Sometimes the shape of creativity

is the undulation of a violin

the way the sound

waves

with the silence

of the wood that extends, to tuning keys

up where resonance is contained,

in unexpressed ideals

Holmes

as loose string

when words fail

and imagery evades,

and a sigh escapes--

from the audience,

Hanging on life's

Expectancy--

and that

amorphous darkness

between.

In the bustling city of Veridia, where social classes were rigidly defined, lived two souls destined to challenge the boundaries of forbidden love. Isabella, an artist with a heart as vibrant as her paintings, belonged to the impoverished lower class. Alexander, a charismatic heir to a wealthy family, was burdened by the expectations of his privileged upbringing.

Their paths crossed one fateful evening at an underground art exhibition, a secret haven where class distinctions momentarily blurred. Isabella's paintings spoke of dreams and desires that resonated with Alexander's longing for authenticity. Drawn to each other's worlds, they shared stolen glances and secret conversations amidst the dimly lit gallery.

As their clandestine meetings continued, their connection deepened. Isabella introduced Alexander to the struggles of the less fortunate, while he exposed her to the opulent but stifling world of the upper class. Their love blossomed like a forbidden flower, thriving in the shadows cast by society's disapproval.

However, the city's aristocratic families, vigilant in preserving their status quo, soon caught wind of the illicit affair. The news rippled through the city like a storm, threatening to engulf the lovers in a tempest of societal scorn. Isabella and Alexander found themselves at the center of a storm they never intended to incite.

Faced with mounting pressure and disapproval from their families, Isabella and Alexander decided to flee Veridia in pursuit of a life where their love could flourish without judgment. Their journey took them to the outskirts of the city, where they faced the harsh realities of the world beyond the confines of Veridia's societal structure.

In their quest for freedom, they encountered kindred spirits who had also sought refuge from the constraints of society. Together, they formed a tight-knit community that embraced diversity and celebrated love in all its forms. Isabella and Alexander's love story became a beacon of hope, inspiring others to challenge the norms that sought to dictate who they could love.

Back in Veridia, the city slowly began to question the rigidity of its class system. Isabella's vibrant paintings, now displayed openly, served as a testament to the power of love that transcends social boundaries. The city's perception shifted, and the once-forbidden love story became a catalyst for change.

Isabella and Alexander's legacy endured, not only in the hearts of those who had witnessed their journey but also in the transformed city they left behind. Veridia learned that love, regardless of societal constraints, had the power to break down barriers and build a more compassionate and inclusive community.

In a realm where lines and curves intertwine,

My spouse stands, proof of a design divine.

Shapes, both straight and curved, in harmony dance,

Enriching our world with a magical trance.

Her physique, a complex fabric spun,

Threads of determination, fortitude, and grace run.

A portrait of lines and curves unfolds,

A tale of resilience and stories untold.

In the geometric world, variations reveal,

Circles of existence, triangles daring,

Curves that flow in a musical song,

Yet beauty confined, a concept gone wrong.

Society's gaze, a limited view,

Narrow boundaries, a distorted hue.

My spouse, like many, in this dance,

Navigates self-love and societal trance.

Let's break free from tradition's mold,

Explore beauty in forms yet untold.

Contours, a cause for celebration,

A unique narrative in each incarnation.

Her figure, not just a physical shell,

A canvas of experiences, a tale to tell.

Contours gentle, warmth and care,

Firmness, resilience in the face of despair.

A silhouette gracefully outlined,

Moments of joy and sadness combined.

In this intricate dance, no missteps to find,

A work of art, captivating, refined.

To those who doubt their form's allure,

My message is potent, steadfast, and pure.

Your physique, an artistry so divine,

Shaped by time, a unique design.

Each curve, every silhouette,

A testament to a journey, a story to beget.

Embrace the beauty in every line,

A celebration of what makes us shine.

Redefine beauty, break the norm,

Embrace diversity in every form.

A vibrant community, free and unbound,

Where self-acceptance in beauty is found.

She kept a piece of putty in her pocket. It kept well in its zip lock baggie. She could discretely unzip it there at any moment and knead it, like bread, like vital release of excess creativity. In a pinch, she could, if she wanted, share it with another body-- maybe an overexcited child, a crying elder, a forlorn stranger. She didn't worry much about germs or phobias, the convoy chariots between life and death, that mock like the hands in blind man's bluff. She didn't think of Freud, or Jung, or Pavlov.

She'd never see others as they see her, really. They'd never be seen as she sees them. The mirror of existence is impartial that way. Shapeful and shapeless. Recognition, of being to being, is what the eyes reflected back even in the most casual of glances.

She rolled the putty. Invisible.

Sometimes stretched, pulled, torn, squashed from pieces. The tan, a color of post-mortem, still lively between her fingers. Only she would feel that. She won her putty in a slot machine--the chain store kind--a quarter in, and out pops a surprise gift.

Yes, life is what we make of it.

