Behind Unopened Doors

No need to check the lunch box for the remnants of the crusted tuna fish sandwich or the couch cushions for the expired bag of M & M’s. Today’s a new day—full of possibilities. Maybe the mailman will come early or an old friend will stop by to reminisce about old times. Or just maybe you’ll stumble upon the future and discover why you’re here. Predestination is hard to appreciate.

The unfinished projects in the basement are a constant reminder of your incurable habit of procrastinating. If you complete them, then what is left to contemplate? If left to fend for themselves the possibility of another tomorrow opens.

Knock--or continue in the cystoids puddle of ponder.

In the Hazy Rain

The rain pours unceasingly as if it is trying to rid the earth of a bloody scene. The ground’s soil’s thirsty, open mouthed it welcomes the moisture like a suckling being nourished. The hazy streamline water is visible only when it makes connection with the skin, while puddles render hypnotizing melodies creating a foggy envelope and sealing you into another element and time.

The rain seductively chilling induces the spontaneous search for comfort. Comfort in the natural and proverbial spaces where Inanna style overtures won’t be rejected because all perspective suddenly is distorted. They are succumbed to, but later forgotten, as the hypnotic submissive potion wanes.

Fill the water pots and pour over the cracked places within--after the rain the fragrance comes--the odor of cleansing.

Passing Milieus

Passengers shuffling through the lines of the train terminal like people who saunter in and out of one another lives. Some we take time to meet and some we ignore as if they were invisible.

The expectation of the rides scenery flashing by—places appearing as if non-existent until our eyes view them. It is as though they were invented at that exact moment. The images leaving a relief pattern on the mind stored away only to be recalled when the memory begins to fail.

Who has seen these same milieus before?-- and undoubtedly they saw the pictorial differently. It’s hard to believe that these images stay untouched and intact after you’re gone.

Every once and awhile you must stop--unload and refresh. The people’s faces look like puzzles or walking episodes. Each person appointed to be in the same place at the same time.

Strangers until we collide together seemingly with no control of our own. It is when one tries to orchestrate these meetings that the design is ruined. We spend our adult lives under the assumption that we are living according to our own will. Oh, what fools we are.

Who has known the mind of God and who has been His council? He is the Designer (as one of my friends so eloquently wrote); our lives are His intricate design.

Somehow the fellow unknown passengers on the train have a part in the finished product. Unexplainable scenes from the past that won’t erase. Some so ugly you question the judgment of the Designer—what principles and elements are rendered.

If expunged will they still be true, yes, why, you ask; because they are etched into the landscape.

Bruised Wings

Discovering that the love that you have is no longer kind is a hurtful truth. Admittance is the door to a resolution. But who wants to admit that they are no longer loved and that they no longer are in love. That the existence of a union is merely habitual at best and worse (and more honestly) cowardly.

You shall know truth and truth shall make you free. Then what? Liberation??

Freedom must birth courage. Someone said it has teeth. Without courage to act upon what will set us free makes us like a trapped bird. Having wings but without the ability to fly we are left with just the unction to flap them and to hit them insanely on the invisible bars that imprison. And the dung that we leave behind on old newspaper that speaks of events in far away exotic places—like the Mediterranean perhaps, are all taking place while we dine insidiously on bird seed.