The Red-crested Cardinal (Paroaria coronata) Symbolizes That Moment Between Us

DSC_6142© 2017 City of Broken Dreams

Maybe there was a moment between us.

If there was, then that’s all it was—just a moment: a fleeting fraction of an instant in our briefly intersecting lives.

And I’m not even talking about a kiss.

No, there was no pressing of lips, no wet lashing of tongues, no exchange of electricity via our breath.

It would have been a more subtle kind of moment. A shared glass of wine. The prolonged touching of knees. Maybe even just a passing look.

But as quickly as it came, it would have then disappeared. Like a drop of water fallen onto a hot element. The moment evaporated; the experience vaporized from the present tense and converted to a state of the past. 

Perhaps the moment lingered in the air for a bit, afterwards. Like smoke from an extinguished flame, or the sweet scent of a woman trailing behind her after she has just walked out of a room. If the moment was ever a tangible one, once it passed, it became ephemeral. And there would have been no use in trying to grasp onto it as it fled the scene of the crime. For the moment was never meant to be captured or imprisoned. The moment was never meant to last.

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Rope: A Bondage Story (I)

 dsc_4969a© 2017 City of Broken Dreams

I believe whatever doesn’t kill you, simply makes you stranger.

—Heath Ledger as The Joker in The Dark Knight

The thing about addiction is, no matter what it is that you are addicted to—whether it’s shooting smack or pulling on the arm of a one-armed bandit—it’s still a fucking addiction. And even though there are some addictions that are more likely to kill you than others, in the end, your addiction will always destroy you.

She isn’t stupid. Having already had her fair share of addictive vices in her relatively short life, she fully understands the rules of engagement when it comes to the relationship between her and the monkey that has ostensibly made a permanent home on her back.

Even with the rope—despite its relatively innocuous nature—she fully realizes that her dependence upon this particularly idiosyncratic device, if allowed to get out of hand, could easily slip out of control and turn against her. She knows this; she understands the potential risks and repercussions, and yet, at this moment in time, she doesn’t really care. 

And the reason for why she doesn’t care, is quite simple:

She can now sleep, without the shadow of never wanting to wake up looming over her.

She can be awake and still be sober.

She can live the semblance of a relatively normal life without teetering perilously on the edge of the abyss.

When the morning comes, she rises from her bed to greet the dawn of a new day. She accepts it, she embraces it. Long gone are the days when she would shrink back from the morning light like a vampire withering in the rays of a newly risen sun.

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Passengers 2017 (Prologue—Concourse D)

DSC_5433© 2017 City of Broken Dreams

If this is a dream, then allow yourself to dream deeper.

The alacritous movement of life surrounds you, it drowns you; it pulls on you like the waters of the deep ocean black carries a piece of petrified driftwood out to the forgotten sea.

And if you are lost, then allow yourself to lose yourself further.

When your head breaks the surface of the cool black depths, you are no longer afloat in the amorphous ocean of subconscious uncertainty. As synapses trigger like machine gun fire across the surface of your cerebral cortex, your primitive simian brain begins to construct a simulacrum, a construct of familiarity, a vessel to contain that which overflows from the well of your unrelenting psyche.

And as numinous cataracts dissolve from your immaterial eyes, your vision begins to sharpen and clear, and things around you begin to slowly take shape.

The formless begets form; the chaos begets order.

White noise.

Human traffic.

Bright daylight bouncing off of highly reflective surfaces.

You know this place; it all seems so strangely familiar. Your consciousness is drawn to it like the proverbial moth is drawn to the proverbial flame. And you’re pretty sure that you’ve been here before.

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