Wanderlust

Pack your things, descend the mountain, fall back to earth. The hunt is over, the quest is finished, the adventure is done; it's time to go home. Wash your face, clean your clothes, mend your wounds. Back to the village, to familiar faces and worn footpaths, to routine and tradition. Return the hammer to the nail, the pen to the paper, the plow to the field. Family, friends, familiarity; sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset. Again and again. But it's not enough.

Boots to fresh earth, rains crashing against naked heads, burdens riding weary shoulders, winds through unkempt hair, suns against broad backs, strong and sure. The world ahead, nothing else matters.

Stress in the eyes, coffee in hand, cars, people, going, moving, clients, bosses, typing, working, slaving, surviving, dreaming--dreaming. Back to the woods, back to the mountains, to danger and uncertainty, unknown and impossible; back to legend and lore, myth and mystery. Anything can happen.

The window calls, the horizon beckons, the eagle screams overhead.

Be here.

The sun never stops, rising and falling like the tide.

Longing, yearning, wishing.
Dreaming.

But it's not enough.

headless

looking, admiring, searching. gliding over blossoms, almost touching, open and extended
colors and shapes, sprouting, standing, spinning in the breeze, delicate and fragile. scattered on the soil, hanging from leaves, shimmering in the sun, beauty for one, food for another
sealed shut, waiting for spring, thorns for distance, distaste for protection, only revealing within in anticipation of warmth. reaching, bending, waiting
headless, selected and chosen for radiance and beauty to sit behind glass, stand tall in ceramics, or fulfilling emotion and commitment with ink and paper. headless, decapitated, half buried, plucked on a whim, tossed and trampled

insignificant, isolated on the fringes, tempting weeds, separated and alone
Clarity.

pang of certainty
waves of doubt, winds blow, weeds grow, rain stops

hands to nourish, hearts to cherish, home to dwell

picked, not plucked, adopted, not abandoned, blooming, not headless

From Me to You

She begins slowly with a few soft lines sketched in the middle of empty space in a lifeless universe. Steady motion produces more lines, giving way to distinct shapes. Talent and effort becomes apparent as lines and shapes mature into images, characters living and breathing within a real space, within another life, another world. The hand moves as the mind sees, as she sees so the page reveals, transcoded from imagination to ink to the best of her ability. The final touches, an explosion of vibrant color completes the journey from mental image to physical snapshot.

He begins slowly as well, a few lines and strokes residing between lines on a page. He too aims to paint his imagination, he too looks to bring images to life and create anew within empty space. However, his approach is subtle and his method discreet. Many miss it upon first glance. The hand moves as the mind sees, as he sees so the page reveals, transcoded from imagination to ink to the best of his ability. But there are no images on his page, no pictures, no worlds, no life. Only words. Only words that spew color and imagination, only words that carry depth and meaning from his mind to any reader willing to see it and any reader willing to digest it. An explosion of vision and purpose, leaping off the page and coming to rest with anyone who is brave enough to light the fuse, one spark to another.

She draws. He writes. She sings, he paints, she dances, he plays, they live and we all create. From thought to expression, imagination to realization, artist to viewer, from me to you.

With Open Eyes

He sat on the bench as he did everyday, drinking in the sunrise, absorbing the warmth of the day, motionless as the movement of the day swirls around him. He rests on the bench but his soul is elsewhere, flying far above the ground, traveling to lands unseen and worlds unknown. His steps have been carefully planned and he rehearses his flight every day. He has seen many sun-risings and sun-fallings, many moons and countless years from his seat on the bench. His hair is gray now and his body grows old, but his spirit is still young and restless. His feet would never touch the ground that his soul so faithfully tread.

"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find that it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible." - T.E. Lawrence

Dear Diary..

Dear diary, what a day it's been
Dear diary, it's been just like a dream
Woke up too late, wasn't where I should've been
For goodness sake, what's happening to me?
Write lightly,
Yours truly..

Dear diary,
It's worse that I thought. The face in the mirror today, bloodshot, unshaven, unkempt. Alarm still ringing in my ears. The red numbers tell me it's too early to be awake. The sun is still asleep. Desk is a mess, books, papers, dinner from three nights ago, where did this come from? Mind is groggy and messy like my hair. Like my desk. Now the numbers tell me I should have started half an hour ago. This pile of papers will be the death of me.

Some days my desk is the chariot of freedom, the page my only escape. Not today. Today the lined paper is my cage, the chains that bind and restrain me. 

See that? Should've saved that one for the blog. I could be blogging right now. Ugh, don't remind me. Distracted. Coffee's probably cold by now. I really need to get to work instead of writing about how I need to get to work.

The fiery oranges and soft yellows creeping over the horizon makes me smile even from behind the locked and closed window. Even that was halfway artistic. The sky's a canvas right now, the grass shimmering in the sunlight, wet with the morning dew. A breath of rain still lingers in the fresh, crisp air. At least I think so. I can't tell from in here.

What if I went outside real quick? The silence in here is so loud right now, just the sounds of the morning might cure me of the stale life I'm living. What I wouldn't give to go outside. To be free for five minutes. To be me for five minutes. Anything is better than this. But I've already wasted enough time. I should've started an hour ago. But five more minutes never killed anybody. Only five minutes, I swea--

Tied to the Wrong Desk

I could write another cryptic post about how this blog has gone dark but I don't even have time for that right now. Things are a bit hectic with school and I haven't been able to let the dust the settle on my desk so I can write something. I haven't had time to think. That's my problem. Anyway, I'll try to get back to it as soon as I find a moment to catch my breath. 

Thanks for your support.