It's unusually Sunday-black, not -blue.
Thunder gargles faintly in the distance, almost too soft for me to believe it's real. But that's Mozambique's direction, so I know it is. The ferocious storms come from East. So does my Jerusalem light.
I'm questioning my choices, of these last three weeks.
Storm. Now I'm in the eye, but for the real time one; I'm watching two years of relationship photos on my mind's eye screen.
Rain patters on the roof, that's seen countless ructions. And survived.
When some/thing/one was so good that newbies pale into insignificance, why does it end.
Above the local grill I hold you up against the light and see the holes, but the journey is compelled. (You don't know that, I do. I swallow hard; from this cup must I drink?)
Change the subject.
Ok.
The overwhelming message for my writer this week has been to wake the f*ck up and smell the roses, it's time to be true to your voice; so says mr Bunting, the artist's way, dear Robin, and instinct's gut.
Authenticity.
I suppose authenticity had been my theme these 3 weeks. The courage to be who I am, no matter how much it stinks.
ying$yang
4 comments:
it seems a deep well you find yourself in at the moment my friend. sometimes being true to ourselves is the hardest, but best thing we can ever do....I hope you find your peace.
All beautifully written and powerful.
"The courage to be who I am, no matter how much it stinks." That might just be my new mantra.
And sometimes it doesn't stink.
David and Mitch peace is seeping back... thank fully.
Have a great evening, whenever it reaches you.
So glad peace is seeping back. I'm about to crawl into bed. "Evening" is long gone and tomorrow has just arrived.
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