freenthec

Lips parted ready to speak wait no sound held back by fear breath caught, the throat won’t allow air to push through and give your words a chance to pass accross your parted lips

Something There is something in the hum of a house that makes it a home. Something in the high pitched voices of young children and the chatter and laughter of play. The swish of running water, the clink of dishes coming clean, and baths being drawn. Something, in the click click click of the dog crossing the kitchen to lie on the cool floor. And there is something in the arguments about folded socks and lost shoes and too little time. Something in the quickness in which we dismiss each other and our selves. There is something in the silence too, the exchanged looks of love and anger the embraces, a kiss, and yet even in this quiet, there is a constant buzz like a hive of bees constructing, forming, creating, something beautiful like a honeycomb in your heart.

I get lost in music. I get caught up in the anticipation of the next notes and where they will pull me. Through what memory they will dredge me. The notes bounce around in my head and make a winding path outwards and upwards and sideways and post-ways I climb up the arpeggios and slide down. I get twisted in the rhythm and the time and drawn in by the key and tugged and pulled by the progression. And then I find myself lost in the music.

Not cheesy at all. After all, isn't this what we all want....connection? I really like it.

I feel like I need a wise man to tell me what to do. Or a shaman to guide me on this twisted road and jagged path. Maybe a sherpa could push me up this mountain. Or a nomad could guide me through this barren desert. I feel like I need a compass to point me in the right direction. Or an atlas to show me the way through this rocky crag in my soul.

Thoughts flood my mind the levee is close to breaking. There is only so much one river can take. All the trees will be cleared and uprooted by the force. The homes in its path will be destroyed. Everything inside will be ruined. The old photos will become yellowed and faded. The pages of the story of our life will be foxed and molded. Only a trace of the memories will remain. And there is no pump or fan or strong wind of change or act of God that can undo this. This flood.