Following Instinct

Rain fell steadily through the glow of broken streetlights, turning the city into a wavering reflection of itself. Water streamed along cracked sidewalks carrying cigarette butts, dead leaves, oil, and scraps of forgotten things toward rusted drains that no longer worked properly.

The old man kept his coat pulled tightly around him as he walked.

Every few steps he glanced behind himself.

Not from paranoia.

From experience.

The city had changed over the years in ways he still struggled to accept. Storefronts once filled with music and conversation were boarded shut now. Graffiti covered walls like open wounds. Sirens echoed constantly somewhere in the distance, blending with shouting, engines, and the hollow metallic sound of shopping carts rattling through alleys.

People no longer looked at one another.

They measured threats.

The old man walked carefully beneath flickering neon signs, avoiding clusters of strangers beneath awnings and keeping to streets where there was at least some light. His knees hurt. His breathing felt thin in the cold damp air. More than once he considered stopping to rest, but instinct told him not to linger anywhere too long.

Rain soaked through his shoes.

He barely noticed anymore.

At an intersection, he paused beneath a dying traffic signal blinking endlessly between red and darkness. Across the street, a burned-out apartment building stood empty except for shattered windows reflecting the rain.

He remembered when families had lived there.

Children used to play on those sidewalks.

Someone once planted flowers beside the entrance.

Now weeds pushed through concrete where laughter used to exist.

The old man stared upward into the rain.

“When did everything fall apart?” he whispered.

But even as he asked it, he knew civilization had probably always been more fragile than people wanted to believe. Underneath the polished surfaces and promises, fear had always lived there waiting patiently.

Now the mask had slipped.

And so had his own.

Age stripped illusions from a man just as surely as disaster stripped paint from buildings.

He no longer believed in endless progress.

Or permanence.

Or the comforting lie that humanity was fully in control of itself.

He saw now how quickly order dissolved when people stopped trusting one another, when loneliness outweighed community, when survival replaced meaning.

And yet what troubled him most was not the collapse outside.

It was the collapse within.

His own body failing day by day.

His own memories thinning.

His own approaching disappearance.

The old man resumed walking.

Rainwater dripped from fire escapes overhead. Somewhere nearby glass shattered followed by distant laughter. He flinched instinctively and tightened his grip on the small flashlight in his coat pocket.

He was afraid.

Not dramatically.

Not heroically.

Just honestly.

Afraid of dying alone.

Afraid of pain.

Afraid that nothing remained beneath all the noise and ruin except emptiness.

As he turned down another street, he noticed a small stray cat huddled beneath the overhang of a closed laundromat. Its fur was soaked. Thin ribs showed beneath its trembling body.

The old man stopped.

For a moment he considered continuing on. He had little food himself. Little warmth. Little time.

But something inside him resisted the hardening that the city demanded.

Slowly, painfully, he crouched down and removed the last piece of jerky from his pocket, breaking it into smaller pieces and placing them near the animal.

The cat stared cautiously before eating.

Rain continued falling around them.

The old man watched the tiny creature survive another night beneath the indifferent sky, and suddenly tears welled in his eyes.

Not because the gesture mattered greatly.

But because it mattered at all.

Perhaps civilization had always been this fragile arrangement of small kindnesses holding back the dark.

Perhaps meaning was never hidden in governments, systems, ideologies, or the great machinery of history.

Perhaps it lived only here:

A frightened man stopping in the rain.

A starving creature being seen.

A moment of gentleness refusing to die.

The old man rose slowly and continued down the flooded street.

The city still groaned around him like a wounded machine.

His death still waited somewhere ahead.

The future remained uncertain and beyond repair.

Yet as rain fell softly through the ruined glow of the city, he carried one fragile realization with him through the darkness:

If anything was worth caring about, it was the small light people protected inside themselves while the world around them forgot how to shine.

 

Forgotten Things

The rain had settled into a rhythm now — a quiet, endless hum, as if the world itself were breathing softly. Edna watched it with half-lidded eyes, her reflection faint in the glass. The edges of things — the chair, the window frame, the urn — seemed to waver in and out of focus, as though they too were unsure of where they belonged.

