And so here it is a week into it and I can’t help but have the wonderment of a toddler for what the world has yet to offer during the next travel cycle in the eye of Sol. What treasures does it tease to treat – pleasures to satiate and what chaos and strife it has yet to unleash, ever chilling to the soul. The best of what can be and the damnation of what would be willingly discarded exist at the same depth and compete for the same height. What lasts in width has the same potential in length, each being blissfully short or ordinarily eternal. Are not dreams and nightmares built from the same elements, but organized just so?
Unknowingly, the mind made the choices the consciousness should have noted its mysterious clues all this long while, but for the human need at denial would be ever thick. So the whats are apparent and the hows have been walked. Yet to be discovered are the whys… shouldn’t there be something that explains why it does as it does? As the fingers remember at caress of all the things collected and the things yearning to be created and possessed and the tools and supplies that stand idly by ready to record and store and be molded into that which might be brought forth, one begins to understand the middle is in brief order, center stage and brings to the mind demise is even closer.
But there are so many pieces, fallen here and there and upon and under and to the side of… can there be hope of collecting them all? Hasn’t there got to be a vision to work toward to construct the puzzle? Some days it would feel as though a broken lot of pieces have been given and the instruction provided is only to make them all fit perfectly harmoniously and contiguously. Make no queries and have no expectations of what is being constructed and be you content with whatever the final vision may be. It is a gift that you be dared to look its equestrian chauffeur in the gaping darkness that brought it forth as not to be counted ungrateful as the fading night sky yielding to the rising sun’s grip at the breaking dawn.
Still waiting for that mid-air collision, standing on the tracks, daring whatever rises from the darkness, unseen to show its cloaked, hooded face waiting to meet the gaze of the hopelessly unbeatable opponent bent on your end at any cost. Some days, it might even be welcomed in motionless surrender if it would clear existence of the soiled dishes and half-eaten spoils granted in feigned ignorance and impending doom. Such a poisoned feast set in bright and inviting splendor, giving ever glittering fairness that it hides famine turning to dust all that is dear as fast as it can be raised to the ground beneath the gaze of those obtusely refusing its blatant but cautioning sight.
The rest of four by ten and eleven sets of seven stand blankly quiet, offering wager to what you do next… squander or make merriment? What will you leave pass and what will you pillage? What will be safe from the harm of your touch and what will find blessing at your notice and benevolence? The disaster or beauty of it, a moment in the mind’s eye – a daydream… a fleeting imagining that murders any hope and hushes the voice that might give it presence or effect explosive brilliance and delight in graceful stroke against a blank canvas yielding awesome magnificence.
