The Valley of Longing

Everyone’s lost

In the valley of longing.

It’s a journey within

When seeking belonging.

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Looking for something

To put one at ease.

Searching for light

Shining bright through the trees.

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Down your feet take you

Through mud and deep roots.

Clinging to branches,

As vision dilutes.

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You slip and you fall,

But you’re ready to see.

The future self’s guidance,

Deep within thee.

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The journey’s sufficient,

To make you fulfilled.

But right at the bottom,

Is quiet and still.

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Nothing but clay.

Clay and decay.

The truth of your life

Brings pain and dismay.

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No inner child,

No voice of the soul.

Yourself cannot guide you

You’re down in a hole.

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A selfish puddle

Of tears in rain.

With the realisation

You’re lost again.

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The valley of longing

Traps all the lost.

A prison organic

Where children are tossed.

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To thine own self be true,

Is a beautiful lie.

You’ll slip down inside,

And true truth will die.

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How to escape

The valley of longing?

Look to Zion

The city is dawning

*

Written by Randall Evans.

Tea

I find great pleasure

In a tea

It’s warm and sweet and

Good to me.

.

I watch steam rising

In the cold.

A warmly warmth that

Warms my soul.

.

I hold the tea cup

In my hands,

Like it’s a tiny bird from

Fairy land.

.

Mystical beverage of

Beautiful taste.

Like a grandmother’s hug

We all embrace.

.

The taste of tea is

To the eye;

Morning dew and a

Golden sky.

.

If I fail

Quite Miserably,

I’ll still find joy

With my tea.

.

Written by Randall Evans.

Rain

It was a cold miserable morning. The weather’s ice cold winds melted into my bones, yet I hadn’t even left the house. The rain fell all night without any hint of a cozy undertone.

The city was crowded with dreamless faces and deathly stares. The shelters were shoulder to shoulder with slow moving pedestrians that were showered with heavy drops that ran down the sides of buildings.

A few drops of rains and the trains are in chaos.

I hate it. I’m not a winter person, so this is ridiculious. I had to cross the city in the blistering cold to drop off an broken camera lens. Well, not just any lens, a Canon 70-200mm. It was my favourite lens. My baby. My livelihood.

At Wynyard I push past police, army vets, and a long line of corporate stiffs who are waiting to get into some event that I couldn’t care less about. Here is a question Sydney, why is so much of this overpriced city dependent on sunny skies? I didn’t have an umbrella and I felt every drop of the miserable, dirty rain.

Soaking wet, unhappy and ready to face the music. I bring out my lens.

“I’ll test it on my camera.”

The man checks the lens. I didn’t want to force it on my camera, but he has no trouble.

“It’s a bit tight…”

I thought it was too tight. But tell me, how is it?

“It seems OK. You’re a lucky man.”

I put my renewed hope back into my bag and head back to the office. Back through the crowds of zig-zagging people. Back across the roads where the red man overstays his welcome.

An alarm is going off in a building. I wonder why they were evacuated? There was a camera crew across the road. It’s funny how they still use massive rigs.

It’s now 2:00.

I work until 5:00.

A link is sent to my messenger.

MAN STABBED IN THE BACK OF THE NECK OUTSIDE WYNYARD STATION

Right outside my office. Right when I went for a walk.

Suddenly my attitude changed. The cold is just cold. The rain is just rain.

You never know when it’s your time.

Life is precious.

And I love the rain.

Written by Randall Evans.

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Disjointed Desire

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Law of nature,
And of time.
Mine is nothing,
In this life.

Vision in the season of depletion,
Incompletion’s my only foundation
Repletion of all but a reason.

Strife in man.
It’s here to stay;
I separate…
Emancipate…

Revealed by desire
Of a simple smile
No barrier between self and liar.

How to discipline this mind?
To stop the cycle that I hide,
Solve the puzzle in my soul.
Hold my hand… Make me whole.

This is The Vile Mint
Written By Randall Evans

 

Tinder & the Death of Romance

Tinder-logo

We live in an age of superficial sexual pleasures. An age where we confuse consequence with cause. Instead of attraction being an organic combination, selection of a partner is now determined by one thing. Looks. The swirling pool of flesh bombards the retinas without any imagination required.

