The Island's birthday.

A year later.
The Island has reemerged from the sea. Intact, wild and beautiful. Its secret location : high up in the North, cloaked in grey mists and deep fog. It rains, the winds howl often yet there is no more blissful place where to be : a place of precious solitude, of space and silence. Solitude, space and silence. The three essentials S so bitterly missing anywhere else.
After so many months spent in dry countries, Josephine is back on the 'Etat-Dame'.
A few days ago, it was the island's birthday. She hanged garlands accross the trees, put the flag up the mast, lit the lantern at the top of the lighthouse and light up torches everywhere, candles and incense along the sandy paths. Brightly illuminated, the Island could have been seen from far away in the deep dark sea. But no one was there.
When all was ready, Josephine took her picnic basket and went to the shore for a midnight feast. Many a kindly ghosts looked on and smiled, reminiscing about their own time of special happenings and secret delights....
When the food was gone and the wine drunk, Josephine sat there a long time, dreaming in the distance. With only the soft rush of the waves nearby and shadows of spirits and animals around, it felt eerie perhaps, but also tranquil and perfect.
Josephine was back. And not ready to leave ever again.

Just once. To stop.

We think big of ourselves. But we are no different than ants in size and importance. We are born, we breathe, live, laugh. And suddenly die. And what in between ? I Must Stop and think. I must stop and meditate on the state of things. I must stop and take time. I must stop and look back at the void open ahead. I must sit still and ponder and stop thinking and just be. And exist more deeply. And feel more deeply. And love more deeply. Yet I dont. Never. Stop and sit. I run and rush and talk rubbish and watch rubbish and let precious time flows wasted, on nothing, on rubbish and precious time given to me to try and Understand is simply gone. Wasted. Frittered away in pettiness. In nothingness, on daily mondanity and tiny concerns. Life happens to us just once. But again and again, we forget and live unconscious. Happily unconscious ? Or stupidly so ? Is the man asleep happy or simply ...asleep ?

Untitled

Walk, keep walking and try not slip unto the moving discs of your mind in motion, walk to edge and kneel on the edge, face the void, the great wide void where your mind and the universe meet, the finite and infinite on the edge

Escape

You could say Josephine's left the building. Or abandonned her 'blog'. But she hasn't really. She sometimes goes 'undercover'. Lives under a bush literally. Disappears. Vanished. Evaporates. Does not everyone, at some point ? Life can be So burdensome. So heavy. To dissolve into thin air seems really like a reasonnable wish. An island. Desert. Just wind and sand. And stars above. Waters around. Perfect setting for the perfect getaway. Working on it. It's all about escape. Nothing else.

The leaves

The leaves, green, lush, luminous
Sated of sun, filled with light
Breath life into the garden
Shadow to the birds
Trampoline to the squirrels
Landing pads to the bees, butterflies and dragonflies
Anchors to the spiders'webs
Humble bearers of discrete scents
The leaves are substance to all
Gracious, generous extravagance of trees,
Bushes and branches
The leaves abond in the garden like a sea
Of green, murmuring waves
Gently brushed by the summer breeze,
They are the peaceful and deep welcome
That softly embrace you
When you step in the garden
They caress your face and refresh your mind
They whisper lovely secrets of comfort
And brush off all the weariness in one note
Of vibrant green played at infinitum,
The leaves are the one and only architecture
In the garden, an orderly chaos from another realm,
A balm to the eyes and an ointment to the soul.
To the leaves : thank you.

Tapestry

The living texture of life,
organic web spun of thousand millions
delicate, intricate, complex
designs, points and patterns
bright, supple, light
yet so resistant
woven into infinity
each microscopic creature, a breathing stitch
into the larger fabric of life
a breathing textile made of so many varied fibers
all the same yet each different
sparkling everywhere into the tapestry of the world
as stars in the night sky
reflecting the great magnificence of creation
with, at its center,
death, awaiting.

Drops

From a tiny liquid cell
Poked from oblivion into existence
Our watery birth leaves its seal
In our eyes
Where the light of the seas
Shines doubly in our tears
Wether in joy or in sadness
Our eyes fill up like a glass
And a tear is the watery grave
Of our hopes
The drop that contains
The end of the story
The salty secret of regrets
And the rain falling tonight
Soothes my soul
With its whispered ecchoes
Of watery beginnings
And oceanic beyond...