December 24, 2012
Walking the solitary garden late this afternoon. Lifeless shadows marking each footsteps; austere the gloominess that hung petals of silences upon rose trees. And there the naked branches of the old gnarled tree-like birds' claws imprisoning its prey the December wind. Such melancholy possesses the grass made out of leaves...
There's so much to hear in the wholly silence of winter, so much to see in the unfathomed nothingness which greets the eye and guides the heart to a land made speechless; land of silence and grayness so profound—a robe made out of questions tangled in the past - twisted in a future deeply entrenched in paradigms.
And who am I if not this oblivion which with the naked soul must clothe itself with?
To hide from one's self.
It is so deep this longing...
This sense of belonging in the land of the dead.