look at molecules flowing through the murky soup that is…?  Well, that soup is “us”.

    A million fold again, or some number undefined, and unknown, least to me, and the atoms we are come into view.  Those atoms are our inner solar systems.  Their nuclei are as powerful as suns, and their electrons are their planets.  Measured on such a scale, the empty space between our component atoms is as vast as the distances of our universe.

    We are one.

    Without the elements that comprise the universe we are nothing.

    And that so-called “empty space”, either the monstrous, or the miniscule and minute?

    Why, that is our soul.

    Formed from the dust of dead stars, we are.

    May you find peace.

    I hope you enjoyed this post. If you did, please sample Beltamar’s War, which I can promise you it is like nothing you have ever read.  I would really appreciate your support.

  • Fleeting Thoughts

    A poem composed from its title, the idle thoughts of a mind unable to rest.

    Fleeting Thoughts

    Fleeting thoughts that come and go
    Fleeting thoughts of love and lust
    Fleeting thoughts of broken trust
    Fleeting thoughts we cannot hide
    Fleeting thoughts so deep inside
    Fleeting thoughts of kiss and caress
    Fleeting thoughts of untold distress
    Fleeting thoughts of enlightenment, lost
    Fleeting thoughts we don’t transcribe
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts we’ll never share, yet in our mind, we dare
    Fleeting thoughts occur so quick
    Fleeting thoughts that never stick
    Fleeting thoughts told as related lies
    Fleeting thoughts, our soul’s demise
    Fleeting thoughts, they reach the sky
    Fleeting thoughts that live, then die
    Fleeting thoughts that we can’t catch
    Fleeting thoughts as words, won’t hatch
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts, they are so near
    Fleeting thoughts become memories, so dear
    Fleeting thoughts of what we had
    Fleeting thoughts that make us sad
    Fleeting thoughts emotions wrought
    Fleeting thoughts our hearts do wring
    Fleeting thoughts, faster than the eye
    Fleeting thoughts are doomed to die
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts nimble and quick
    Fleeting thoughts simply don’t stick
    Fleeting thoughts that flash and flick
    Fleeting thoughts are far too quick
    Fleeting thoughts outrun our tongue
    Fleeting thoughts we try to hold
    Fleeting thoughts of dreams, untold
    Fleeting thoughts I knew you once
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts how to make them stick
    Fleeting thoughts in my minds are trapped
    Fleeting thoughts we chase behind
    Fleeting thoughts we’ll never find
    Fleeting thoughts we know are great
    Fleeting thoughts that come too late
    Fleeting thoughts of weighty things
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts, where freedom rings
    Fleeting thoughts we strive for you
    Fleeting thoughts, so hard to view
    Fleeting thoughts to dream, as true
    Fleeting thoughts we never see
    Fleeting thoughts that will not be
    Fleeting thoughts come to fast
    Fleeting thoughts, they never last
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of substantial things
    Fleeting thoughts, eternity unlock
    Fleeting thoughts not bound by any clock
    Fleeting thoughts of mighty deeds
    Fleeting thoughts we’ll never heed
    Fleeting thoughts into words we must
    Fleeting thoughts we place our trust
    Fleeting thoughts to us don’t lie
    Fleeting thoughts we can’t deny
    Fleeting thoughts we give release
    Fleeting thoughts eternal peace
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of soul and coin
    Fleeting thoughts we can’t reconcile
    Fleeting thoughts meld and mesh
    Fleeting thoughts two souls entwine
    Fleeting thoughts of flesh, so fine
    Fleeting thoughts, hither and yon
    Fleeting thoughts we had, are gone
    Fleeting thoughts let me find the dreams, I thought I’d left behind
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts in you I’m free
    Fleeting thoughts won’t you come to me
    Fleeting thoughts, my ecstasy
    Fleeting thoughts will you ever be
    Fleeting thoughts of self-made men
    Fleeting thoughts, we put to pen
    Fleeting thoughts of principle, or profit
    Fleeting thoughts of nurtured souls
    Fleeting thoughts of ungained goals
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of loves we lost
    Fleeting thoughts of profits, taken
    Fleeting thoughts of morals, shaken
    Fleeting thoughts of plans we laid
    Fleeting thoughts of beds, unmade
    Fleeting thoughts, our memories refresh
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts are we the blessed?
    Fleeting thoughts of the divine
    Fleeting thoughts of smiles, sublime
    Fleeting thoughts of blood we spilt
    Fleeting thoughts of mother’s milk
    Fleeting thoughts of lives that end
    Fleeting thoughts of sunsets, warm
    Fleeting thoughts of days, newborn
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of journeys made
