Buds on the Rocks
I think, therefore I crash. The jukebox sticks on Flesh and Blood, while my mind tames itself to Johnny Cash. Behind smoked glass, drowsy snow glides. A hushed voice murmurs ‘Rosebud,’ untouched by time or the gods’ doom, it abides. A kitten clowns on the stage of cobbled alley. Cute aggression is about to flood. My therapist? This wholly mindful, cheerful scally. Veni, vidi… void. The Caesar of mind flicks his ash into all archaic thoughts; each creed I held in one blazing instant, destroyed. The epicurean barista slides my whiskey on th’ rocks. ‘Carpe diem!’ he grins, dropping withering shots. Click; A flashback to Wild Strawberries’ handless clocks. Light, music, and mise-en-scène, all clash. Upon the first round, past and future were naught. The stoned pub rises again and again from alcohol and ash. Winter croons its fevered, rhapsodic song. I scrunch through snow and mud, nonetheless, the horse of silence gallops headlong. In the background, the evolution’s sweetest vision stirs with snowflakes; his pink paw is a newborn eastern redbud, blushing this colorless season. Languid grandeur lingers in the world’s cache. JUMP CUT TO: All this flawless, frozen frame. Meanwhile above: the paparazzi stars are buzzing; flash after flash.
Sarah Samarbaf
Sarah Samarbaf has a background in art and historical studies and writes as a way to survive and stay connected with the world.