In the quiet spaces between words

rests the true weight of wisdom—

not in grand gestures or staged kindness,

but in the subtle art of seeing.

To make others feel like "somebody"

is first to understand:

they already are.

It is not our making, but our witnessing.

And here blooms the irony:

in striving to "be somebody" who lifts others,

we risk becoming saviors

when we were meant to be mirrors—

reflecting back the light

already burning within each person.

The deeper truth emerges:

We do not make people feel like somebody.

We simply stop making them feel like nobody.

Our task is not to create, but to recognize.

Not to elevate, but to acknowledge.

Not to give worth, but to witness it.

The most profound act

lies not in making, but in seeing—

in the quiet nod that whispers:

"I see you were somebody

long before I arrived."

Shimmers fade,

Colors gray;

Summers shade,

Yet I stay.

Flowers wilt,

Cinders chill;

Winters melt,

Yet I will.

With time, each phase

of 'ppointed fate

all nature plays,

and yet I wait.

My love still keeps

its course, my sweet.

My heart still leaps

for yours, complete.

Forests flame,

Oceans drain;

Deserts rain,

I remain.

The golden ratio blooms in every rose,

Fibonacci spirals galaxies to shells,

Yet we draft blueprints, thinking we compose

New formulas for how the future swells.

We calculate our way through sacred proofs,

Draw straight lines where rivers meant to wind,

Stack steel equations into mirrored roofs,

Solve for x where x was undefined.

But fractals laugh in every branch and leaf,

And chaos theory storms our perfect plans,

While gravity holds fast its old belief

That what must fall still falls, despite our bans.

We cannot rewrite what was written true—

These numbers lived before we ever knew.

Waltz with me

Beneath the trees

Of plum

And burnished gold

I love you more

Than all the leaves

That swirl beneath our feet

The koi move like slow thoughts

beneath the choked surface,

flashes of gold and white

through the gaps between green.

This is how desire works:

too many lives in too small a space,

each seeking its own path

through the tangle of what's possible.

The lilypads multiply

with mindless determination,

until walking on water

seems less miracle than certainty.

Somewhere beneath this riot

of leaves and stems,

fish continue their ancient circles,

believing in depth.

I watch a single pad

lift at its edge—

brief glimpse of scales,

then nothing.

This too is a kind of truth:

how beauty can survive

being hidden,

how abundance can become burden.

The pond's surface holds

everything but light.

Even the sky, reflected,

must find its way between leaves.

Some mornings I understand

this crowded silence,

how it feels to move

through too much life.

The fish know what I forget:

that under every green darkness

water remains water,

vast in its simple faith.

The burning leaves curl under the fire's heat, making snaps and crackles that were slowly lulling her to sleep by the heat of the fire.

Tomorrow would be cold, just like the weatherman predicted. Every day was cold now. Every day was a scramble for the food to feed that nights fire. And if she was very lucky, she wouldn't go without the means to feed herself.

Every day was a struggle and every night was a battle of wills. Wrestling with her thoughts every night as she huddled behind a snow bank on the frozen tundra, her brain seldom delivering her anything but nightmares.

The beasts had gotten more bold, and she wondered more and more if the amulet she still clutched so desperately would ever reach its destination.

[I don't know if this fits the prompt, but I enjoyed writing it! (:

Let me know if I should write more!]

And it’s a bittersweet feeling,

really difficult to explain.

I’ve met a lot of people,

I’ve loved them very deeply.

I know I can't control the way they loved me back:

aggressive, intense, tiny little stitches,

they burn my skin.

I look often at their patchwork

and the past we share.

And I’ve known you for so long now—

I love you very deeply,

and I can’t control the way you love me back:

harsh, fierce, tiny little stitches,

they scar my skin.

And it’s a confusing feeling,

so hard to understand.

My skin’s marked by people,

by the people I very deeply love.

I know I can’t control the way they love me back:

piercing, burning, tiny little stitches.

I wish I could see my skin.

I often look back at myself

and the people I’ve met.

I wonder if I’ve marked you the same now.

You love me very deeply,

and I can’t control the way I love you back:

aggressive, intense, tiny little stitches.

I see the scars in your skin.

Your thunder coursed through me,

a pulse of blinding, white light.

Insatiable

Curious

Piercing and smart,

left me a soft touch,

and sharp bite.

T.E. Pastiche ©️2024

we don't see things,

we see these, being (s)

we see a common are,

an art-- of-- becoming

The thou art, cannot,

be said of me, myself

I am, but Thou...

...Thou Art...

Osborne Reynolds, the Ninteenth Century scientist, lived his life in turbulence.

His "number," i.e., the "Reynolds Number," is the ratio of inertial forces to viscous forces within a fluid subjected to different fluid velocities.

You don't have to remember that.

At a low Reynolds Number, flows tend to be laminar—sheet-like; alternatively, a high Reynolds number portends for a flow that is turbulent.

You don't have to remember that, either.

Any bonafide turbulence involves intersection of different fluid speeds and directions. The chaos that results can even counter the direction of the flow, creating eddy currents.

That's funny, because my name is Eddie, and I am unable to go with the flow.Like my name, eddy currents churn the flow and increase the risk of cavitation. Not good.

That's what you should remember!

I take blood pressure medications because the eddy currents in my arteries risk cavitation, especially in my brain—relevant because of something that happened to me just this morning.

Right after my morning coffee (which, unfortunately, raised my Reynolds' Number), I was minding my own business, walking the short walk to work. Distance from work, pursposely orchestrated when considering a mortgage, can favorably impact one's Reynolds Number. Mine was short, countering my coffee-induced Reynolds Number increase.

That's when I crossed paths with my ex-wife.

It had been a particularly acrimonious divorce, fraught with bad arithmetic relegating me from the royalty of my castle (as, per Sir Edward Coke in 1604, when he wrote, “Every man’s home is his castle").

She approached. With another man on her arm. They looked good. Even royal. I retreated into my serfdom and my number rose.

"Hey," she offered with a wry smile, "how's it going?" For the record, wry raises the Reynolds Number.

Turbulence ensued.

Cavitation began. And while a cavity in your tooth, among the teeth you gnash, can be filled to make the tooth right, especially the eye tooth I would have willingly given up to never seen her again, cavitation in the brain is not so remediable.

I could have recovered from my stroke, but the fact that if I died, she'd get over it fast, pushed my number to the point where I did just that.