    Fleeting thoughts of where we stayed
    Fleeting thoughts of home, again
    Fleeting thoughts of winding roads
    Fleeting thoughts of conscience goads
    Fleeting thoughts of must do this
    Fleeting thoughts of the things I’ve missed
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts, of silly rhymes
    Fleeting thoughts of better times
    Fleeting thoughts of truths we hide
    Fleeting thoughts so deep inside
    Fleeting thoughts of what we lost
    Fleeting thoughts of principle’s cost
    Fleeting thoughts of would we change, had we chance to do again
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of time’s sweeping hands
    Fleeting thoughts of better plans
    Fleeting thoughts of hindsight true
    Fleeting thoughts of what did we do
    Fleeting thoughts, such salable things, from which the sale cuts the wings
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of anguish, and pain
    Fleeting thoughts of material disdain
    Fleeting thoughts my belly is empty, again
    Fleeting thoughts bring sun, or rain
    Fleeting thoughts of teary eyes
    Fleeting thoughts of angry lies
    Fleeting thoughts of words unsaid
    Fleeting thoughts live in my head
    Fleeting thoughts, more eloquent and true than anything I can say, to you
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts without word or form
    Fleeting thoughts of scent, so sweet
    Fleeting thoughts depart, when I must eat
    Fleeting thoughts, in you I’m free
    Fleeting thoughts let me, be me
    Fleeting thoughts my mask do rend, and to me, my true face reveal
    Fleeting thoughts I dare not show
    Fleeting thoughts to depths of low
    Fleeting thoughts, where immortality resides
    Fleeting thoughts they live, then die
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts to me I hold
    Fleeting thoughts that go unsold
    Fleeting thoughts with you I share
    Fleeting thoughts I can’t abide
    Fleeting thoughts I cannot hide
    Fleeting thoughts I lock, inside
    Fleeting thoughts that can’t be free
    Fleeting thoughts I fear, are me
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of deed, and done
    Fleeting thoughts we can’t outrun
    Fleeting thoughts our heart does shun
    Fleeting thoughts of guilt and pride
    Fleeting thoughts we can’t decide
    Fleeting thoughts of law, and lie
    Fleeting thoughts, of why
    Fleeting thoughts of famine, or feast
    Fleeting thoughts are they the ones we love the least
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of excess
    Fleeting thoughts are punishment, to come
    Fleeting thoughts for those thoughts we left, undone
    Fleeting thoughts we can’t contain
    Fleeting thoughts of guilt and pain
    Fleeting thoughts of sun, and rain
    Fleeting thoughts of gray do loom
    Fleeting thoughts of dismal doom
    Fleeting thoughts of laughter bright
    Fleeting thoughts of salvation’s light
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts, our truths reveal
    Fleeting thoughts within our heart, we seal
    Fleeting thoughts no other can steal
    Fleeting thoughts of battles lost
    Fleeting thoughts of mortality’s true cost
    Fleeting thoughts of the life we’ve lived
    Fleeting thoughts of what we didn’t give
    Fleeting thoughts you think you know
    Fleeting thoughts escape, and go
    Fleeting thoughts we cannot grasp
    Fleeting thoughts slip away to fast
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of when, and why
    Fleeting thoughts can make me cry
    Fleeting thoughts of tears unshed
    Fleeting thoughts of the life we’ve led
    Fleeting thoughts of guilt and sin
    Fleeting thoughts of what could have been
    Fleeting thoughts we know are lies
    Fleeting thoughts bring heartfelt sighs
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts that were not then
    Fleeting thoughts, we might live to see
    Fleeting thoughts of painful reality
    Fleeting thoughts of can, and will
    Fleeting thoughts of never tell
    Fleeting thoughts of deceit and lies
    Fleeting thoughts of crying eyes
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts skip to and fro
    Fleeting thoughts will never go
    Fleeting thoughts of didn’t do
    Fleeting thoughts of can, and must
    Fleeting thoughts of fulfilled trust
    Fleeting thoughts of what might have been
    Fleeting thoughts of extravagant whim
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts of hands clasped tight
    Fleeting thoughts of lips, pressed light
    Fleeting thoughts of intertwine
    Fleeting thoughts of too much wine
    Fleeting thoughts of never did
    Fleeting thoughts of wanted to
    Fleeting thoughts of that and this
    Fleeting thoughts of unmade bliss
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts,
    the dreams of day,
    for fleeting thoughts never come,
    to stay.
    ~
    Fleeting thoughts, so determined, and true
    may fleeting thoughts come to you.

    Perhaps this is a story, told in rhythm instead of prose, perhaps it is not.
    Perhaps I’ll post the audio recording from which I transcribed it, perhaps not.