#Fleeting Moments

[in-tenebris-et-in-solitudine]

[dabiconcordia]

What is Life?

"And what is Life? — An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun." – John Clare

[zoeflake]

Rising, or setting: for just a moment, an angel appears

(Please retain text if reblogging, ty)

[halukturgutmenguc]

©all rights reserved / htm.studios/2023/488

Fleeting moments...!

[milo-the-crotonian]

A Breeze

Cradled on the crests of enclosing peaks,

A golden crescent swam in the mists

Of dreams flashing hues in our sleep,

But drifts off down the brook like your kiss.

Crow to me from the branches of pine,

Bring the items that have started to decay,

And in the traits gone which we'll find—

Only when all was severed and astray!

Pale leaves flutter onto the shaded brook,

That snakes to flower-splashed plains;

That i hear tweets, and the longing chirps

Of the wonders that we sought in vain.

For what can the desert provide,

But sands over unknown flowers;

What still secrets could I confide

In these purple twilight hours?

[slugsiebenneun]

Relics of the Last Night

From yon ball pit doth arise,

small creatures fashion with quick hands

their brides upon the final carousel's ride,

racing, bound in chains as rival bands.

Where yon suitor puffs his blank rounds,

the youth, forsaken by their fathers' grace,

doth wander lost in a ballooned haze,

with fleeting dreams that none can trace.

Rainbow stair-climbers,

they twist and tangle with fierce plight,

step by step they interlace,

in knots too tangled for the light.

Where joy doth gleam within this hour,

as a creature doth behold this world,

another, drowned in confetti's power,

lies silent, suffocated, twirled.

[fleuronterrobang]

Yellow-tinged, like looking through film,

or washed blue through a digital camera lens,

starkly, I know, right as I live it,

this shall be the stuff of memories.

From eye level I lower my phone,

for this refuses encapsulation.

Nothing I could've done, no sleight of hand;

These moments are not made to last.

A dissonance of present and past, a wrongness,

for this is too fleeting (why must it be fleeting?)

If only we had eternity in this single minute—

together, forever, in cinematic bliss.

"Do you ever wish you had the skills of great artists so you could capture what those moments feel like?" 2024/08/19

[rhythmicreverie]

The clock struck midnight as the shadows of the past, present, and future danced around her. The witch's spell had turned her into an eternal being, bound by time's twisted embrace. Eternally yearning for what once was, she wept, watching her life unfold in fleeting moments. A ghost within her own existence, she wandered the halls of memory and the corridors of fate. In her heart, she carried the echoes of a love long forgotten, a love that would never be hers to keep. Time bending around her, a spectral figure forever lost in the labyrinth of her own story. This is the summary of your work so far: A Gothic poem was created based on a character who experiences a life-changing event or transformation, and where time-bending tales of past, present, and future are intertwined in under 100 words with rich text and minimal formatting.

[12timetraveler]

Between the Silence

Part of my Fleeting Moments collection

Summary:

Reader spends some time with the new member of the gang, Charles Smith.

Mostly gender neutral reader, though they do "women's chores" around camp.

You'd been with the gang for a couple years now. Had seen many members join, and some leave. They were your friends, your family. But none had caught your eye like Mr. Smith. 

The lone wolf was not like the typical loud, brash, wild gang members. He was cool, calculated, quiet. He never rushed into things, kept his head in any situation. In fights he could be ruthless, you knew, but for the most part he was a very even man. 

One thing you did notice was the way he was struggling to settle in with such a large group. He'd grow tense when people started talking too much. He wasn't used to constant chatter after so long alone, and beyond that, he could appreciate the benefit of silence. Sometimes words didn't need to be said, if there was nothing to say. 

He'd snapped a few times at the others when they'd pester him, though you could tell he was trying to keep an even temper and not anger anyone. It made it hard for him to make friends in the gang, you could tell. 

You'd been watching him these first weeks. He was ruggedly handsome. Hair as dark as the sky without stars. Well maintained appearance, not in a vain way, but simply in a respect for his own body, keeping himself much cleaner and fresher than the others. The large jagged scars down his face did nothing to hide his beauty. 

You tried your best not to stare, but how could you not? You wanted to spend time with him, but you knew that trying to stroke up a droll conversation about the weather was not the way to do it. 

So one day you picked up your sewing and just plopped down on a log near him. You didn't say a word, just gave him a quick smile before returning to your work. He was sitting near the edge of camp, cleaning some of the scout guns. 

He was a little tense at first, as if bracing for you to start gabbing his ear off. But when he realized you weren't there to chat, he seemed to relax. The two of you worked in silence for hours, giving each other a friendly nod as you parted ways once you were done. 

The next day you did the same. Charles returned your greeting smile this time, and once again you worked side by side for hours. He was sharpening the ax and you were fixing a hole in Arthur's jeans. Then he grabbed a bundle of feathers and some arrows and began crafting more arrows. Once you finished mending Arthur's pants you began working on fixing Jack's overalls for Abigail. And so it went until the day was done. 

The next day was the same. Only Charles decided to break the silence. 

"You're very good at that," he noted, nodding toward Bill's shirt, which you were carefully stitching back up. 

"Thank you," you replied with a friendly smile. "Your bow is beautiful," you added, nodding to the weapon in his hand, which he was currently cleaning and re-stringing. 

"Thank you. I've had it for a long time," 

And that's all that was said. No deep conversation, no idle chit chat. Just simple praises. You went back to your comfortable silence, working alongside each other. 

Most days were spent like that. Not all the time. Some days Charles was on guard duty most of the day. And some days you just felt like sitting with some of the others and joining in on the gossip. But you often found yourself returning to Charles' side the next day, social battery drained and ready for some quiet work. 

Soon you found yourself gravitating toward each other even to eat supper, or to have a few drinks before bed. 

The two of you were not completely silent. Occasionally you and Charles would fall into conversation. You asked about Taima. He asked how you joined the gang. It was easy conversation, but not meaningless. 

You also noticed Charles found it a little easier to interact with the others in the gang if he followed you into the conversation. You became that gateway for him, and soon he was speaking more easily with the others. 

But you always seemed to return to each other, like birds following the same migration path time and time again. If either of you needed some quiet time, the other was happy to just sit. If you were both in a more talkative mood, you'd spend some time swapping stories. 

And one night when he slowly leaned in to kiss you, and you didn't pull back, well no words needed to be said that night. 

[drmonkeysetroscans]

Go for happiness honey.

[shakiranandini]

The crimson dancer is a testament to nature’s creative brilliance, reminding us of the preciousness of every moment. Its elegance and brief lifespan teach us to cherish our time and opportunities. Like the dragonfly, we too must become harbingers of light, color, and hope in the tapestry of life. Among the countless marvels of nature, the crimson dragonfly silently conveys a message. It invites…

[wickedzeevyln]

A Stitch in Time

There is a place in time where you still exist, where my ears are bowls and your words, cereal. You would pour them from out of your heart like you did years ago and let my innocence digest every letter, and I would draw maps to the fabled stars you pasted in our conversations. I would trace lines leading to places where they might set shop in the ever shifting realm of your stories hoping…

[melomanic-logophile]

In a good mood

here’s a song I like

<3

[thepillowbloog]

The Joy of A Well-Made Bed

There arent a lot of things in this world more satisfying than slipping into a bed with crisp sheets, tucked perfectly at the corners, with a pillow that gives just the right amount of support. oooh I could die like this

[a-fix-of-muses]

Currently Listening To: "Fleeting Moments" by Syncatto, I Built the Sky