11.25.2023

Shapeful? Shapeless challenge @MeeJong

Sounds fill the air

with circles of swirling sonic splendor,

spinning with barrages of notes

that send the heart into a frenzy,

numbing the mind with pleasure,

rhythm pulses passion

in squares and rectangles

of galloping thumping thuds,

parallel to the beats of the heart

sending the body into movement,

music engulfs the body

in the sideways eight of infinity,

vibrating and blanketing,

pounding and elevating

to the stars and ellipses

of orbit.

I come full circle now

Having rounded the bases of the diamond

At times, skewed trapezoidal

Still, I made it home

I began singular, a mere point

But I traveled a line

Until I changed direction at a right angle

And celebrated my life lying wholly but flat

I rose above the Cartesian plane

Assuming altitude

And I saw the mistakes I made

From on high where depth is appreciated

Then I wanted it to last

From time to time, moment to moment

The temporal dimension offered continuum

I was happy

I ready for the next transition

And anticipate the next supersedence

When time runs out here and now

But I look to even higher realms

As her skin melted into hers, as their breath quietly become one, as their soft lips touched one another and a brief serenade acted from their fingers, she wondered what would be a great breakfast tomorrow. She wondered if some bacon and eggs would be good, but she thought it would be too wet and oily. She thought of a couple slices of bread with strawberry jam, but she ran out of bread the day before.

Her eyes wondered into the grey ceilings of the apartment and looked at the gaps for the lights on the corners of the room. She looked at the messy desk, filled with books, makeup and leftover pizza from their dinner a couple hours ago. She turned her head to the clock.

"What are you thinking about?"

"What?"

"You look distracted."She was always never a person who liked one-night-stands, as she thought that brief interaction felt disingenuous, yet she has been inviting women to her apartment almost every day for the last few months.

"No, I'm not. I was only wondering," She pushed her back to the surface of the bed and tightly grip both of her wrists with one hand, while the other continued to trace her stomach and breasts. "Of what should I do to you tonight.."

She pushed her lips close to her ears and placed her right hand on her hips. She pulled her upwards, while continued to kiss her neck until her collarbone. She exhaled and moaned quietly under her breath, trying to focus on looking at her eyes throughout. She smiled, they laughed, they held each other closer until both of their breast touched the other.

"Stop.." She whispered quietly to her ears. She wondered if she ever felt something like this before, of being this close to someone, feeling their warm breaths on the surface of her skin. Her eyes, as black as the night sky, was focusing on her supple, red lips. "Can I kiss you?" She whispered once again, closer to her ears.

As they slowly became closer to one another, as they felt their heartbeats in sync and as the night sky turned darker, all she could know was that the feeling would always be fleeting. She understood, reconciled, learned, forgot. As soon as the next morning started, as the quiet chuckles between them covered the quiet apartment, as their shapes melted into a shape of two nude figures, she would move on.

She looked into the mirror. She touched her own reflection and as soon as the lights turned on, she couldn't feel the warmth emanating from her own body. She was simply never there.

It had a strange shape to it, really.

The square I put us in, that night under the stars. I thought we'd never leave, the lines drawn so carefully, one side for me, one side for you, two shapes of different dimensions pushed together into a whole. Surely a bond like that could never be broken?

The circle of your hands, the warmth of your skin under mine, the circles of your eyes when you laughed and peeked at me from your chair. The circles that overlapped like venn diagrams, each of us allowing the other to enter, at least for a moment. I thought it would last longer. That's all. We didn't have to agree completely, for the two circles to hold together. But I guess there wasn't enough in that little oval section, not enough to bind us, not enough to keep us together.

The triangle broke us apart. Not a triangle of love, not like in the stories. In fact it was quite mundane. A three point punch.

"I'm sorry but-"

"I don't want to -"

"Be together anymore."

A triangular dagger, wedged into me, so easily, so casually, on that same bench we had first put our shapes into one square. The place our circles had nearly fully overlapped.

A triangle painted onto the floor. A lopsided shape, one where one side is always slightly smaller. "Can we be friends?" Because of course, of course we can, of course we will.

Even when a shape changes shape, even when it shakes and breaks and fractures into little pieces, even then. Two who were once square will stay forever connected, a shapeless cord linking our souls together.

A blob, it's been called Melvin. It's been calling itself the only one around, of its kind that it deems perhaps the only. It doesn't seem lonely, and if it is then heavily ignoring to state that as a factor in its approaches. But you can't criticise it too much, for it is soft and seems ashamed of its softness. Much like a misspelled word or an unfinished short story, it's just waiting to get erased, corrected, forgotten. And so

Shapes are an interesting thing in our society, from the shape of bodies to the shape of our planet, once upon a time. Something that I know that has no shape is my soul. It can take whatever shape that takes its fancy, but at other times will be formless. It can fit multiple shapes, but it does not need to be a conventional one, the way society likes. It would rather be a star or a hexagon, rather than the square box that everyone likes. I don't like it when I'm forced into a box that I don't fit. I may not know what my box is, but that means that nobody else can know better than I can. Only I can figure it out. Please let people find their little corner or edge of the world instead of forcing it on them.