Each raindrop called forth a memory, and each one slipped away almost as quickly as it came.

There was the sound of piano keys — her piano, the upright one Henry had bought secondhand. She could almost feel the smoothness of the ivory under her fingertips, smell the faint scent of lemon polish. She played then, every evening after dinner. Sometimes Henry sang, off-key and smiling, until they were both laughing too hard to finish the song.

Plink. A raindrop slid down the glass. The piano faded.

Another memory took its place — the garden. Her roses, stubborn things, never bloomed quite right after that late frost. Henry had said it was fine, that the wildflowers suited them better anyway. She could see him now, on his knees in the mud, planting marigolds in the cold spring drizzle, muttering to himself about color and symmetry. His hair stuck to his forehead. She had loved him most when he looked like that — foolish and human and real.

Tap. Another drop, another ripple through time.

Now she was a child again, watching rain puddle in the dirt road outside her mother’s house. Her small hand pressed against the cold glass, tracing the paths the water made. She remembered wondering where the drops went when they reached the ground. Did they vanish? Did they travel somewhere else — a place where all the forgotten things went?

The thought made her smile, faintly, as the present drifted back into view.

The urn caught her eye again, sitting small and unassuming on the table. “You’re part of the rain now, Henry,” she whispered. “Washed clean of everything that ever mattered.”

She leaned her head against the windowpane, feeling the chill seep into her temple. The glass felt alive — vibrating gently with the pulse of the rain, or maybe with her own heartbeat.

More memories surfaced. A road trip to the coast — the smell of salt, the taste of taffy, Henry’s hand on hers as they watched the waves crash against the cliffs. She remembered a hotel room with thin curtains that never quite closed, sunlight spilling across their tangled legs.

Then the years came faster — a house they never bought, a letter that was never sent, a birthday she forgot, a promise he didn’t keep. All of them shimmered briefly before being swept away, each one a raindrop sliding down the glass.

The storm outside softened, its fury giving way to a gentle drizzle. The world beyond the window was washed pale — gray streets, silver trees, puddles trembling under the last few drops.

Edna closed her eyes.

For a long moment, she drifted — between then and now, between what was and what never came to be. Her breathing matched the rhythm of the rain.

Somewhere deep in her fading mind, she imagined herself walking through that rain, each droplet she touched unfolding into a moment from her life. She walked slowly, barefoot, through the soft downpour, gathering each memory in her hands — the laughter, the sorrow, the love — until all of them dissolved together into a single, quiet hush.

And in that hush, there was peace.

 

Moment of Awakening

Morning opens with a hush of cool mist.

Wildflowers lean toward the light—

violet, gold, and tender green—

their petals jeweled with dew.

Beyond their quiet colors,

a waterfall spills from the cliff’s edge,

silver ribbons folding into a hidden pool.

Its endless song blends with the first birds’ calls.

Far below the spray, a lone monk stands,

small against the stone and falling water,

robe the hue of weathered clay.

He does not move, yet the whole scene breathes with him.

The sun climbs the ridgeline,

casting warm gold across the cascade.

Water, flowers, light, and distant figure

become a single moment of awakening—

spring itself, simply being.

 

Hymn of Ripples

The bridge waits in a hush of amber light,

its planks warm from a day nearly gone.

Above, a single lantern sways,

its faint glow already part of twilight.

Beneath, the water moves without hurry—

a slow hymn of ripples

gilded by the sun’s last brush of fire.

Each swirl carries the soft scent of evening.

No footsteps touch the planks.

No voice calls across the banks.

Only the lantern’s gentle flicker

and the murmur of the stream.

The bridge does not measure time.

It simply holds the space

where day bows to night,

and the peaceful water keeps its quiet song.

 

Unfolding Fragility

The air in the hallway feels almost heavy, as if the space itself understands the fragility of what’s unfolding. The residents remain in their loose circle, the wheels of their chairs angled this way and that, a crooked geometry born not of planning but of gravity—emotional, invisible, pulling them toward one another.

