The sun is long set and I can hear a downpour through my open window. I have experienced this night before, as have you… I’m sure. I have ink on my knuckles, blue smears and abysmal handwriting have become a bit of a calling card.
Nights like these make a person aware, do they not? I have never understood why the mind finds the roar of rain so provocative. They come with the territory, these blue-smeared knuckles. When characters bleed or shed tears, they stain our hands as we lay bare their hearts on thin sheets of paper.
How, I wonder, is it possible to capture their essence in such a vessel? Binding pages into a book, pouring our innermost joys and pains into the space between binders, is intimate work. No small wonder there is an element of woe… Tread softly indeed.
There is fear, and yet I wonder what meaning such words would have if they were never read. So we stain our hands as we bind a piece of ourselves with paper and ink, magic such as it is. In portraying others, we capture ourselves. Thus I lay myself bare, a fragment paper thin that whispers of my soul.
At times I forget the deep-rooted feeling that I am waiting for something. Every once in a while I catch myself needing to be reminded. When I was younger the feeling was a lot more intense, but at the time I was also feeling very lonely.
I used to think that it was love I was waiting for – and while it is true that I was waiting for love to find me, it was not the only thing I waited for. I am still waiting for that moment when an epiphany finally hits me. Perhaps it is the kind of thing we all wait for? The kind of thing we won’t know until it arrives?
I suppose asking for insight into how to force life to make sense is futile, no? Then again, of what use is sense to a mind that wants to break free of its confines?
Recently got my five years with WordPress notification and I find myself asking if it really has been that long. In my ears it sounds like more time than it feels. I am perhaps not the most consistent of bloggers when it comes down to it, but that has more to do with absentmindedness rather than inconsistent writing.
Five years, much is different while little has changed. I suspect that is how it goes for most of us. Old problems grow older as new ones are born, it’s almost comforting, haha! There is a lot of good too, so much of it in fact that I find myself writing less – well, a half-truth. I feel the itch to write becoming less potent. I have, however, convinced myself that the itch will return tenfold eventually.
I’d like to offer my humble and somewhat rambling appreciation to you, dear readers. I am glad to have you on for the ride.
Here’s to old habits, shared thoughts, and inconsistent blogging! Cheers!
Strange dreams have,
followed me of late.
Although, they are not,
My waking hours are,
Hectic, to say the least.
Herein lies the reason,
I have been shirking sleep.
Procrastinate, though I could,
Would only further exasperate ~
When sleep has lost its allure,
I will find my comfort,
In the company of dreams stranger still.
As I lie awake,
Listening in anticipation,
Of a coming thunderstorm,
That so far,
Has remained quiet ~
My thoughts wander.
To many things I am prone,
But they lack the severity,
Of this particular tendency.
Any moment now,
The rain, herald of storms,
A window is a meagre shield wall,
In the face of such archery,
But I will have to make do.
As I kill the switch,
And darkness falls,
upon this house bereft of electricity…
I can almost taste the static,
The charge building up in the air.
This, is what calls to me.
This primal roar.
This, is what taunts my desire.
I am prone,
By the majesty of the Thundergod’s ire.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged anticipation, insomnia, introspection, poem, poetry, rain, sleep, sleepless, storm, Thor, thunder, thundergod, thunderstorms, Tor
I am the chill in the air,
she told me.
The reassuring touch,
Like her sister,
And the other divines,
When she speaks I am compelled to listen.
I am not like my twin,
Daywind lacks my subtlety.
I am the breeze that stills,
Bringing peace of mind ~
sleep is my gift,
A blessing of a blissful kind.
I know what she wants,
It isn’t worship.
I know before she asks,
While sharing this bed of mine.
Warmth, and her blessing returned,
Posted in Poetry
Tagged compassion, love, night, pagan, poem, poetry, sleep, warm, Wind, worry, worship
It is out of your reach, if only by a fraction,
of course, you could get it yourself ~
I have tried to share what little I know,
a handful of words at most.
Alas, you live too fast.
Your heart thunders, and your feet follow suit.
Your mind is probably not far behind.
I asked you to stop,
to listen to the sound,
of roaring rain,
and of actual thunder ~
to hear the whispers of the wind,
to yield, and open your eyes to wonder.
But how could you possibly have heard?
When by your standards,
it takes me a century ~
To just breathe.