(The Sunday Muse-#261) Jars Of Goodbyes

 

The soft breeze of this faultless spring day washes over us, still in bed, still in the afterglow of an evening spent exploring the lines and folds of one another. They are our roadmaps of lives both well spent and of returning visits down dead-end streets where we found bitterness and learned of what makes us, us. You, warm and inviting, like a soft light at the days end and I with textures earned from a life of working in the sun, we somehow melt into what we both know is our last relationship in a mostly cruel world. The kindness we give freely soothes and brings hope. Hope that the days turn to years and that we have not found one more cheated chapter, short in time to bask in for the rest of our lives. To linger, one more moment, in this day is a true blessing and one I will not waste caught up in the aches and pains on our way to what is next. No. Counting each second as a sort of repayment in this cosmic investment of kindness and compassion for whatever time we have left is how I shall be. Like a candle upon the shoreline, my last wave will come and extinguish that last breath, but, until then, I am yours and you, mine.

(The Sunday Muse #258) The Art Of Life

I find myself, longing to take your visual virginity away in these magical places I once roamed alone. Desiring to add my own paint to your memories with long brushstrokes along a tumultuous river hell bent to reach the sea. Or watching your pupils widen with our arrival upon a raging waterfall cascading deep into the churning waters below. Or becoming one, united in the pleasures and sensuality nature can bring in a soft meadow in the countryside. To see the reflection of a redwood tree that almost reaches the heavens in your eyes is a sight that gives me so many goosebumps they surely must be stacked 3 high. This new ecstasy, soaked in blessings, bubbling like champagne in my veins gives me something no one else has ever given. The gift of a timeliness now, unrushed and apprehension free as to what will come one day to end it, being able to fully live in this moment, fearlessly alive, I reach out and take your hand.

Breathing For The First Time (Sunday Muse 257)

 

Somewhere deep in the soft woods

My fate is being articulated tonight

something spoken kindly draws me in

And my hopes grow in this fading light

The sweet tones tell me this is it

This time it is showing me my way

Waiting has past, the stars in place

Something honey-sweet is here to stay

The tide turned; the sounds smitten

And the magic enchants my eyes

And as the stream flows to the sea

It now carries those once lonely cries

So, as I look eastward, I smile

The warmth inside carries me away

And the hopes build stronger that

Tomorrow, tomorrow, will be my day

Full Circle Sunset (The Sunday Muse, 256)

 

She said it best as she turned and departed into the winter night. Those words, chilling as they were, also, warmed me, as they digested in my suddenly sober mind. They replayed, each time seemingly adding a new layer to their structure until I felt in my heart what she meant. Our time was done. The love still lingers in the far corners of our hearts, but like peeling wallpaper our patterns no longer met at the edges. The cute had long ago turned into endless thorns against our skin, punctured partners unwilling to apply the simplest of ointment to sooth the maddening moment. It had not always been an uphill struggle in a dark night of continuing storms that buried any hopes and dreams under dizzying heights of frozen baggage. But her luggage’s imprints could now be traced to her car, filled with tears and sobs, her foot lifted from the ground and the door closed one last time.

Hers was a difficult decision. To stay and watch me drink myself into the littered landscape or walk away, never knowing if I quit beginning to write again. To give up upon the one shared dream of our paradise, paved with sandy fantasies of umbrellaed rum and butt imprints on the beaches. I could not blame her for all her own faults, even the ones that led me to drown from the inside out. Instead, a wave of pity flooded my fermented mind, reminding me of catching her with him far too many times. Now, he was dead, we all were in our own ways, and she was gone, long gone in this fresh physical minute.

Many years had passed, the book was being made into a movie and my days were filled with watching a stranger take my words and turn them into fodder for the masses. I no longer cared, I just sipped tea and nodded when asked if I had meant a certain emotion for a group of words clearly designed to convey the obvious. All that mattered to me was getting through another day so I could drive away and follow the sea to where she and I would make butt prints against the setting sun.

