#INDYLGENT

1st look cover

Imagine that big scary thing that cripples your core, walked in to wherever you are right now, sat down across from you and began to speak.

A spider? Snake? Debt? Your boss? The darkest low? The highest heights? HIV?

Mine would be HIV. So I imagined what it would say, if given the chance to present its case. What would I hear as it hauled forth its howl? And theeeen, I get to what I must admit is the consideration that maybe the Bible and its bully wasn’t far off after all… Because I will put everything I own and everything I’m worth on it, that the Mark of the Beast is here: it is our intolerance of that which scares us.

Heavy?

It ends there — I promise. The rest is just your anybody-everybody’s, any-day-any-way, and in the many both mindless and mad ways…

And whether with the courage to salute a secret and set it free — because of how stifling the sanctioning of it is across every silhouette you see… Or with the war cries we walk, waddle or writhe to when we wake up and walk out on worry (for an appointment with wonderful!)…

…our owned magnifying is magic!

Because it is only the owned moments that matter.

Whether you blog, take photos, journal, run, ride, recite, or simply recognise each jostling jolt of your journey by the jeans you wore, looking back is your back-row-all-to-yourself, magical moment — between both the cringing and courage — to bask in how beautiful you are.

I’m a writer by profession, so it’s not always how I want to profess after a day of paid-for-professing. Ergo, I do this #WritingStoriesDifferently thing. And with a Love that is Alive, I thank my Light, everyday, that people like Larissa, Catherine, Gillian, Nundi, Niki, Thato, Gerhard, Kyara, PamLindsay, Linda, Bonnie, Dave, GlynnisMel, Natasha, Caddie, Fay, Hayley ‘Ellis’ and Hayley who, when they can – and whether they do or don’t get what I’m ‘saying’ – say something when they see me in it.

So what if no one is listening?! Tell the world – or even just a wall – the story of who you are.

All any of us has is what is in our heart.

And whether you blog, take photos, journal, run, ride, recite, or simply recognise each jostling jolt of your journey by the jeans you wore, whenever you slide through them sludge-moments of feeling small (and you will), just look at what has touched every. single. jostle. you’ve. journeyed – ever!

Your fingerprint.

FUCK YEAH!

Compressed Compassions │ 1st Look

#WritingStoriesDifferently

 

 

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.

sense
sɛns/
noun
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.

sub·jec·tive
(s b-j k t v)
adj.
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.

perspective
pəˈspɛktɪv/
noun
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.

irony
ˈʌɪrəni/
noun
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.

un·planned
n-pl nd
adj.
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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