Kitchens, a brief rant

I am normally not the kind of person that obsesses over materialistic things, but there are certain things I do put enormous value in. For me, a nice kitchen can make or break a home. A house with a messy kitchen that does not feel clean, no thank you.

It should be mentioned that I am not the kind of person that spends more time in a kitchen than it takes to make a standard meal of affordable variety, but nevertheless, there is something about a good kitchen.

The perfect kitchen would be a tidy blend of old meets new. Stone floor and work areas, darker tones for the wood of the cabinets and drawers, an old wooden table to sit down at, and appropriate lighting as well as modern utilities. Now, I certainly do not have the kind of capital that would allow a fully mordernised kitchen designed in accordance to my personal tastes – but a man can dream, no?

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Ancient Habits Die Hard

As I ran out tonight, at two in the morning
I ran with murder and aggression in my heart –
Determined to kill anything and anyone,
who might keep me and my beloved apart ~
But as I ran something primitive spoke to me,
a voice, an echo at least an eon past.
You see,
Running is how I speak with him.
My primal self.
I ran thought the forest, along the lit trail,
and through a patch of dark,
The instinct to run,
has been with me from the start.
But as I ran, a realisation came to me,
I ran like I once did,
in fire’s light, to the drums of the hunt,
chasing the great stag ~
so that my family might eat.
As I said, I ran out with murder in my heart,
I did so now as I did then.
But running back,
The aggression was gone,
the hunt was over,
Earthmother spoke to me ~
Sister Wind greeted me,
with memories of rain.
Electrified, I have returned,
Drenched in sweat, and but naked,
invigorated mind,
rejuvenated soul,
and thundering heart.

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I remember

Sometimes, when I close my eyes and surrender to the endless current that flows through me I remember.
What I remember I recall in sensory impressions, a distorted image, a scent, a sound, or even touch.
I remember the staircase of my childhood home,
the kitchen, the playroom, the basement and the river beyond the garden.
Recollections from my own life, but when I surrender the current takes me further back than the moment of my birth.
I remember gripping a massive oar with calloused hands,
the reverberating beat of a massive drum.
I remember mountains, plummeting into the fjord below,
the rush of wind, the spray of the sea.
When I close my eyes these things call to me.
But what speaks to me most of all, are the very things I cannot seem to fully recall.
I dream, the same recurring dream,
of a thunder-ridden sky, a roaring fire, a dancing shaman, the beat of a drum,
running through the downpour, failing torch in hand, spear in the other.
I dream, the same recurring dream,
a great two-horned stag, and the adrenaline of the hunt.
All of this I remember,
but not yet who I was.

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Nature is Speaking

Something I stumbled over today. These are very worthwhile. Take a moment, and listen, the world speaks if you listen.

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Release Me

Stagnation, frustration,
a hamster stuck grinding its wheel…
No.
Roar, my spirit, from atop a mountain,
thunder, my heart, as feet fly across forest paths,
and burn, my lungs, as I draw cold sunrise breaths!
Oh, please let me soar,
until I am spent,
and can move no more…
Let me run until I’m ablaze,
sweat until the fires subside,
with trembling legs,
I will touch the infinite sky.

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Guide

I find myself asking why we have not spoken,
in such a long time.
Perhaps it is my daily dose of escapism,
my addiction to the dreamscape vistas,
of stories and motions that drown out the noise?
When my mind is never left to grind away, on its own,
absorbed completely by the escape.
How is it that the world sometimes fails so completely,
to mesmerise me?
Why is it that when I look at it,
the colours are gone?

Questions, as familiar as they are frustrating.
Yet, something never ceases to amaze me ~
The colours reconstituted by words…
sometimes shared,
sometimes thought,
rarely spoken,
but always heard.
Whenever I close my eyes and introspect,
I sense your presence,
as I have since I was a child.
This door I seem to have locked,
will it open, I wonder,
if I spoke more with you?

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In Search of the First

My heart, my spirit, is a forest,
shrouded in the darkest of greens,
come with me for a while,
hearken to the countless lives and dreams,
lurking among the trees.
Lo, the light of full moon’s glimmer,
painting glade and moss,
in pale blue silver.
Walk with me, as I make my way deeper,
as my countenance changes,
donning the keeper’s guise.
Within the glade we seek,
a bonfire burns,
flames defiant of storm-ridden skies,
the beating heart of my existence.
Adrenaline, surging with laughter,
I drop to my knees.
I see a faceless man,
and a woman in white.
I ask, as I have asked a thousand times before,
what was the name,
of the me that came before?

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