Don’t interrupt me.
The National, All Dolled Up in Straps
These moods, they come and go as will o’ the wisp, as fragments of glass left for one such as myself to pluck up and find jewels were only sharp lines exist; when the rubies and emeralds become bottle-green and blood only. In this state of mind, anything is possible, until undone by reality.
Whenever the worlds merge, I am full of an energy that is both exhilarating and frightening. It’s difficult to know where to put my feet, for the dance is feral indeed, and full of such meaning that a single misplaced step could spell Disaster.
It is precious to me.
Sometimes, I see only what I want to see – a tragic misstep, and so I must keep lifting my eyes to the sky, to know that others see the same stars, and find the same patterns, and wonder at them too.
The other night, the sky looked back.
I know what I saw; it is Everything.
The spring fever counts for much, and it’s in my blood again, with the freshening winds and the green-gold haze along the horizon. The opening buds and shattered dreams of Winter, who whines with a blue voice for his time on this earth, chasing the stark white sun across the sky. Such a shame that I cannot appreciate these colder months more, for they are so beautiful and pure in the lines of ice along the lakes – silver and black, light reflecting back to the trees, who hang their nails in that pewter sky full of low clouds, bringing them down to earth to feast on the hearts of swans and geese.
Purple and gold, today. It was magnificent. I stood on the shoreline and blinked out the rain, watching those Canada geese returning home in their domino-skeins, and their noise was such an applause across the water, I couldn’t help but grin and silently cheer them on. Such a miracle, each year, when they choose to return to our City of bones.
We are all of us standing on the fringes of time, waiting for the weave to unravel with a single pulled thread; and it is happening across the East, where the sun may yet drip blood, but for now –
We wait. We wait.
Air that crackles with tension. A leather binding that creaks with the bend and flex of history, its fingers on the book, which opens once more to a page of blurred ink – many thumbs having trailed over the words, seeking answers, and to bring them to light is to never forget, but to learn.
Still, the ink is blurred, all the same.