Another day; another page; another gift; another glance at the ink that leaks out forming legible characters. I need to remember, to think back and recall. I need to breathe in and remember what it all felt like. What it felt like in shattered dreams, in fear, and in dismay. In hope, in love, and in awe. So many different feelings for the same action, and here I am doing it again. I am breathing in such an unspeakable awe. The artificial air is circulating around and around; in, then, around, then, out; in, then, around, then, out again, and again, and again. Breathing in the name of God: it has been a twenty year process, and, boy, does it feel good to continue on, and on, and on. How is it that one so often neglects the arts of thought, discovery, and emotion. Days are so artificial without them, yet embracing artificiality – like embracing this air – has become the norm. My hope is that soon the norm will be to disregard the norm.

Feel; Breathe It All In

I’m finally home for the summer, and it feels so right.

But despite all the friendly faces I saw today, there are a few I still long to see again.

                               – clearing hedges and hurdling the freeway – 

What is it that’s supposed be in here? I wish I could write like I used to, but I feel so far from thinking clearly. It’s as if all words have escaped the dictionary, and I’m left scanning the empty pages for expression. Blank stares: everything recieved and everything given leads me nowhere. Preparation is taken, and equipping is underway, but where is the match to light this rocket. So many others are in orbit, but I’m left here grounded, thinking about what it must feel like. Well, that’s a start. Give me two sticks, I’m about to create friction. Let’s see where this leads.

More and more words, that just come to the mind, but may never match up with the feelings behind them.

I could pull a star from the sky
Consistently every night
And you would be dead before
You ever knew what happened

Picking Flowers That Eventually Die

Her hands are lifted high
Clapping in the breeze:

One, Two, Three
They fall like frozen tears
Three, Two, One
They die, disconnected.
The sun dances ‘round
– They melt; they wither –
White blankets on the ground –
They stream; they cover. 
Wedged between each page
Of fear and hope,
Planted deep in memory,
they grow.