Consumption deduction

 

He was the keeper of clutter, a connoisseur of comfort, surrounded by a sad symphony of his own strivings. He sat, a king among his conquests, a monarch of mechanisms. 

Yet, as the sun began its silent, sinking spectacle, painting the placid pond a perfect palette of pink and pearl, he felt a strange stillness. This fleeting fire required no maintenance, no mastering, no mortgage. 

His epiphany was pure, and pithy: the glorious victory was not in the wares he had won, but in the quiet, calming conclusion that he needed nothing at all.

Me apart presence us memories

 

Ratcheting

I drew the first line to find the last, 

to build a summit where the search was past.

I set the angles, planned the perfect plane,

and watched the final keystone drop like rain.

But in that turning, I forgot the twist;

the geometry my own hand missed.

The climb became the climb again, I found

a spiral turning on impossible ground.

The destination was a fool’s mistake,

a finite promise for a boundless ache.

The peace I sought was not in finding piece,

but in the act, where striving finds release.

So let the stair continue on its way,

a constant question for a given day.

My work is not in perfect, but the art

of walking on, and being just a part.

Rule fiscal caves mayhem day

 

Conformities costume

 She stood there, caught. The gilded frame of the doorway, a thing meant for passage, now held her fast. The whalebone beneath her skirts—a cage of her own making, of a society's making—refused to bend. It was a beautiful prison, she thought, this gown of silk and lace, of a thousand tiny stitches and a hundred social obligations. Every layer, every stitch, was a promise she had made to her station, to her family, to a life she was expected to live.

Soon, she would be presented. She would smile a practiced smile, flutter a fan, and glide across a polished floor in a waltz that felt more like a performance than a dance. She would be a prized possession, admired for her beauty, her bearing, her impeccable adherence to the rules. All of it a heavy costume she had to wear. A costume that made her large, a spectacle, and yet, somehow, small and unseen.

The heavy air of the hall pressed in on her. She felt the weight of it all—the fabric, the expectations, the future that was not her own. Her mind, a quiet room of its own, longed for the wildness of the fields, for the simple freedom of a dress that moved with her, not against her. A single, silent thought formed, a wish to shed the layers, to simply be able to pass through the door and run. But the door would not open. Not fully. And she would not tear the fabric. Not yet. She would just stand there, a vision of propriety, a beautiful, trapped thing, waiting for the weight of it all to finally give way.

Worn wealth bay time us

 

Avoiding collapse

The cresting call... I lean,

then lean in, feel the sheer

force of the fold.

My board, a moral compass,

finds its North. I carve a curve,

a virtuous line, not of rules

but a rolling, roiling resolve.

Water whispers,

"hold...

...hold..."

I turn, a terrible tear,

tearing through the turquoise,

a fleeting flicker

of perfect form.

Down the face, I race the grace,

a pithy moment of balance,

a calibration

of body and board,

of me and the sea.

The ride is not the end,

but the ever-

...unfolding.