Image by The U.S. National Archives via Flickrcreated a conflagration inside of my skull. I took two, found a spot of sun on the couch, and cradled a Ray Bradbury book in my hands. The off-white pages acted as a reflector, angling the rays of sun that penetrated the wall of glass behind me, streaked over my shoulder, and bounced from the pages of the book into my eyes... deep into my soul.
There's more than one way to skin the dark cat--blind it with light.
(Revved up like a Deuce, another runner in the night)
The warmth of the light felt right. I skimmed the pages with my eyes and let my mind wander off to wonder about other things in my life. Because it wasn't forced to focus on these hurdles in the foreground, it was free to see them objectively, and in objectivity it always gains more perspective.
I love, love. I am always at its beckoned call. And, maybe that isn't the right place for me to be. If I walk away from the line between where you are and where I am, would you eventually cross the line to come looking for me where we're supposed to be?
I put my iPhone on my stomach. An intuition shouted that someone had something to say, though I knew not what it would be. When said, I wanted to be there to listen, not necessarily to respond. While my phone sat there on my stomach, the same sun's rays reflected from it onto the ceiling across the room; some symbol from a ancient language of love that stayed in constant motion, dancing on the white paint. I breathed and it moved back and forth with the rise and fall of my stomach. I held my breath, expecting it to be still with me, but it did not.
It pulsed, like the beat of a bass drum, a rhythm from none other than my heart. I am alive.
My intuition was right. The switchboard operators at The Network are doing their jobs well today. Now, if ony they could interpret the messages for me...
I guess that's my job as a writer, eh?