Their eyes wander, some to the floor, some to the far wall, some to the middle distance where no one stands. Yet, every so often, something flickers—a glance caught, a shared hum, a faint smile that passes like a shadow.

It’s not conversation. It’s not recognition in the way most people mean it. It’s more like their fractured minds are reaching out on instinct, tossing fragile threads into the air, hoping one will catch on something familiar.

Dolores starts humming again, the same strange, half-remembered tune. Mabel tilts her head. She doesn’t know the song—at least not in the moment—but something about the rhythm tugs at her. Without realizing it, she taps her fingers against her blanket in time with the melody. Walter notices the tapping, and for reasons he can’t name, it reminds him of rain on a roof. He closes his eyes and can almost smell wet earth.

Across the circle, Agnes shifts in her chair, her gaze sweeping slowly from one face to another. She can’t place their names, or even if she’s ever truly met them, but their presence feels… right. Safe. The way certain strangers on a train can feel familiar without explanation.

Harold chuckles quietly, unprompted. “That’s a good one,” he mutters. No one asked what he meant, yet somehow Dolores’ humming pauses at the sound, and Walter’s head turns just slightly toward him. For a brief heartbeat, it feels as if the whole group leans toward Harold—not physically, but as if the thin threads between them all just tightened.

The connections are fleeting. A shared rhythm in a hum. A glance held a moment too long. A sound that echoes a memory that may not even belong to this life. And just as easily as they form, they dissolve, slipping back into the fog.

Yet the weaving continues—delicate, imperfect, invisible to the eye but undeniable to the heart. It’s as though their minds, fractured and wandering, are still searching for each other in the dark, guided by something deeper than memory.

A staff member, passing by, slows her step again. She doesn’t interrupt, though she doesn’t fully understand what she’s seeing. She only senses that there’s something sacred in this quiet weaving of souls—something beyond cognition, beyond names and dates and facts.

The residents don’t know why they’ve gathered, or for how long they’ll stay. But here in the still hallway, they are bound together by the gentlest of threads.

Threads that may break at any moment.
Threads that, somehow, always reappear.

 

Ashes on the Wind

The morning breaks, then fades by noon,

The day is gone, the night comes soon.

We chase the light, we grasp, we plead—

Yet time still plants its quiet seed.

The footsteps that we leave in sand

Are smoothed away by nature’s hand.

No matter how we fight or cry,

All marks we make are meant to die.

The voices loud, the dreams we shout,

Are swallowed whole by creeping doubt.

We rise, we fall, we laugh, we weep—

And still, we’re carried into sleep.

Ashes scattered on the breeze,

Names forgotten by the seas.

What once was precious, fierce, and proud,

Now drifts unseen beneath a cloud.

A fleeting kiss, a fleeting scar,

A fleeting wish upon a star—

They all dissolve, they all grow cold,

As time reclaims what it once sold.

Yet in that end, a peace is born,

A place beyond regret and scorn.

The wheel must turn, the song must cease—

To make the space for newer peace.

So while the glass still holds some sand,

Reach out, reach out with open hand.

For life will slip, and death will mend—

And we are here, and then we end.

 

Solitude of the Sea

The waves arrive, then fade away,

no voice to call, no need to stay.

A breathless hush, a whispered sigh,

beneath the vast and empty sky.

The moonlight shimmers, cold and bright,

a silver path through endless night.

Yet none may walk, nor none may be,

the keeper of this silent sea.

The rocks stand firm, the tides still turn,

old lessons lost, no soul to learn.

The echoes crash, then fade to none—

a song unsung, a race unrun.

No footprints grace the shifting sand,

no grasping mind, no reaching hand.

Only the gull, adrift, alone,

rides on the wind, a ghost unknown.

No past to mourn, no fate to find,

no weight of hope, no tethered mind.

The sea just is—no less, no more,

no distant dream, no distant shore.

