September 12, 2014

I Long for Winter.



What is wrong with basking in the silence?

What is wrong with the aloneness of nothing’s sound? Where is the error within this isolation? Within the miracle of those spaces caught between the notes, within the sweet sound of creation stuck within the cracks of what we see as destruction?

From somewhere comes a sigh. From outward poses of false realities come awkward words of truthful fantasies.

I walk along trying to find the mindless footprints I’ve cast in the hardened bedrock of my life; wondering why some fear the sturdiness of this place, why they search for escape by looking for the invisible tracks they swear they left behind.

I question, they don’t respond.

They react.

And I sigh.

They dance.

I only wish they could hear the music.

Sometimes I need distance from the insanity. Sometimes I need space. In moments of clarity I see the hand wielding the sword that is cutting me is my own. Sometimes I just want to drop that tempered blade that I’ve been given, never to pick it up again. Sometimes I want to stand my ground. Sometimes I want to run.

Usually I just let the song play out, lost in the rhythm that I hear as others try to change the notes, re-tune the strings, strike a different chord.

I wonder why if feels so right to be so wrong. I swim against the current not realizing that it is difficult until reminded that is must be. I’m told that there must be something wrong. I labor when others find their ease, and I find my stride when others seem stuck in the mud.

I find equal joy in rain and sun, find a measure of peace on the isolated frozen sands of my ocean home.

No one litters on my beach in the winter. No one dares worship the frosted sun or gaze upon the bitter moon. No one tries to bury their feet in frozen sand. There is such beauty here when the crowds have vanished, when the lost ironies of those who would try to  break the beauty they have come to find have gone, when those who try to shatter the glass they don’t realize they are looking through have finally forgotten the way here.

I so love the winter’s sand. Absent of the refuse. Absent of the broken shards of glass. Absent of the games we play to find our spot along the shoreline. All I need to is bundle up to face the winter’s wind, and be ready for the impending snow.

I sigh.

I’m ready for the winter.


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Editor: Renée Picard

Image: seniju at Flickr 



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