Dating is a violent sport. Instead of being an exciting adventure in a particular stage of life, it’s become a layer of irritating vexations, test driving multiple vehicles at once with no intention of a purchase. It’s normal to see multiple people at once, all at various stages of the initial dating phase, which is typically somewhere near, or past, home base.

Where do we go in this confusion? It’s no longer a matter of finding a diamond in the rough, because the true authentic romantics don’t play by the new rule book. They open doors for one person, buy roses for one person, experience anxiety over one person and dance with one person. And if it doesn’t work out, they cry over one person.

How can anybody feel loss with so many replacement parts on the market? They can’t feel loss, they only feel lost over time. Time after time, date after date, they wonder why they feel so down. It’s not meant to be like this.

It’s not normal to play the field.

It’s not normal to base your attraction on what a potential partner looks like in a photo.

It’s not normal to use romance as a tool rather than expression.

Actually, all these things are normal… But it’s not right.

The world is filling up with the tears of those who feel alone. They have been stripped of their worth as what love once was has been replicated and twisted into technique and fabrication. When lust reigns supreme, will we remember what love felt like? Where has she gone? Love is shivering in the cold corner of the woods.

Lead her into the light. Be gentle and fearful of such beauty.

Love is patient… Love is kind.

Are you?

 

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint.

Fashionable

It was a mid-morning start, which meant the traffic was a little lighter and the gangs of retirees were taking over the cafes. I pulled up next to a trendy family car – Upper middle class.

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I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the left arm of the passenger.

The wrist was decorated with the cuffs of a women’s power suit and a gold bracelet that was probably purchased in 1993. The bony hand, barely visible through the window tint, was worn and stressed.

Why isn’t she at work? It’s past 10…

Why wasn’t this independent hand on the steering wheel?

She had probably just come from the doctors. An elbow so casually, so… tensely resting on the window could only mean bad news. Her husband, or dare I say, old friend who’s always loved her but never been able to crack through her tough exterior, had driven her for moral support.

He left his car at hers because she’d rather be dead being seen in his bomb.

What’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of that gold bracelet? It doesn’t impress me much. I wonder if she was rubbing it in her anxiety as the doctor told her the news.

I turn up the music in my car. I wonder if I do it to impress the retirees with amazing heavy metal.

The status symbol is too heavy. It becomes a chain… A metal chain that pulls her along.

What hit her the most in her appointment? The realisation that she’s going to die, or the realisation that she’d wasted her life.

The car, the chain, the suit, the nail polish…

The skin, the muscles, the bones…

The heart.

Let’s strip it all away.

She’s protecting herself. The little girl she once was… She was hurt by the world. So, she put on her armor. She wasn’t enough just being a shining light, a pure spirit. She needed to project and deflect. If she fails, and she will, it’s because of the suit, the chain, the car, the lack of skills… never because of who she is.

She’s not a failure… She’s not…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

 

Fashionable

 

He Makes Us Laugh !

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The clown’s mask drips down his cheeks, but he has no face paint on. Sitting under a lamp in the corner of a lonely street his mind wanders. The waters rise from his heart to his head, making it impossible to get up and walk home.

This man, this, ‘clown’, spends his time exchanging laughter for pain. People want him around. They lean on him, laugh with him and seek him for comfort.

Everyday he cuts off small pieces from his body and gives it to whoever’s in need. Everyday he becomes more and more… empty. He gives what he wants to receive, yet he doesn’t know how to receive what he gives.

He can’t stay above the surface of the water, because the flood is within himself.

Is there ever balance in life? Is the emotional landscape like the rolling waves? Does the happiness that crashes on the shore eventually have to flush out through the rip tide into the sea?

The man, the clown, the ocean, stands up in the lonely street. He doesn’t stand straight like a hero on a mission. He doesn’t stand defeated like a man who’s lost it all. He stands in his pain with his eyes closed.

He applies his mental face paint.

Another man walks past. Concerned he asks, “Are you alright?”

The clown looks him in the eye.

“No. I’m not alright. I have a left hand as well.”

This is The Vile Mint

Written By Randall Evans