Thank you (Sunday Muse #254)

So tired, of failed words and dreams broken upon the rocky shores of my own making. The past won’t leave, its dusty mail collects at the doorstep of my mind and I can no longer step over it. The rut, as vast as the Marianna Gulch is impossible to fill, yet, I try, again and again. The empty can not be contained in any shell, yet somehow spills out and swallows my screams, until now, I never stopped looking for the lifeboat, that tiny ray of unfiltered hope that allowed me to never let the tide carry me into that abyss of despair.

You showed me that, so often lifting me up without knowing. Somehow, the mismatched spirits we combine is something beyond perfect, no plan could have seen this, yet, it’s here. The uncollected mail is gone and the smiles return, because of you. You alone have calmed the angry bear of a man I had become with the gentlest hello.

She is, all the good I found in the rest and carried forward.

She is the hope I saw, the dreams I followed, and the calm in the storm.

She is the strength and gentle weakness I need

She is the guide, and the groove, the vibe and the pace

She is like finding that last piece of a puzzle, and

I’m now standing, enjoying what is, and ignoring what isn’t.  

Thank you

 

Daydreams (Sunday Muse #253)

I find myself once more in the noisy crowd, elbow to elbow all fighting to be on time for that which sucks the life out of us all. That treadmill we run upon, chasing the carrots dangling as our puppeteers laugh and drink from our souls. Bastards we would have long ago killed if we didn’t know deep down how poorly stripes look on us. Bosses and beasts, one in the same, yet each seemingly an expert on what horrors we alone will take, just how much degrading we must ensue to grab that paycheck on Friday.  At least mine, is just for today.

I had planned it out to perfection, over the many years of watching the brothers and sisters of nepotism advance to become my keeper in the work spaces I’ve dwelled in. Pretending to work as they shuffled their tasks onto my lap, suggesting they had given me a reward, it always came with threat not prize. Today, as they arrive late, laughing and loud, their fates, are about to change, for each is about to unleash a multitude of viruses corporate wide. Each of the guilty parties, 21 in total will unknowingly kill their own careers with a simple log in. I hope in their futures, they will learn to do their own work and not hand it, along with their passwords over to the likes of me.

The Hollowness ( Sunday Muse #252)

The hollowness of long ago, vacates this day, falling away in your shadow, in the best of ways. You have come, conquering those concrete demons, replacing them with a rare joy that seems to wrap itself around my being inside and out. Like a clock, broken, abandoned and collecting dust within an ancient shop your healing touch rewinds me, soothing the parts back into a viable working spoke in this collection of time we share. Now, when my eyes find me closed, and my spirit chained to the past, you cause them to rise vapor-like in the desert, leaving me smiling and understanding, that ancient past is gone, buried deep in the ground where it shall never again rise.  

 

Another winter of content (Sunday Muse #251)

 

The snow, falls soft and steady outside, accumulating as abstracted outlines upon the structures of the yard. Bushes become frosted reminders of springs needed pruning while the cars change shapes, becoming large irregularly shaped snowmen.  The quietness hides the impending screams of the yearly cabin fever building with each flake, each so different, yet with the same goal of settling, resting briefly before turning into the water that will rush to the sea. I envision the wildflowers these frozen droplets shall fuel one day, but until then, I shiver and add another lifesaving piece of wood to the fire. My only goal now is to survive, to stay warm and to record the emotions of the storm as it rises up within me knowing I won't hear any knocks upon this frozen door. Trapped here is nothing new, each winter brings its best to remove me from the breath seeking segment of society, but I fight, to stay above the now cold ground and to find my voice on the blank pages of the glowing screen. I smile, smug in my battle plan, yet unaware of the snows attempts to break the branches of the many trees lining this lane, hoping to snap the lifeline wires that bring me everything. It is in that reminder I grow, as the house stops offering me a bountiful bonanza and morphs into a needy underfed infant crying incessantly. Its then that I can hear the snow laughing in the gentle gravity fed dance that still seeks to quiet my restless writing.     

Truman and Sara (Sunday Muse 250)

 

Truman really was unremarkable in every way. Large glasses framing his thin face and even thinner hair, and a simple black hat and bow tie allowed him to fly under society’s radar for his entire life. His days, spent alone in old book shops often wiping the dust from their weathered jackets, covering the fading verbiage, long forgotten, even by those who crafted such fine pieces of assembled words. His pleasure was not so much in the absorption of those words, but in the reading of any odd notes addressed to the last owner of such bindings. He really didn’t understand his habit, but it drove every second of his free time. A few books had piqued his interest over the years, a couple of well-placed words and once, a poem that seemed so familiar to him, as if taken from his own thoughts, but nothing, like today’s visit would bring.

 

Ammos and Dunn’s fine and rare books was where he ducked in at lunch that day. Skipping past the regular genres his mood was a bit darker, passing the horror and doom and gloom he stopped at a peculiar looking binding. Judging it, he pulled it towards him and felt a slight electrical current in his fingertips. Hesitating to some extent, he removed it, opening it. His eyes grew wide as he ran his finger across the picture discovered inside and then, he dropped the book.

 

Years have passed, Truman now spends his days tending to his own rare bookstore, quite large even by a larger cities’ standards, Truman and Sara’s rare books is a destination in itself on this usually quiet island, now crawling with summer tourists. His looks haven’t much changed but, his energy has, it fills any room he enters.  That would be especially true in Sara’s case as she finds him quite addictive. Her days are enchanted for lack of a better word, and no one seems to notice her vocabulary is odd in the sense of it being more appropriate for the 1800’s than present day. Most pass it off as the learned education of a true book worm rather than that of a person who is actually from 1823.

 

You see, back on the day Truman that found that strange book, something happened that even I can’t fully explain. Inside was a picture, old, tattered and fading but enough remained that one could see it was a woman standing, holding Trumans picture. He didn’t recognize it but when he ran his finger across it to clear off the dust the woman in the picture moved. Her face became clear, and he could hear the sounds of the city street behind her. Truman cleared his throat and spoke meekly, “Hello?” Sara had blushed and said, “Hello Truman, I’ve been waiting for you my love”.

 

From the little I know, Sara instructed Truman to rub the photo again which rumor has it caused Sara to appear in person. Months passed and Sara told him things that couldn’t be possible but held no other explanation than what she'd given. She had been looking for him since his death in 1821 in London. The little she had in her pockets had been the gold coins, now old and rare which brought them the funds they needed to start the store and fill it with more rare books, each placed upon the shelfs after being inspected by a much grateful Truman.  

Stones and sticks (The Sunday Muse #248)

 

Stones, and sticks gathered along the banks of the river in the fading hope of filling a void in not only my life, but my heart. I find a simple peace in each treasure, each broken piece of a larger earth. The river here runs clear, offering a glaring contrast to my mudded mind and dampened spirit. Yet it's at the water's edge that find the greatest voice within me, it's as if the recharging here is amplified by the waters colliding with rock as it races to the sea. It is here that I see what was hidden in the mad dash to find clarity in my life, to embrace the possibilities of finally being home in a place my hats hang and that has only known heartache.

I give quickly and completely in matters of my heart, even though at each ending of love I swear I will never walk those crooked paths again. I mortar up the aged stones and sticks, cobbling together my wall of defense, praying for the rest of my life to be quiet, confirmed in the single idea of singleness. I am a complete and utter failure at this. Perhaps, an addict of the rush of new love, I reluctantly step past the walls, pushing aside the flags of red blowing in the new wind of new love and hug the beings that will rip my heart apart in time. A fool? For sure.

This time, as it's been in each of the past's time, is different, its organic, fresh, familiar and its rush, feels like I’m already standing at the river's edge. Soothing and soft like today’s falling snow,

this one, this is the one. This one is solid, without doubt, no flags, no greed nor games, this one. Feeling as if I am about to lift off this ground, into a new permanent orbit, no longer needing the water to show me the direction I shall drift, the fuse is lit. It’s as if the pasts puzzle pieces, jumbled and jaded smoothly assemble in my mind, pleasing, perfect in its unknown, and I find myself, casting aside the collected stones, and sticks.   

BOTH SIDES NOW-The Lost Lyrics

 This is my added lyrics to Joni Mitchell's song, "BOTH SIDES NOW"

Stray emotions, tumble down

becoming one, with the frozen ground

still I pray, our souls be bound

intertwined forever more....

And yes my heart, longs for you

it cries out, when you, are blue

and suffers waiting, wondering who

will take my breath away....

and even though, we’ve yet met

never kissed, our sun's not set

with all the life, we still get

I want, to know your, face....

Longing to be belong again

moving past, just being friends

knowing that before life ends

I’ll find your, perfect heart....

for everything has its place

there’s a winner, in every race

so even though, I’ve not seen your face

your love is all I need.......

someday we will find, loves door

tasting lust, and wanting more

releasing doubt upon, this floor

when our hearts give us away.....

until then, I must say

I seek you out, in every way

longing for that, happy day

when our hearts will beat as one.

I held your heart in my mind, and

kissed your face a thousand times,

but still, somehow a strangers fate

is what we, seem to wait..

but wait I will, hold no doubt,

hear me listen, feel me shout

and on that day, that we find

love has really, been on time.

 

View from a tree Sunday Muse #247

 

I remember that first day when I felt the sunlight on my leaves, as a seedling, everything was brand new and exciting. As I looked around, taking in so many things, I remember seeing my closet neighbors and wondering what their lives had been like. Wondering what lies ahead for me. My first spring was here, and the flowers grew and bloomed all around me, the bees, so busy and always in such a hurry. I remember the magic of birds singing and of that first butterfly that landed on me. My smile was as big as I can remember, and my world was perfect.  Then summer came and it was so hot, and I didn’t know how anyone could make it in such harsh heat, and at times my thirst was overwhelming, but my neighbors provided me with some shade.  I think it saved my life and then came autumn. I watched as their leaves began to drop off, some landing near and on me. I wondered why. Had the heat been too much, after all we were now in a much cooler time. Then I watched as my own leaves began to die and I did not know what was happening. Soon the snow started falling, it was so beautiful, watching those flakes landing, their journey between the branches above me. And then, it got so cold and the wind, pushing my branches in all directions, it was too much for me, so I closed my eyes and went to sleep hoping that I would feel the warmth of the sun again soon. This repeated for 120 cycles.

 

Now I am the tallest tree in this small forest, and I’ve learned those neighbors were my family and that one, now long gone was my mother. I have many children near my roots, but sadly, they will never grow strong there. It’s the seeds that get further from me that have the best chance to grow tall. Over the years I’ve learned how to let any of my branches snap off to allow those below me to grow tall and strong although my aim is sometimes off. An acorn that fell from me 75 years ago and washed about 50’ from me and is now my closet friend. We spend our days telling the other what the other cannot see. Deer and mountain lion roam here, although usually at different times of the day, as well as everything from skunks, squirrels and an occasional human. The scariest moment was when a forest fire came about 42 cycles ago. Humans started it and other humans stopped it as it rapidly advanced up the hill, but not before countless others died from the heat and flames.

 

Over the cycles I watched a cabin built from a distant cousin of mine rise up in the meadow, and farmers workied the soil. I saw the cabin grow in size and a new family move in, I heard them laugh and cry for most of my life until they moved away. It was sad at first, spending so many summers with their children exploring my branches, telling tales of pirates and love, but I am content listening to the birds and squirrels, seemingly playing in my branches. When spring came, I awoke to loud crashing sound like I’ve never heard before, it was not like the thunder that visits in the winter, this was not pleasant. It was a machine crushing the cabin. I was saddened that the family would now, never return. Then came more machines, loud and pushing smoke like the fire into the air, they cut deep into the earth and made roads and soon bigger houses appeared, perhaps built from my families backs. Soon the houses had new families, with children running and screaming, not like the old family. But none came to climb in my branches. When summer returned so did the machines, they cut into the bark of my remaining family, killing them, I watched as they fell to the very ground that they grew from. When they took away my 75-year-old friend, sap began to ooze from me. I braced myself to be taken to, but they stopped. Soon mud from a machine put a rock like substance on the ground and a new house was built. It stood about 40’ from me. Now I am surrounded by a wooden fence where the nicest children play in my branches. I know that at best, this may last another 50 or so cycles, so, for now I am no longer alone but I still long for my forest family.  

 

 

Forever Sunday Muse #245

 

 

Like butter hitting the hot surface of the breakfast frying pan, my heart feels the warmth and hears all too well that sizzle of a changing temperature, and I know, that unlike this box of `expired Bisquick my lumps and age could still offer value to someone hungry for a meal of commitment. Larger portions now fill that imaginary plate, the offerings still richly seasoned with wisdom from the overcooked relationships of that now spoiled past. My mind drifts again and I slip back in time to when I was her main course.

I once adored her structured randomness and the situations we’d find ourselves in. Stary eyed, each promising this was forever. Laughing at time, at convention and at the obvious lack of a plan that would one day, end this beautiful banquet. Her words had always implied perfection, painting a picture long held dear to my mind and heart. They fed me, though never enough for the malnutrition that raged inside and her abuse grew rapidly. When I finally left, the note I left simply said “It was forever baby, until it wasn’t”.

Kindness in shoes unowned

 

My words seek asylum from the prison inside my heart, long held hostage in her hostile takeover. The collateral damage dripping from the walls of my life, for I was far too late in my raising of them, and now all I can do, is wash them, waiting for either death or my escape. When she returns, her words, like a sharp knife plunge deeply, carving me with considerable precision, each verb, trained to torment, each adjective aimed to kill. She is a master of changing the shape of my will, at will. The world knows not where I am nor if I breath at all. She was so sweet as she explained how each friend, brothers and sisters didn’t know my worth, her placement of the wedges I willingly drove sent them all away, and now, I see so clearly.

It was about a month ago when she didn’t return, the house cold and dark was silent and the eyes to my frozen soul opened reluctantly as I rose, yet never awake. A few days went past, and I grew braver, I dared to look out the darkened windows and saw the sun shining brightly just beyond where I was allowed to be. After a week, I opened the door and covered my eyes from the brilliant sky, the warmth caressing my face and arms, and I stepped out. I left the door ajar in case she was testing me again, but she did not appear. So, I took a step, and another, almost falling over from the giddiness of impending freedoms, another step, then another………..

It's been a while since I've been comfortable being out in public, mostly from the fear she will find me again. Slowly through my sisters love and help I've been learning about the poison I had drank, not in a liquid form, but from her hideous doses of verbiage. Today as bask in the sunlight, her words have begun to lose their grip and I understand once again of the power of language, much like every word of this unlived tall tale. But there are many that have lived such injustice and I am learning of their pain, hoping somehow, to help them find themselves again.  May they find peace.  

Adrift in time (for the Sunday Muse #244)

 As the boat filled with the salty unwanted, and uninvited fridged sea water I knew this was it, my last adventure. This journey hadn’t been all bad, it started out on such a beautiful note with many most pleasing images, sounds and textures, in a kaleidoscope fitting for such a good day. Drifting upon the vibe, current carried and, basking in the sunlight carefreely careless, no worries in site, immerge in the moment.  But, as it always happens, the but came, and the mood quickly shifted as the peace was rapidly replaced with the danger of the open ocean. The tune had changed, now, it seemed the fiddler was on fire as Rome fiddled. Seeing no way out of this impending predicament, paddleless thoughts all led to a gasping for air, a gurgling of going ghost.  As the tiny boat lost all buoyancy, the shift of float sank, and the song ended. I found myself thoroughly gratified being pulled into its tale of the seafaring life, thankful for the images shared and then, the radio started playing  “The Lazy Song”.  

You

 Standing on the edge of heaven, this mountain top we’ve hiked to on this early predawn morning is still cloaked in darkness. The moist dew does not weaken our shared emotion, soaked in happiness, my hand wrapped tightly around yours as we await the sunrise. The air, so crisp seems to ricochet the tiniest of sounds as the birds begin to stir from their rest, leaving their nests. As the first ray suddenly shoots towards the sky I shiver slightly, knowing the secret I have inside me will explode if the sun hesitates a moment longer. Your smile begins to show as the sky hugs the sun, the glow building rapidly, and I drop to my knee facing you. Before I can say a word, your mouth opens, eyes now fully exposed and beaming like the growing rays of hope. “YES” you shout, “Yes” “yes” repeats the echo from the canyon below, “A million times YES”…It was in that moment, that sweeter than all my life before moment that I truly knew. The universe had known what I had dreamed of all my life and had just now, truly opened my eyes to what I was unknowingly missing. You. 

Dying Words

 

His mind was no longer being used, its true calling, now broken in a single moment. In the chaos of shattered words, his, were now lying upon the floor in a disheveled pile. Adjectives could no longer help him, form a single thought nor lift his dying spirits and the verbiage that once flowed from his fingertips trembled silently in the corner. All he knew at this moment was that his sentence structure couldn’t help him, for what he felt, the pain, the betrayal, neither were in his vocabulary.  And so, he lashed out, though foolishness had never been familiar, he acted swiftly and without thought and walked out the door.

The weight of the world had most definitely increased exponentially in his life, and not just from the 4’ of snow that had been threatening to collapse the roof of the cabin, no, he was pretty sure the fire would be the solution to that problem. As the flames leaped into the darkening heavens, his story literally was falling from the sky. The explosion had been epic, the gas tanks in the basement went up, yet left the house standing. That befuddled him slightly as he realized he was without a coat in the dead of winter. Only the flames now separated him from hyperthermia and a slow death. But even more poignant to him was how he felt nothing as the pages of his unfinished novel spun wildly in the wind, landing on and around him. He stepped back, his feet pressing down on the pages of his words, half on fire, grinding them into the snow. The sounds of the fire rapidly consuming the structure was almost deafening yet all he could hear was her voice and, in that moment, he knew, she had never loved him. Not only had his work in the relationship been for nothing, but the novel in itself also lived from that lie and he did not wish to ever be reminded of that. He laughed a little when part of the roof
slid off and landed on her car, “poetic” he spoke out loud, for he was certain her new boyfriend's rental would get them to their awaiting paradise. He warmed himself once again, stepping closer and then turned, and walked away knowing in his heart the new words to a new story awaited him just down the road.    

Not my first rodeo

 What can I say, I had my heart safely corralled and out of the blue she was able to lasso me and pull me into her fading sunset, but now, I'm out to pastured again and this time, it's going stick. I am back to where I started, happy with MY life, and I don't need anyone to complicate my completeness. Do not get me wrong, somewhere down that dusty road, it could happen, but if you see me smiling again, please don't feel the need to interject yourself into my rodeo, because the seats looking in are much better and I ain't giving out backstage passes.     

Not meaning for this to sound in any way conceded, just me telling me, how I am.  

Channeling His Tale

 

 

I struggle to find the words, lost between time, tears and my fingertips, they want so badly to come out and see the light of even this gloomy day. Each letter of each word feels frozen like an ice cycle hanging before my watery eyes, yet they remain untouchable until the spring thaw. I try to seek out some sort of pattern, hoping to make a sentence, which hopefully could turn into a paragraph, but I fail to connect those dots. Instead, as my mind races, I have these stray thoughts appear like soft smoke on a warm evening, forming circles of words just before drifting into that night air, each seemingly calling out "ME" "ME" as if fighting for my attention….as I record these to paper I see the story of a man standing alone, perhaps upon a dock or pier, staring out into the raging sea, he seems to be calling out as he cups his hands to his weathered face, the waves crashing again and again at his feet, each one pulling him towards the sea below. And then he is gone. The words stop and the visons from them disappear. I franticly fumble to find them praying he is still there, that he has not tumbled into the vast wasteland of my writer’s block.  

But it is not to be. The sounds of this old house interrupts and dogs wanting attention take my mind away from what was so vivid seconds ago, I reach down and scratch my pups head and then his brothers, dinner is the word that now fills this space and I am the only one with opposable thumbs so I must go…..but in my mind, the story that man is waiting to tell me is unforgettably waiting for me.

When a song changes the day

I awake from the numbness of sleep, jarred from my slumber by a song playing in the distance. I struggle to identify it….I know the tune, and the words are just a little to soft to say YES that’s it, yet. I listen, intently, like a detective on a case, I need to know this. I sit up, concentrating with all I can muster in the dawns early light and then, I hear it clearly…….Let It Be……and I smile, muscles no longer tensed up in the rude awakening that required my attention, and I realize something, for the first time in my life, the "battle" in my head isn't, is it the tune that matters the most, nor, is it the words…..I am at a musical crossroads…..I am enjoying the SONG………..

 

I realize, this is such a simple thing, but its taken me all my life to just, Let It Be……

Survival

Today, I am reminded. Reminded that this welling up of emotion is not caused by this, now, never-ending rain, but that just beneath my surface, lies the rawness of what I pray time shall remove. You. 

I no longer need to remember your voice. I will not benefit from ever feeling your touch, nor learning the rest of you. Your kiss is redundant. The moments that made your day special, or sad, no longer resonates inside my heart. The collected memories, need to fade into this night sky, for with you, I see that I must, forget it all. I am not able nor equipped to keep the pleasant pieces and play with them on moonless nights, no. I must erase it all to survive this. I must let it all wash away in the river of tears. You and I. Once my world, is now, my hell.  

My energy is now focused on where my socks are, and why are my keys in the refrigerator, again. Did I feed the dogs or pay a bill and the rest of the endlessly dull things that are my life, is now where I let my mind roam. That future that was us, is dissolving, rather slowly, with the passing of time, and I now pray the same time, takes the rest of you away.

Healing at the speed of sound

 I release my tears, alone in nature, as the river carries them to the vastness of the sea where they can never find me again. The self-induced fog I hide my emotions behind seems to part where I stand, revealing the beauty I am surrounded by and the death of my heart is comforted by the soothing rapids, reminding me, that this too shall pass. I pick myself up once again, stepping to the water's edge, I throw the round green ball that drives my pup crazy, and, in that single moment, I remember what my purpose is.  

January 2nd, 2023

 In this vastness of new days ahead, with so many unwritten stories that await us all, I wish for you:

Peace

Contentment

Fury Friends

Kindness

Faith

Freedom

Wonder

Adventure

Harmony

Awareness

Humility 

Purpose

Joy

Love

And an open heart.

May we all see even the tiniest of blessings and be grateful for each of those moments, each and every day, and may we lift up one another leaving no one to suffer alone.

A new year

 Walls once neglected, now stand fully erect, if only to contain the broken parts of the heart, each piece emits its own tiny, faded beat, all randomly echoing like sonar in a last ditched effect to regroup as one. The healed cracks from the past, still visible, run parallel, often crossing these new torn lines. Somehow, as if from memory, the painful lesson doesn't stop it all together, instead, and against my wishes, they deliver enough blood for me not to die.  

It doesn't seem possible, for we humans are supposed to learn from our mistakes and grow away from such foolishness. It only took me once to learn to keep my fingers from fire, to respect heights and to come in out of the cold. So why, why do we return to, often the same scene and become repeat offenders when it comes to matters of our hearts?  Is it hope? Is it even logical? To keep trying to love someone only to discover you've once more been dealt a losing hand and no matter how much we try to raise the pot, it burns us. Love seems to be the sole emotion that we willingly run with scissors like a small child testing his mom. We simply refuse to stop poking that bear holding our hearts, instead knowing that a long winter of sadness awaits should that bear turn on us. Live and learn? This fool hasn't.