Colonial Fleets - In Tents and Porpoises

Mystery is the silent bellows that bids us fill our curious lungs just one more time. That elusive place in nether time where prism rainbows touch the earth in dreams. The meaning of life is to understand the purpose of purpose. Not who or what or where or when, but why.

We consummate our lives with hunger for tomorrow to become today. We yearn and roil in wanton abandon, for answers to questions we have yet to ask. And sail within the rolling coils of our inner gray universe, to find the edge of infinity’s sea, and tumble helplessly over the waterfall precipice at world’s end, just to see what we cannot.

Our quandaries resonate in Limbo’s heart; why do flamingos stand on just one leg? We think we know, but do we know? If zebras have stripes to confuse their predators while in a crowd, then why pray tell do lonely tigers have stripes as well? Our quaint pat answers tremble the water in the pool, but do not lap against the shore of certainty. And my young question’s gist, if nearly everything in life is taller than a tiny insect, why then do they never look up? Why have eyes in front for few and far, when most and all are just above? In certain danger every tick of every tock, oblivious multitudes forget the danger of a massive heel within a hummingbird’s heartbeat of its near crushing blow, and go about their petty courses as if in sanctuary’s palm.

We waste our precious lives to satiate the corporeal hide that hides our naked soul, and fill the mouth with Life’s delights like Bacchus’ tongue, while Reason’s stomachs grumble heedlessly in empty abandon. And while we chase the golden leaf in frantic winds to gild our mortal shells, at mortality’s parting we lay them down and enter eternity raw. The youth that rages with the night, does so with Plato’s shadows answered not; to wake at trembling age to conundrums’ baleful crow.

In tents and porpoises guide our lives while fragile flesh of cherry hearts pump hopes and dreams that course through dying veins. Is not love a purpose intense as need, a chime awaiting wind to sing? Why can I not love a show, a palpable ribbon at race’s end, the way I love this world? To fill my eyes and ringing ears with memory’s paramour touch, and live my secret fantasies in BSG’s lucid frames.

I hear my heart because it beats for me. I love because I cannot let it break. I hope because as yet it hasn’t stopped.

Please join with me to satisfy the ache that moves my futile pen. Friends whose hearts are clasped like warriors' hands, in dreams.
http://www.colonialfanforce.org

Affectionately and respectfully,
Muffit
:muffit: