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.