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The VistaThe man finds himself wandering near craggy rocks and desert mountains.
He spots tourists walking in pairs looking at designated attractions and markers, but he has no interest in what they are looking at.
Deeper into the mountains sits a large temple which houses the holiest members of some unknown religion.
When he nears the main doors, he asks for entrance.
After walking through the doorway he feels compelled to ask an elder for permission to take photographs of their holy temple.
The wise old man says to him, "Why yes, of course."
He knew he didn't need to ask, but felt better having done so.
Without plan, and without following a map, he accidentally finds a walkway that brings him to a circular area that has a spectacular view of an ocean.
He is so struck by the beauty of the magnificent vista and the way the dusk light makes the mountains look purple, that he begins to weep uncontrollably.
"It's so beautiful", he sobs to himself. In his heart he knows that no other feeling of lov
I wonder why the world looks black and white outside my window
I agree with what Bukowski said about individuality
I think I'm somewhere between gluttonous and buddhistic
I wonder where it was you took those photographs with your Elph camera
I have no idea where I am or where I'm going
I like to think she's out there somewhere in this metropolis, taking photos, and she's happy
I reflect on what makes me feel secure and what makes me anxious
I feel odd when I think of a boss' death and what to do with the subtle resentments I feel
I walk the line between melancholy and utter bliss
I sometimes say to myself, "It's time to shit, or get off the pot."
I question why my phone feels the need to censor my bad language and what it's trying to protect me from
I try to learn to dismiss the ego, yet here I am posting this
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More