And so it waits, untouched, untamed,

with nothing held and none to blame.

It needs no watcher, seeks no name,

forever vast, forever same.

A drifting soul may stand and stare,

yet silence speaks—no wisdom there.

The sea does not, the sea will be,

a boundless thought, a thought set free. 

A Lost Soul

Shadows stretch but leave no trace,

Footsteps fade before the dawn.

Echoes whisper in my mind,

Memories blurred, already gone.

Time slips through my open hands,

Yet the hours still drag on.

The stars don’t shine the way they did,

Their light now distant, cold, and dim.

The songs I knew have lost their tune,

The colors blurred at every rim.

Each moment feels just out of reach,

Like a dream I can't begin.

Faces pass, their voices dull,

Like fleeting ghosts in misty grey.

I reach for something once so clear,

But it dissolves and drifts away.

The world moves on, but I remain,

A lost soul in the fray.

Will I wake or will I fade,

If I can’t break through the haze?

The sun still rises, still it sets,

Yet I am trapped in endless days.

A puzzle missing half its pieces,

Drifting in this hollow maze.

 

The Zen of Music

In the hush before the first sweet tone,

A world unfolds, vast and unknown.

The breath of silence holds its sway,

Inviting the soul to drift away.

Strings hum softly, a whisper’s plea,

A melody floats like a leaf on the sea.

Each note a ripple, serene and clear,

Echoes of stillness draw you near.

Drums like heartbeats, steady and true,

Ground the spirit in rhythms anew.

The pulse of life, both fierce and mild,

Guides the mind like a wandering child.

Voices rise, a celestial stream,

Blending the waking world with dream.

Harmony weaves through time and space,

Binding the infinite in its embrace.

In music's flow, the self dissolves,

A riddle of being gently resolves.

No need for seeking, no need to strive,

In the song’s embrace, we’re wholly alive.

 

The Silence Between

Strings hum, soft and true,

A breath between each whisper—

Harmony takes root.

Flutes dance in the breeze,

Notes like petals falling free,

Peace in every tone.

Drums speak to the earth,

A steady heart's deep rhythm,

Timeless, boundless flow.

Voices rise as one,

Echoes meeting, intertwine,

Bound by stillness' grace.

In the quiet space,

Music's truth reveals itself—

Unity through sound.

 

The Song of All Things

A single note hums,
Born of silence, infinite,
Boundless as the stars,
It ripples through the cosmos,
Threading hearts to heaven's edge.

The strings of the soul,
Taut with longing and with love,
Catch the unseen winds,
Resonating, they remind
Of a deeper harmony.

Each chord whispers truth,
That all is one, and one all.
Even the still stone
Hums its ancient, secret song,
A rhythm of quiet being.

The universe breathes,
Its pulse woven into time,
A celestial choir.
We are echoes, fleeting notes
In the ever-turning wheel.

To hear is to see:
Beyond the veil of the flesh,
A symphony blooms,
Inviting all to partake
In the eternal music.

Beyond Hope

In the midst of the decaying ruins of a failed future city, Sarah finds solace and purpose in playing the piano. As her fingers glide across the worn-out keys, she weaves a tapestry of haunting melodies that resonate through the dilapidated streets. Amidst the rubble and despair, Sarah clings to her hopes and dreams, for they are the beacon of light that keeps her going.

Sarah's dream is simple yet profound—to restore the city to its former glory, to bring life back to its desolate streets. Through her music, she envisions a future where laughter echoes through the alleys, where the sound of children playing fills the air, and where the grandeur of architecture rises once again.

She dreams of a city bustling with vibrant markets, where people come together to exchange stories, share their talents, and build a sense of community. Sarah believes that music has the power to heal wounds, bridge divides, and inspire unity. She hopes that by playing the piano, she can bring a spark of joy and hope to the hearts of those who stumble upon her melodies.

Sarah also dreams of becoming a renowned musician. Despite the crumbling world around her, she holds on to the belief that her music can transcend the boundaries of time and space. In her heart, she envisions performing on grand stages, captivating audiences with her talent, and sharing her emotions through the ethereal language of music. She aspires to compose original pieces that stir deep emotions, leaving an indelible mark on the souls of those who listen.

