she was caught
between dust and books
drenched with poetic words
that means nothing
outside of its dirty pages
she was caught
between half a thought
and a drunk idea
scribbled in the margins
of several books
cryptic stories
coming to life without a god
to rein them in
to control their passions
An Ode to the Girl Who I Could Never Write
Drenched in the myriad of poetic words floating like ideas through the ether, I found the girl trying to grab a book from the shelf. In that moment a new world unfolded in front of me, as if I somehow stepped through the pages of the very book she took from the shelf. I became the words running horizontally on the page, but I managed to break free from its monotonous striations.
This week, I found the girl picking out old books. It was a funny moment, as I found myself seeing her as a bunch of words.
Empty ideas, broken words, thoughts that somehow managed to make sense in the context of the very chaotic order, her presence became a book in and of itself.
But I could not read her, as the language in which her words were written did not make sense in my mind.
From the seeming order, a strange chaos loomed around every corner, on every page of the books that surrounded us. The books became worlds that remained closed, cut off, in perfect order; but as soon as they were opened, the world spewed from their pages, the dust clogged our rational minds, and everything destroyed the very foundation we comfortably stood on.
And so, I drowned in the infinite worlds that lay at my feet, with millions of voices screaming from every perceivable angle, in every language spoken, and at every second that I stood in front of them.
The apparent order was a hidden chaos consuming everything in its path...
Drowning in the words and worlds created from nothing, floating in eternal ether suspended and contained by the four walls of a hidden shop, I stood and looked at the girl who suddenly became the poem I always dreamed of writing. In the chaotic moment, a calmness enveloped me, like the soothing words of a poem on a summer's day.
And in that moment, I fell for another spell, the chaos in calmness; it seemed that chaos wanted to consume me. I was caught between dust and books, and a girl that became a poem - a soothing rhyme to take away the pain.
And as she turned the pages of the book, my world suddenly collapsed under the pressure of a newfound wonder. A new world sprung to life, new voices filled the empty corners of my mind, and everything consumed itself in an ouroboric moment. The turning pages brought forth primordial storms that crashed over its own creations. The foundations it tried to erect collapsed under the weight of its own aspirations.
As she turned the pages of the book, I was swept away with all of the redundant words, the is'es and are's, the haves and the have-nots. I became one with the world that now remained in chaotic slumber, a strange calmness or order after the creation event.
But now I wait to write my story again because as soon as I thought I could write the girl, she turned the page and swept me away, only to be found again in another timeline. For now, I remain a vague memory, a character with a side plot never examined, a rich and dense network of ideas pregnant with potential, but yet to see the poetic words on the pages. I remained a vague memory that will haunt her from time to time...
She placed the book back on the shelf, calming the previously chaotic Pandora moment, relinquishing her powers to destroy the world. The poetic screams were silenced, the artistic vices were placed away, the sinful-lustful memories a vague reminder of what might come again when she might return to open the pages again. But for now, she walked away, with me still caught between dust and the pages of old books - only a title in her mind, a mere saying floating in her mind.
I remained and she walked away - a poetic moment in and of itself. I could hear the murmuring of whispering between the pages, a rare moment that displaced the dust and renewed the energy between the pages. Her touch gave life, her breath breathed energy into the dead, and everything bloomed like a barren land after the first rains - a myriad of flowers blooming in the field. But like the flowers that wilt after a long dry spell, she did not return, life was taken away from me as quickly as I found it.
And for now, I might only again write poetic attempts of the girl who I still struggle to write.
I hope that you enjoyed these photographs of a girl who I found in an old second-hand bookshop and the strange meanderings.
For now, happy photographing, and keep well.
All of the photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and 50mm Nikkor lens. The musings, meanderings, and writings are my own, albeit inspired by the dust and books that the girl tried to squeeze me into.