It sits in me, this restless urge to fight the depths of what I do not know. To bring light to the space where darkness grows. The void, pitch black, the feared and the not. Sacred somehow in its time and space. Of me it does not care, I am merely the beast knocking at its door. The fire breathing tendrils and caught up smoke, trapped and panting with rapid eye. I am the nothing to its all. The attached and unaware. Still I dive the depths and search in frantic waves. This thing that is me, aware and free.
Good news. Finicky Eater hit the editing process. So dear reader, what does this actually mean, aside from Kasha and the gang getting a bit of a make over? Well, the writing is getting tighter, the story stronger. Bad news. Kasha and the gang are more complex than I earlier imagined and what had been a simple story has outpaced my current capacity. So back tot he drawing board. Hopefully, you will have a story worth the wait. Stay tuned.
The salted sleep, the ocean waves, sand between my toes, safety, peace, the world revolving round, trees in the wind, all the simple things neglected or that which has been taken for granted. The heart fractured and now opening, healing, the stars in the sky, books, fingers entwined. The innocence returned with wisdom entwined. Songs, peals of laughter, dogs barking and a smattering pitter pattering of rain falling. Knowledge life’s enumerable pains all pass. It is not the big moments remembered, more the day to day grind forgotten in its simplicity and the growth of soul, now that is bliss.
Those mystic things With timeless beings And worlds standing still They give my heart a thrill I walk through pages Of all the ages Battling countless foes And sharing in characters’ woes Whether digital, found on a Nook or Kindle My how my battery does dwindle Or found on a self As if placed there by an elf With hard or paperback in hand I sit or I stand Until I have read I cannot go to bed They catch me with their hooks Those magic things I call books.
It is a word I rarely use these days. Seems I misplaced contentment upon entering the birth of another year. Funny how strongly I held it, how well I remember the feel and the taste. For something that so quickly slipped my grasp I do not recall when it was lost. I’d chase it if I thought that was wise; drink it in greedily the way one thirsts on a hot summer’s day. It is there, lurking, felt down below where the Soul grows. A fissure waiting to explode, I’m content within the knowing the peace is stirred from underneath.
I’ve adapted to the chaos, to the push pull, to the thoughts going round and round on this merry go round here alone inside my head. I’ve adapted to the dance of two steps forward one step back, of singing a little off key. I’ve adapted to never knowing just how things will go and the unexpected surprises and ambushes life likes to throw. I’ve adapted to the fact change is one of those things I can love and hate, sometimes at the same time. I’ve adapted to knowing what was, is no longer what is. A never ending process.
My God Send. What on earth did I do before Google? Actually try to remember things? Got an argument over a not so known fact, need directions, or have a book report due the next day? Count on Google to save your day. Want to download a picture, find a gift, can’t remember the name of a song, just the lyric repeating endlessly in your head. Go ahead, just Google. Be a Google King or Queen. Everyone can get in on the fun. Need to learn something new? How to repair that old shoe or the latest game walk through?
Could have been the day I brought that tiny black brown thing home. Seemed more the foretold bad omen of one running across your path. A lifelong commitment, what am I thinking? 15-20 years or until one of you dies. Don’t get attached, you don’t really want this universal gift of black nose and fur. Unnamed, unknown, but cared for; it became the center of my very small world. So cool now, strutting his stuff, reclining, growling, prowling, how empty the house when he isn’t home. The muse for future words, car companion and pocket purse kitty. Auspiciously universal indeed.
Sacrifice is what he gave me. Sacrifice is what I gave him. Thousands of strands wrap it all up in a pretty bow. No words can describe, no words can encompass the feelings swirling in the air. Stand close, stand near; watch the slight of hand disappear. Time marched along the beach in churned up grains of sands saying I was here. Wrote it deep, this place upon our heart. Tide comes in, sea salt bubbles in the groove. Heals our collective wound and then the tide goes out. Faded memories. This place, open again, slate clear. Done is done.
It comes with a hump and sometimes a bump as I try to get through a week unscathed. From work? From life? As I duck from unseen blows it is hard to tell. Seems everyone I know faces some nameless foe. Universal forces skewed. Every day is a reminder of the one before and the promise of the one to follow. I am weary with no get up and go. Come back tomorrow when the hump and sometimes bumps has gone its way. Or better yet, try me on a Saturday when chores and plants, beaches and music hold sway.