Beyond her personal aspirations, Sarah dreams of creating a legacy. She yearns to inspire the next generation of musicians, passing down her knowledge and love for the piano to those who come after her. In her imagination, she envisions a future where music flourishes once more, where young children embrace their instruments and fill the air with melodies that rival her own.

Though surrounded by ruins, Sarah remains a beacon of hope in the failed future city. Through her piano playing, she breathes life into forgotten spaces, igniting a spark of resilience in the hearts of those who hear her. With unwavering determination, she holds onto her dreams, believing that through her music, she can restore not only the physical city but also the spirit of its people.

 

Nature's Song

 Once upon a time, in a land nestled between rolling hills and crystal-clear streams, there existed a vibrant forest called Edenia. This enchanted realm was a tapestry of colors and life, where creatures big and small dwelled in perfect harmony, and nature flourished untouched by the hands of man.

Within Edenia, the towering trees whispered ancient wisdom to one another, sharing stories of balance and interconnectedness. The animals danced through the undergrowth, their footprints leaving a gentle touch upon the earth. The rivers flowed gracefully, their currents serenading the land with a melody of serenity. It was a symphony of nature's song, where every note was played in perfect unison.

However, as with many tales, a shadow loomed over this idyllic paradise. Humanity, with its insatiable desires and boundless ambition, yearned to conquer and control the wonders of Edenia. One day, they ventured into the forest, armed with axes and saws, ready to harvest the abundance nature had bestowed upon them.

The first tree they felled cried out in anguish, its leaves trembling as it fell to the ground. The forest gasped, sensing the wickedness of this act. The animals watched in fear as their sanctuary was invaded, their homes destroyed, and their peaceful existence shattered. The rivers wept, their once-clear waters turning murky from the residue of human intrusion.

As the trees were torn asunder, a deafening silence replaced the harmonious melody that once resonated through Edenia. The animals scattered, seeking refuge in the few remaining pockets untouched by human greed. The rivers slowed to a trickle, struggling to find their course amidst the chaos. The delicate balance that held the forest together was unraveling, and darkness cast its long shadow across the land.

Yet, nature, resilient and wise, refused to surrender completely. Deep within the heart of Edenia, a single tree stood tall, its branches outstretched, as if sheltering the remaining creatures from the wickedness of humanity. It whispered words of hope and resilience to those who sought solace beneath its protective canopy.

As the whispers spread, a spark of unity ignited within the hearts of the animals. They realized that to save Edenia, they must band together and resist the encroachment of mankind. The squirrel chattered, the bird sang, and the deer leaped in a show of defiance. Inspired by their unity, the rivers surged with renewed strength, cleansing their wounds and reclaiming their once-pure essence.

Word of this resistance reached the human inhabitants, their hearts touched by the courage of the creatures they had wronged. A few among them acknowledged the wickedness of their actions and stood against the destruction they had wrought. They rallied others to join their cause, advocating for the restoration of harmony within Edenia.

Together, the awakened humans and the resilient creatures worked tirelessly to heal the wounds inflicted upon the forest. They planted saplings where once mighty trees had fallen, creating a tapestry of growth and renewal. They nurtured the rivers, purifying their waters and restoring their vibrant flow. Slowly, the harmony of nature began to reemerge.

As time passed, the wickedness of humanity was replaced by a newfound understanding and respect for the delicate balance of Edenia. The forest, once ravaged, flourished once more, and the symphony of nature's song returned to its rightful place. The animals and humans lived side by side, their interactions guided by reverence and gratitude.

And so, the parable of Edenia teaches us that in the face of humanity's wickedness, there is always the potential for redemption and restoration. It reminds us that the harmony of nature should be cherished and protected, for it is a delicate masterpiece that depends on our responsible stewardship. May we remember this...

