Shambling

It's been a month since I last put thought to pen and pen to paper and paper to post. It's been a long time. You see, I was away for a while, walking in Eden, but I'm back now. I'm sorry. We get carried away by butterflies sometimes, but their wings grow weary so here I am, with a thud. You can live years in seconds, you know? I just forgot that the ticking gets louder, that clocks have alarms...my negligence. They're ringing so loudly these days, the alarms I mean, and I'm fumbling for the switch. I know it's there. So anyway, that's why I'm back here. To fumble and switch.

There's a restlessness sitting in my throat. It's making my tongue turn to sandpaper.

I'm beginning to understand Jane and Elizabeth and Tess and the rest. I'm beginning to understand why we love Heathcliff and why doors don't close even when the temperature is frostbite and the feeling is fever and shake.

There's a layer of dust that settled on the children of 9/11, reminding them that 10 years means it's time to grow up. They lay wreathes of flowers by fallen pedestals and hope that makes things better.

And I wonder at flowers and chocolate and painkillers and smoke. And I'm grateful that there's hope of resurrection.

The song's been playing through my head - the one I wrote but didn't share with many. There's a line in particular.

"The little girl with glasses is learning how to dance. It's the only chance she has to make her mother smile. And she wears a wreathe of daffodils, paints angels on the windowsills, and wonders, in a decade, who'll walk her down the aisle".

Life's a series of unanswered questions and irreconcilable doubts.

I'll sit and google plane tickets and Tuscan sunsets and hope that, in the dreaming, reality fades.