S R Gurney
Bio
25.
Graduate. Author. Director.
Inspirer to noone.
Compulsive Hypochondriac.
Elusive Dreamer.
Thought Hallucinator.
Stories (27)
Filter by community
I Before Me, Except After Be
I am, though not now, as I was, sat looking over slimed frogs, in their pools of pond, hopping and jumping and living as they see fit. I hear softly birds chime from afar as creaking branches and sodden leaves in squidgy mud remind me peacefully, as I might add, of the gracious satisfaction that life gives to us in its finest decor. Time and myself roll by like the wind, as I toil between picking up irksome litter and avoiding uninvited dangers. When, and to my surprise, a three-legged rodent, scurrying out of the browned waters leaving its tail in tow, pursues life as it is and how it always has. Having noticed that I am there, it darts steadfast out of sight, through nettles and other living leaves, and so I know why he runs. As I have done before from the overwhelming existence of higher power, disbelief and conflict, too tiny to comprehend an eclectic universe full of unknown wonder and splendour. While back in my place, I look out over my beautiful brook and smile contentedly at the glistening drops of moisture hanging to the brook like the hand of a small girl crossing a busy road with her mother, and it knows not why I too am scared of it. Resplendent magnificence ensconces me and my fellow dark oak trees, and form a tranquil getaway for an eye-baller with too much to require. In a sense, like I had expressed to be free, I know my weakness stems from purpose. Which is how I came to know. Just as life knew too, I am here to observe, as well as life of me. Ascending through the exploration of limitless discord uniformity, where sentience derives, past any evolution, as much from action as from word. An infinite loop entangling creation and definition into a singular explanation, that is true for its time and already outdated by an incremental velocity of discovery.
By S R Gurney8 years ago in Poets
With the Blue Eyes of My Mother
I remember trying to find my way back home. A swirling summer that depicted long and winding evenings upon kind grass, where children as we were, sat deliberating a fine conversation. Deciding, as we did, whose melody we were to decree, in an era defining sense, songbirds of our day. The pace of voice, innocent and fluid, impassioned absolutely them and I as we spent the early-afternoon grazing among bric-a-brac and chit-chat that loses value with age, but is not forgotten. A judgement-less bunch, renegades as I shall say, that could discern my greatest smile visible in the mindspace that pondered the unprobabilistic unifications that bound us by design. Demonstrating an individual and group ability to conduct spontaneity organically and efficiently. Which gave to us, with no hesitation, an impetuous resplendence. I see today, that while they were the best of times, it is now the sort of place, as we did not know then, where everything is disproportional. Now what seemed then most unlikely, because of a smiling sun, radiant healing skies and a hugging warmth that thawed efficiently those cold distant sparkling wintry nights. I bore a shrouding aurora that howled a snide afterthought like wilting bark. Suppose as I do now, that being lost of ways, I was to stumble upon a magnificent achievement. An accolade that administered, as I did not know an achievement could, the dormant awareness of fragility, balance and vulnerability, that rung neatly around escaping years. Departing me to an overwhelming compulsion; to retreat from an infinite degeneration.
By S R Gurney8 years ago in Poets
Magnetism
For the extremist of overtures; I was the centre of my world. I, being in my twenties and of relatively sound mind, had experienced few of the offerings love wished to give over to me and even less of me to give over to her. In the beauty of her beauty, the ugliness of her beauty, and the untimely melancholic warmth of loves’ comely embrace, I began my journey as a member of the dismissed. I was, as an enthusiast of the Game of Thrones generation, a white walker. Blissfully unabashed by my tendency to show little emotion of my senses. I had a forceful feeling this stemmed from an invasive and uncomfortable youth, which manifested itself throughout my anxiousness and uncertainty, into a plethora of unavailable grey feelings. What therapists called Avoidant Attachment, or some other psychological terminology, taking my strength and homeliness to where I imagined I belonged, along with the other dysfunctional(s). This was around the time I ascribed myself the title, Metal-Man. Yet still, and for some reason beyond question, I felt within my own right when I searched for a relationship that I could describe as "a natural love that arose from wanting a future to be proud of kind of love," "haughty, joyous laughter that could fill a room full kind of laughter," and "companionable hope that might fulfill my disenchanted soul kind of hope." (A lucrative display of my high expectations.)
By S R Gurney8 years ago in Humans
