Brrrrr

There’s something beautiful about snow; the way it surrounds the face.
It fills the holes, eliminates the beauty of those you see every day.
It paints white with forgetfulness - erases the lines in the world; trees, homes, children, fears, cars, love, worries, sleep...

Erases it all until you see only white. 

The purity of the world at your fingertips. 

Is there anything more spectacular?

You can pick it up and crush it in your gloved hand. Better yet - you can taste the hope in your un-gloved hand: feel the cold wet slip down your fingers and into your throat.

Ah what a beautiful thing, snow.

Cardiac Arrest

What is a heart but

an organ of flesh?

Something small that

with life it gives:

So much can burst to death

by the sting of it.

Wet

Wet

(Sheep Falls on The Henry’s Fork)

Battered, bruised, broken;

I cannot move for pain.

Thousands undivided:

Pressing down on my skin

Their jaws devour my flesh,

Guiding bits on with their damp

Saliva and blood.

The torrential battle forever

Raging on: the pressure consumes me.

Those below scream for help,

For friendship.

Friends now enemies and enemies

Friends as each tattered break

Moves us closer toward eternity’s end.

Some call me endless –

A base, a foundation, a rock –

But here I am, wounded,

Water’s oppressed foe.

Droplets a battalion

Ending my everlasting soul.

Time and pressure plague all.

Isn't it just?

Time moves, time bends, time releases us from bondage. When we set out to change the course of our future, we are examining our lives through a different line - one that did not exist before.

Future is relative. Past is relative. Present is probably the most relative of all.

Isn't it time we got all those relatives together and celebrated life for what it really is? 

Not a time, not an event, not a circumstance:

Nothing more or less than a blessing.

Progress

Youthful minds turn

Round and round like a gymnast

On a rough day.

We collide with

Sweat and tears, hoping someone

Will say to us -

"Give up. Give up" -

But never quitting ourselves.

We look like fools

But still craving

The failed attempts and pain.

So we keep on

Turning and Turning and Turning.

Turning till blood

Flows from our veins - asking in

Wonder: "Is this 


my own?"

Is this my own...

Cease-fire

There are questions sleeping

In the universe: passing by

Their time of unemployment

In silence.

Insecure of their voice

The sounds go unanswered,

For no speech is made –

Only peace.

No one asks for no one

Knows if right is wrong

Or error truth in this world.

So sleep:

Sleep on queries and fill

The night with sounds

Of slumber and patience

And death.

scream

We whisper the dreams our hearts can’t tell, hoping the universe will catch them up and make them swell in the light of day; yet never do we shout to the mountains. Never do we grab hold of our souls and shake them in front of the blazing sun - shake them and say “Here I am world - show me your best!”

What courage is in the hearts of men who do not give their all in the face of living?

recycling

I ramble. That’s just what I do. My mind is like a disorganized library. Every now and then I’ll find a book lying open on the floor, so I’ll pick it up. I read a line or two, and I’m stuck. For hours I sit a live in another world, among the pirates and snakes and the fog, until I realized I’ve put off reality for far too long. So I’ll shut the book and walk toward the shelf…until I find another one lying on the floor...
That’s my mind: page after page, word after word…words that always lead me nowhere and everywhere - all the same.

My days are filled with these words, and these words are filled with my days. Different stories, different lessons, different worlds. And then I create from those worlds a new one of my own. The strange, mixed up world of Me.
Mine is a world of imagination; Strange yet more exciting than anything real or unreal.
That is when I begin to create - when I get lost in those words, and images begin to form in my head. I sit down and I write.

This blog is simply a place where all those thoughts can come together…it’s a small form of sanity in this mixed up brain of mine. Writing is where everything comes together, at least in some respects, and I suppose things are better when they're woken from your dreams and brought to life on a page.
I suppose that's my world.
I suppose a lot of things.
I suppose I should stop writing now and get to bed.

That's the best supposition I've had all day.