"You are not the moon kissing the black sky."
Epic sentence isn't it? I am suspended in the mental picture conjured by that combination of words (online).
It is 4am. I like 4am. It is the hour of stealth. My best friend's breathing is unchanged as my weight shifts out of bed and Luna the young canine, doesn't flicker a muscle as I quietly ease past. I wander to my precious art room, and I curl up on the office chair to watch my overly painted and sketched Lone Peak wake up. Charlie, the cat-dog, also a master of stealth; slinks in and onto my lap to stretch out his long body for a cuddle, one white paw reaching out to rest on my hand.
I love the 'alone-ness' of this hour. I don't have to be anywhere, no one is looking for me, there is nothing that needs to be done. Off in the distance, even the interstate, which is a badly clogged artery from 6am to 3am, flows cleanly and quietly.
Char brings me back as he starts purring, and I remember my Sal. I remember Grandpa. I remember Dee. I don't believe in anything like heaven or hell. I believe in right now and the power and energy of the soul. And I believe that Energy cannot be extinguished, it can only be recycled.
I woke up from a dream. I can't quite remember it, I can just barely hold it in my hands, like a postcard with only a quick note but given the decorative picture, the return address; the non-descriptive greeting was loaded with the perfume of somewhere and something else.
Reader I have always needed to write to you. You were the journal, the napkin, the back of my hand, a wish on a star; a message on the beach written out in small smooth stones. I have been writing to you all my life.
I was looking for a sketch from a long time ago. I pulled out the journal I figured it would be in, the small black painted journal from the summer and fall of 2002. I read a few pages and laughed at the almost indecent bluntness of my entries.
I self edit now. I apply a filter and censor before I articulate my thoughts; and not just here, but everywhere. Is that an age thing? Do you also cut yourself off mid thought?
4am
When I was little,
I had all these words in my head,
too many questions needing to be said.
I would write them with symbols,
maybe sketched out in the sand,
or sometimes finger drawn into the muddy land.
Reading and writing,
well those skills came a bit late.
But not knowing didn't stop me from marking my slate.
Is this the definition of what we need?
We who are dreamers, the writers, artists and thinkers,
We who are all trying to be creators
We cast out our ghosts nets
as they burst with moonlight,
Once again breaking the string of the kite.
We must reach for the stars,
We must dream of the night,
So that every morning, we are again overwhelmed by sunlight.
Epic sentence isn't it? I am suspended in the mental picture conjured by that combination of words (online).
It is 4am. I like 4am. It is the hour of stealth. My best friend's breathing is unchanged as my weight shifts out of bed and Luna the young canine, doesn't flicker a muscle as I quietly ease past. I wander to my precious art room, and I curl up on the office chair to watch my overly painted and sketched Lone Peak wake up. Charlie, the cat-dog, also a master of stealth; slinks in and onto my lap to stretch out his long body for a cuddle, one white paw reaching out to rest on my hand.
I love the 'alone-ness' of this hour. I don't have to be anywhere, no one is looking for me, there is nothing that needs to be done. Off in the distance, even the interstate, which is a badly clogged artery from 6am to 3am, flows cleanly and quietly.
Char brings me back as he starts purring, and I remember my Sal. I remember Grandpa. I remember Dee. I don't believe in anything like heaven or hell. I believe in right now and the power and energy of the soul. And I believe that Energy cannot be extinguished, it can only be recycled.
I woke up from a dream. I can't quite remember it, I can just barely hold it in my hands, like a postcard with only a quick note but given the decorative picture, the return address; the non-descriptive greeting was loaded with the perfume of somewhere and something else.
Reader I have always needed to write to you. You were the journal, the napkin, the back of my hand, a wish on a star; a message on the beach written out in small smooth stones. I have been writing to you all my life.
I was looking for a sketch from a long time ago. I pulled out the journal I figured it would be in, the small black painted journal from the summer and fall of 2002. I read a few pages and laughed at the almost indecent bluntness of my entries.
I self edit now. I apply a filter and censor before I articulate my thoughts; and not just here, but everywhere. Is that an age thing? Do you also cut yourself off mid thought?
4am
When I was little,
I had all these words in my head,
too many questions needing to be said.
I would write them with symbols,
maybe sketched out in the sand,
or sometimes finger drawn into the muddy land.
Reading and writing,
well those skills came a bit late.
But not knowing didn't stop me from marking my slate.
Is this the definition of what we need?
We who are dreamers, the writers, artists and thinkers,
We who are all trying to be creators
We cast out our ghosts nets
as they burst with moonlight,
Once again breaking the string of the kite.
We must reach for the stars,
We must dream of the night,
So that every morning, we are again overwhelmed by sunlight.
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