the magic [essential nature of] reality

[or my gauche soliloquies for push-and-pull perceptions] 


[underrated focus, coffee stains, a window] Three little faces. Wild green-yellow-blue eyes, elastic moons up-above. Coming to the ground, purrs and whirrs; they leap into action with much elegance. Fluency, a different vignette, their droves of…unruliness. As they play, an existence opens up in front of you, for them. And, from here, unwind contents, squares, spheres. Unyielding symphonies from the woods. Varicolored ideas to be communicable or converted into material, simply? Intrinsic thoughts formulate fragments. And setting-ups, voiceless features. Observant hands and the insight…in position. Black ink, paper, creativity.
Ebullient, they’ve been. This triptych of little furs, cuddling-like them, against the horror of the days — perhaps? And, oh, as to make you…touch eternity(ies). Imagining, wishing, sketching. Playing with quixotic geometries. Unbuilding as if making circles of flash recurrence, so the blueprint scenes. Ah, what is that into-a-self-sustaining-metamorphosis? A possibility. Tum-tum-tum, a yumtum one, touché!
The gold-white lady one meows, meows. There they paw, so voraciously the two black boys paw the roof they live (in) (on). Months of imagine(o)bservation en bloc. Here and there, searching for magic idiosyncrasies, may it be, I suppose… And no chance to not surrender to their vigor. A dazzling-tumtum dance encapsulated within, how is it so possible?
[a year now, Spring, less-more] These three little partners. To feed, embrace with hope, recreate. Lines of purple clouds pervade our horizon when evenings come close. Also when neighbors extol their bunch of deeds as the kittens gravitate toward countless non-shape intimacies. The on-the-laps, at this point we can by-imagination draw them very accurately. Handful of coins is missed by those frenzied-attack persons clacking along those unfamiliar alleys, everlasting-like them all. Time to eat, to lick, to exist. And, quite adamantly, to survive the sparks and flames. Such consistency, so theirs…the trio, so mine-here, ah…
[hazy sunshine, the sketch, mutterings] A roof over their head. Reality sprouts up against any wall…to, to…dispel. Music means, literary means, plastic-art means. There are visual storytellings, myriad-them. The search for the real, well-ha!
Artistic creation, a plastic expression, the real. The real. An idea of such communicable asters and disasters, and the very essential nature of reality. How vehemently it…pulses! And startles you awake. Reveries can dance you to the end of anything — love, art, life. Reality, reality. R.e.a.l.i.t.y. A four-movement brush stroke, or the magic fashion covered real:
[1, allegro-prestissimo] There’s a plastic idiom within everyone and everything, we sense, they say, who wonders…
[2, larghissimo-piano] Three little cats live on that parsimonious roof observable through your kitchen window as you frantically cook dinner ludicrously tired out, late at night.
[3, vivace-allegro] Metaphysically, the superimposed literary meaning from the would-read books still keeps alive your to-and-fro delusion into expanding the days for all those waterfalling-beauties you kept so within to moonshare, yearning, with too genuine a heart yearning for joy and hope.
[4, piano-pianissimo] You, however, finish the meal, wash the dishes, anticipate the piled-up stuff for your tomorrows, think of the ones you haven’t kissed and the ones to really piss around once more, muse over all of those little rabbits to still vomit up in life or truly over your crystalline acceptance and understanding apart from any protestation interweaving the little furs pawing your window with a collection of reminiscences and plans and desires, in life as in fiction, and then, sighyou just open your notebook to at least fictionize a little bit [more] about…this multiplicity that is living beneath your windows of hope, (com)passion, and this extreme fascination for the little furs.


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