Twenty-third Thought

Twilight snakes around the tallest spire, of an empty cathedral
The stained glass fidgets, a pane pulls lose, falls, and then smashes against the floor
Specks of dust float through the amber and violet light
A large book rests on the altar
It's pages are ripped out, and litter the ground, almost invisible under the layers of dust
They rest dutifully, awaiting salvation
The pews watch the altar
Gazes never wavering, regardless of the careless manner in which they are strewn, knocked over, not yet defeated

The light fades, faster and faster
And the the queen, the lady moon shines brightly through the windows

Midnight flowers awaken, unfurling their leaves and petals, and turn to face her, peeking trough the cracks in the glass paintings, through the missing panes

A cool breeze filters into the cavernous space, disturbing the pages ever so slightly

The oldest resident have long known Lady Moon
The have seen her rise and set, wax and wane, though their gaze never falters from the now eviscerated Bible
The pews do not bend, they crack and splinter
The pages do not heal, they yellow
The glass does not provide warmth, it rests cold and hard

Lady Moon watched the cathedral being built, she watched it attended to, and she watched it abandoned
Lady moon is constant
The life beneath her grows, and dies, and creates
The stone structure is rigid, and narrow
It has known Lady Moon and ignored her

Lady Moon is outside, her loves grow, and expand, and are vibrant and full of life
The Cathedral is all inside, cut off, cold, hard and never ventures further than it's own walls

Lady Moon is Queen
Lady Moon is patient
She is soothing, calm and wise
Lady Moon is constant

Cathedral is just for now
Cathedral is controlling, impatient, and angry
Arbitrary and vindictive

Lady Moon will stay
Cathedral will go

Twenty-Second Thought

Play the video at the end of this while you read it.

I pause in the hallway, and the candlesticks in the wall flicker. The door at the end is always just out of reach. I will open it when it is ready, so I cease chasing it, or is it because I fear what I might find on the other side? Looking back, I see rows of gilded portraits lining the walls. Captured moments of striking beauty. The hallway is so well built. It has so much potential. Looking back at the door, my pale face is reflected back at me through it's polished handle. I put my hand out slightly and it inches away. The handle gleams brightly, emptily. I know there are many other doors I could try and open in this labyrinthine house. I could leave right now, because there's no way of knowing there isn't just space behind it, just a few feet of emptiness and hard earth to crash into. But I've followed this hallway so faithfully, helped to paint the portraits and landscapes hung on its walls. There was so much it could be, could still be. I don't want to have to pass the portraits, feel their eyes on my back, their sad, empty eyes. I should just wait for the door to be ready, I really should. But what if it sends me back, what if all there is, is a way outside? I can see it. I'd grasp the door handle firmly, and after a moments resistance, it would swing open, and I'd fall through it, into the mud, out into the thick mist. Into the cold. And I'd have to walk back, soiled, through the gallery of eyes. Ever in search of the fire-place room. The one with the warm bed, and the photo album. I don't think this door leads there, I'm scared it won't. I pause in the hallway, and the candlesticks in the wall flicker.

Twenty-First Thought

Where is the line between positive thought and delusion? It is often a piece of advice to look at things objectively. Can we though? Everything is so colored by emotion. Is she ill? Having a rough patch? Is she dying? Grammar can show how differently people feel when describing the same thing. For that matter, is she really dying? If we use the definition of dying as : "Approaching death" wasn't she always dying? Aren't we all dying then? It's funny how we all subconsciously deny the fact that we will die. Whenever people learn of their eminent death, or more precisely that they will be dying soon, they look surprised. As if death was always a future thing, never reaching present. I'm going to die? Me?
It's kind of like children and the concept of growing up and becoming adults. I feel that life itself, is a childhood, and maybe even the adolescence of the soul. Whatever lies beyond this life, that's the culmination of this world, or maybe just the next step, in a series of many.

So safe to say we are all dying.
We are all all approaching death, at varying speeds.
And what is death?
Not a state of being I think, but a mode of transport, to elsewhere. Somewhere unknown.