The lookout

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Closeted sensitivities are brought to bear by the honesty of our hearts. A rarity in the fast lane of life, which itself is a compassionate time-lock on most passions that need incubation before some sense can come from none of it.

a feeling that something is the case

When the lookout had nothing to report from the horizon, his impatience would coerce an imagined reality into being. The price paid was the arrival of watermark versions of the very incredible indelibles he’d hoped so hard for. Then one day, he sat, silent, listening before the untagged teacher and learned lessons about the very deity in distance. Not animal-physical nor that defined by the geography of maps, but the simplicity of space granted to refrain from the rein. It is here in this leeway that the foiling becomes the fruit.

(s b-j k t v)
Particular to a given person; personal

But now the lookout had to wonder: What if our fruits from these foils are just a million-million animations upon beached pebbles that glisten like art along the galaxy’s shoreline for a God we are still hoping to meet? Each an imperfect endurance with its own pockets of untrained measures for both the anguish and the love that inspire our cerebrations to bequeath and bleed over the tundras of our lands? And whether brought to life in the written, the painted, the danced or the song, it was only in the simplicity of this space where the foiling could become the fruit.

a particular attitude towards or way of regarding something; a point of view

This rousing rolled in with the mist that shroud the smitten, and as the sun rose behind the untagged teacher’s face, there had never been anything nicer to look at. It was not this time that needed prolonging but the inestimable concept of time itself … because there is only ever never enough of this.

the expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite

Now, from unchanged horizons still, the lookout finally had something to report: That by our own vulnerabilities – and because of those we learn to see within each other – we will understand how in this together we really all are. And between one laud and another lament lives the closest thing to proof that, on any one bullion sits a million-million sides to a soul that remains unbudged and unbudging, save for when its own heart’s strings will yen for the tug.

n-pl nd
Not intended, having no particular purpose or structure, not thought out or prepared in advance

In the silent simplicity of space, the lookout looked out and watched as the mist set light to the horizon, writing stories of closeted sensitivities that are brought to bear by the honesty of our hearts. As the sky flamed from orange to blue behind the untagged teacher’s face, there had never been anything nicer to look at, not even across the million-million incarnations that glisten like art along the galaxy’s shoreline for a God we are still hoping to meet.

This was passion’s incubation before some sense would come from none of it, and, with nothing to report, the lookout remained unbudged and unbudging … save for when his heart strings might yen for the tug.


© Dylan Balkind


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Songs have a scent like the sea has its hug,
when I acknowledge these feelings as anything but smug.
I watch my mood file through space like floating kettle mist,
but I can’t recall what it felt like before I was kissed…

You flit like particles that glide on the sun’s streaming rays,
preempting some very long nights and some of the hardest of days.
I’ve tripped on this sidewalk, I know I should cross over,
where nothing will change still about our differences–polar…

Riding this out doesn’t need to be like torture,
and I’m on my way to learning that there’s design beneath disorder.
Freedom comes to you when you learn to embrace your part,
and know that there is nothing wrong with seeing the world through your heart.

The cycles are unbalanced bubbling under heterogeneously,
which translates into this whim that is not taken seriously.
The clock ticks and will turn my time on a dime,
when the heart forgives itself for the gravity of its crime.

The force of renewal starts when you decide to unplug,
and hear the songs that have a scent like the sea has its hug.
Nothing is by chance in the melee of complicated bliss…
as our lives file through space like floating kettle mist.

THINGS© Dylan Balkind


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