Feelin' Alright

The guitar strings hummed under his fingers as he strummed a soft melody, the notes weaving together like a love story that he couldn't forget. It was the kind of music that spoke to the soul, evoking memories and emotions that were as vivid as the day they were born.

He had always believed in the power of music, in its ability to heal wounds and bring people together. And he had seen it happen, time and time again. Music had saved his life, in a way. It had given him something to hold onto when everything else had been stripped away.

But it was love that had truly set him free. Love, like music, was something that could not be explained. It was something that simply existed, a force that transcended all barriers and boundaries. It was the kind of love that made the world a brighter place, that made everything seem possible.

He strummed a few more chords, lost in thought. He knew that music and love were intertwined, that they were two halves of the same whole. And he knew that he would never be able to fully express the beauty of either one.

But that was okay. Because the magic of music and love was not in the words or the notes, but in the way they made him feel. And as long as he could feel that magic, he knew that everything would be alright.

 

Musical Dreams

A Zen master, named Master Wu, was renowned for his wisdom and serenity. He had spent years meditating, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, and guiding his students along the path of enlightenment. However, one night, he had a vivid dream that would change his life forever.

In his dream, Master Wu found himself sitting under a majestic cherry blossom tree, surrounded by a tranquil pond and lush greenery. As he closed his eyes to meditate, he suddenly heard a faint melody carried by the gentle breeze. The melody was unlike anything he had ever heard before, evoking deep emotions of joy, sadness, and awe. Master Wu was captivated by the enchanting music, and it stirred something within him.

When he woke up, Master Wu couldn't shake off the lingering sense of wonder and inspiration from his dream. He realized that music was a new path to explore, a way to connect with the essence of existence in a different form. With a sense of curiosity and eagerness, he set out on a quest to discover more about music and its meaning.

Master Wu began to listen intently to the sounds of nature - the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, the babbling of a brook - and he found music in every aspect of the world around him. He started to experiment with various musical instruments, such as a bamboo flute, a stringed guqin, and a percussive gong, learning to create his own melodies and harmonies that reflected the rhythm of life.

As he delved deeper into the world of music, Master Wu realized that it was not just about the external sounds, but also about the internal silence. He discovered that music was a reflection of the state of one's mind and heart, and that true music came from within, from a place of deep stillness and mindfulness.

With his newfound passion for music, Master Wu's teachings took on a new dimension. He integrated music into his meditation practice, guiding his students to find harmony and balance within themselves through the art of listening and creating music. He taught them to express their emotions, thoughts, and experiences through music, using it as a tool for self-exploration and self-expression.

Master Wu's music became renowned far and wide, and people from all walks of life sought his guidance. He held concerts in nature, where his mesmerizing melodies created a sense of tranquility and serenity, bringing people closer to the beauty of the present moment. His music also inspired many to embark on their own journeys of self-discovery and creativity, just as he had done.

As he continued his musical journey, Master Wu remained rooted in the principles of Zen, always emphasizing the importance of mindfulness, presence, and awareness. He found that music was not just an art form, but a profound spiritual practice that could lead to deeper insights and enlightenment.

And so, the Zen master's discovery of music in a dream opened up a new chapter in his life, adding a new dimension to his teachings and inspiring others to find their own inner melody. His legacy as a Zen master and a musician continued to thrive, and his music lived on as a testament to the power of creativity, mindfulness, and the boundless possibilities of the human spirit.

 

Dylan and the 3 pianos

Legend has it

While recording "Oh Mercy"

Dylan was asked why he played a particular piano

there were three in the recording area

yet, Dylan kept playing the same one

When asked by a fellow musician curious if it had to do with sound

Dylan replied he just picked the one he did because it had a stool

"Oh Mercy" went on to be hailed by critics

 

Descending into noise

Even music

suffers a decline

possibilities set aside

descending into noise
 

Intense

Intense

the moment

we find

ourselves
 

Fiddle

We fiddle while the world burns

it's all we know how to do
 

Sound the Alarm

When music sounds the same

flat and off-key

all organic traces gone

it should sound alarms