Muffit
January 8th, 2004, 06:17 PM
(I hope you will forgive me if I muse a bit. The year’s end always makes me kinda thoughtful. As always, these are only my feelings and I sincerely hope I do not offend, and I truly hope this New Year brings you closer to your dreams).
So languidly, when years are tender, this silent topaz Orb girdles its candle Sun; but as our fragile hourglass runs down, it chases tail as frantic as a pup. Those bygone years when we ache to reach the bathroom mirror consume the most part of our infant mind, and glisten like memory dew on blades of days long past.
I can’t help recall, and wish I could not, one of those days, a Kindergarten crime that haunts me even now. We sat in crisp nice clothes on a checkerboard floor, building castles of wooden blocks where Nimrod’s arrow need fly but little. My shaky tower near complete, I found I lacked a single matching triangle. And in a moment of blind injustice, I pulled one from the little girl’s castle beside me, which tumbled down just like her tears.
And now our beloved BSG, once clad in smooth shimmering sides, like the pyramids is now robbed of its outer skin, borrowed to build less epic spires. The crime is no longer mine, yet it hurts me just as much. The heroic mortar that bound its noble blocks is now the quicklime of desire. And its familiar affectioned silhouette is now a shadow of its former valued self.
Why do we take from others to build our own design, when so many ideas lie unquarried? We label our works with borrowed terms and feign originality. We leave the road, well marked, and hack a different path, in lieu of finishing the avenue of long past fame.
Do you hope, as I, that before our hastened orbits cease, we can see the continued journey of our rag tag fleet, “The Hand of God” become the start and not the end, a starlit sunrise for the fans? We only ask to see again, through younger eyes, the saga left untold, PTB.
As I grow older, a thought in turn grows with me… an hour of fulfillment is worth a year of reverie…
Respectfully to all,
Muffit
:muffit:
So languidly, when years are tender, this silent topaz Orb girdles its candle Sun; but as our fragile hourglass runs down, it chases tail as frantic as a pup. Those bygone years when we ache to reach the bathroom mirror consume the most part of our infant mind, and glisten like memory dew on blades of days long past.
I can’t help recall, and wish I could not, one of those days, a Kindergarten crime that haunts me even now. We sat in crisp nice clothes on a checkerboard floor, building castles of wooden blocks where Nimrod’s arrow need fly but little. My shaky tower near complete, I found I lacked a single matching triangle. And in a moment of blind injustice, I pulled one from the little girl’s castle beside me, which tumbled down just like her tears.
And now our beloved BSG, once clad in smooth shimmering sides, like the pyramids is now robbed of its outer skin, borrowed to build less epic spires. The crime is no longer mine, yet it hurts me just as much. The heroic mortar that bound its noble blocks is now the quicklime of desire. And its familiar affectioned silhouette is now a shadow of its former valued self.
Why do we take from others to build our own design, when so many ideas lie unquarried? We label our works with borrowed terms and feign originality. We leave the road, well marked, and hack a different path, in lieu of finishing the avenue of long past fame.
Do you hope, as I, that before our hastened orbits cease, we can see the continued journey of our rag tag fleet, “The Hand of God” become the start and not the end, a starlit sunrise for the fans? We only ask to see again, through younger eyes, the saga left untold, PTB.
As I grow older, a thought in turn grows with me… an hour of fulfillment is worth a year of reverie…
Respectfully to all,
Muffit
:muffit: