Studio Sunset

Today was better than yesterday, which means it was a good day.

As class ends, I look through the louvres on the west end. The olive green of the hills has faded to a deep purple, contrasted by the rustic orange of the soon-to-be-night sky.

Twinkling lights of the distant homes read as perforations in the hills, with the sky bursting through.

With the perceived mass of the mountains gone, they seem like paper motifs. Readily blown over by the night breeze or burnt up by the fire of night lights.

Presently, in fact, they fade completely into the dark sky and are no longer of effect. All I see is the sparkle of lights from the abodes which house life.

Yes, today was a good day.

I am myself my own fever.

"I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself my own fever and pain.

No more now, fond heart, with pride no more swell.
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel.

For love has more pow'r and less mercy than fate,
To make us seek ruin, and to love those that hate."

-Henry Purcell

24feb13

Alas, there is room for pain in a good life.
For heavy days, like today,
crises of heart, of relationship, of self.

There is room too for silence.
For quiet days, like today,
of hope and hidden strength rising up.

© Chereese La-Vonne Ricketts 2013

8feb13

It's not that I don't trust the strength of the waves to carry me to shore

As I tread with the little strength I have left.

And it's not that I've lost faith in myself either;

That perhaps, if I mustered all, maybe I could endure.

It is this, that I am tired,

Tired of kicking and floating and wading

And still not seeing the shore.

It is not that I believe drowning is inevitable,

It is that I wonder if it is easiest right now

And perhaps, indeed, as I let go and sink

I may change my mind, and see that life is worth the fight

And worth the effort it takes to move in sync with the waves that should carry me home

And as my lungs fill with the poison that is to do me in

I may decide that I want to kick, float and wade

But perhaps it will be too late, because by then I would be too weak

And the depth too deep

...

And then my suicide becomes my murderer.

© Chereese La-Vonne Ricketts 2013