Tucked here in my chair of regret,
of hopes and aspirations.
I know what it’s like to hate yourself.
And to love yourself.
To be somewhere in the middle walking through a valley of crimson petals flushed with the blood of the past and the cuts you cannot heal.
We ride through the mountains as they grow tall and then flat – as if some giant knife slashed across the ridge in an act of fury or revenge. Red bleeds into gray and subsequently white against an azure back drop and from a distance the land looks like rivers flowing. I sit the horse for a moment, soaking in the shag and the slope of it all and then boot him forward again.
And somewhere along the way I creep out from the shadows,
crawl from the backseat,
untwist the arm pinned behind my back and breathe again.
How long can you stand in one place? Tensing and holding your breath?
I don’t know where to go next. But I am a hoarder of things yet to come and in my voice I hear the breaking of chains, rusted from years of neglect - and as with the tender cutting of a birthday cake nothing will ever be the same again.
I am just a little thing in this world, walking back and forth between today and tomorrow and I sit outside in the cold just to know I can.
But the desert is warm in December so I lean back, ankle crossed over one knee, hands clasped behind my head, and close my eyes. I open them to find the moon has risen – a single white feather against blue velvet.
What do you see when I write and who do you think I am?
A seeker of silence and places less known?
Sometimes even I don’t know.
I am wine in the winter and beer in the summer – and when it’s not quite either - well there simply more choices to be had.
But the mosquito must land before you can slap it. The horse must trot before you rein him in and the dog must bite before you tell him no. And the flower, the flower moves of her own accord as her dew falls like waves upon the earth. She opens when ready and no sooner.
There is only one I’m at home with and that is you.