I am writing letters for the future, welcoming the day when lovers will carry the world in their own enchanted loving arms with an appreciation of what is and what is inspired to be.
Can you hear me?
♥ The words of a poet can come as slowly as the inspiration of an evening dwindling itself into drowsy doodles. I hate that when that happens. I want to be of keen mind prolific, enlightening rather than a soppy mush of melancholic metaphors that are totally indigestible. This is because sleep overcomes the muse and daylight comes too soon and because the morning is a haunting reminder of another day to find the words that will hold the poet in place. A place that is filtered from the mundane and the routine, unlike a good pot of coffee, richly ground and slowly filtered. It is not the cheap kind either, but a blend I make out of three beans; French roast, Colombian and Pikes Place. I have no use for breakfast as I run to the writing desk, hopeful that something reasonably interesting will resonate and pour out of my soul, through my heart, and out from my fingertips into scripted wonder words that surprise me.
It is a distraction to have to answer phones, write about things I don’t care about; and practical housework is a necessity all to neglected. And the mail! I am sick of mail, tired of looking at bills I can’t pay and offers for things I will never want. It is useless information, I can’t get no satisfaction.
I use to love to walk in the night when I was young. I walked in the power of youth, the promise of all good things dreamt of becoming manifested in what I was certain would be the best lifetime ever; so far so good. But there are a few things that I might have been too ambitious in my considering.
Maybe it’s because I always felt too much, understood that no matter how hard one tries to fit into someone’s shoes; it’s still your own toes that can only reach so far into a satin slipper made for a princess that couldn’t possibly live in the real world. I can hope, I try to meditate and eat only fruit, spend hours doodling until the circles and spirals of random love lines paint my chakras. I wish that all of these disconnected words and unfinished prose would meld into something cohesive.
The last bit of sun streams out into melting darkness and the crescent moon is newly born in an azure sunset silhouetted in the halo of constellations. In as much as the silent night prevails in old ages, long forgotten and remembered only by an air of familiarity.
I step into a face that somehow continues to seek me, despite my naivety and ignorance of such an unexpected guardianship that will appear and bless my life. Is it that we are what we are or because we choose to be or is it because we can’t help falling into our own definitions? I am not without self-effacement, in truth; I live in self-doubt all the time and that’s a convoluted experience of another color.
I am where others leave my conversation with myself circling in an orbit of cycles that are typical of the loneliest kind. The hopeless traveler seeking that endlessly spoken promise of a golden path. I can’t tell you how many times I have lost my way simply because I have forgotten to step to the right, and found myself in forbidden shadowy forests.
I tire of the time warp and I slipstream into places angels would never dream of going because they are smart enough to know that they don’t have to, but they follow because that’s what angels do. You see what I mean about definitions? These are the shadows we make for ourselves. These are the realities we have clung to because we either didn’t know any better or didn’t want to understand that we had the power all along. I like the message in the Moody Blues song, The Question, “Why don’t we ever get an answer when we are knocking at the door?” Maybe we knock to loudly and can’t hear that someone saying, Come in is really ourselves and each other.
The Invitation by Laura Botsford
“It’s all a party in robin’s egg blue,” he tells me.
“Where’s my invitation?” I replied.
“Sometimes the mail runs slow, but I think if you check your Vera Bradley bag there, it has magically appeared.”
“Well how about that,” I remark, not at all sure that there hasn’t been some kind of switcheroo going on all along.
“Yes, just so you know, that the rest of those papers piled up on your desk can wait too. It’s time for the pen to flow in cheery swirls that long-abandoned time scripts seek a bolder dash. I take it that you are ready? I can go with you and probably take you out of the country, contrary to some people’s beliefs. Would you like to go, can you see that the very story you seek, is already here?” He was almost certain as he conveyed what he saw as obvious, and clearly, I couldn’t see.
I told him what I wanted. “I like to be read to. I like to have good coffee every morning and walk around at twilight admiring the silhouettes of trees as they starkly stand in black against the rose and indigo of a fading day. I enjoy Samba music and Astrid Deva voices that lull me gently into peace. I like being sung to and cooking food together and most of all sharing a place that only two on the same page know where that is. I can go, but can you really, or am I saddled with the melodrama of the long and suffered touches of sarcasm of many, disguised as wit?” yes, that is what I told him. He had a rebuttal.
“That is what you think? That we are just wheeling around a great sun only to be disillusioned. Maybe it’s because of that, nothing has changed,” he said with little regard to my obvious inability to do nothing more than endure the bitterness and disappointing heartaches of the world. “I’m looking for understanding,”
He went on to say etching out a bird on a napkin. “I think that you feel sorry for yourself. I think that you forget about the golden keys because you give them away to people who still yet can’t find their own door. Keep them,” he said with a truly frank and earnest smile. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
“I don’t know why I worry so much about others not having what they need. Or maybe because they won’t receive what I hope will help them, or worse they don’t care to and it makes me so damn mad that they don’t want to. Maybe I predispose that they have already understood but haven’t, and that makes me sad; so sad that I don’t even want to try. I don’t know, maybe because this challenge is more trouble than it is worth and I have found it tiresome,” I was pretty sure about this. I sleep a lot because it’s depressing to get someone to care when they won’t. It’s a waste of time, and I would rather just escape, fly away on a good song for an hour and hope that my dream walks will gather me up in a fresh bouquet of friendly daises again. He poured me a cup of coffee, opened up the curtains where twilight was just beginning to darken the trees and sang to me.
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