(Transcribed from pen and paper - to write in cursive has it's own unique melody)
~~~
I have lit six tea candles. Writing at night requires some light to follow the movement of the pen on the page. A candle's flame is like a friend in the room who shares in the creation. Who holds the light while peering down at the words to catch a glimpse of the message. Such a benevolent friend that offers everything in the moment and takes nothing. The rhythm to a song or the nest for the birds. The darkness plays it's part. The friend that sets the mood. The backdrop to the painting that draws the eye to unclothe the essence.
These friends of mine are Truly precious.
There is inspiration in the air. It leaves me with a sort of dreaminess or some curious lightness to know that this is no special event, or hallowed hall, no extraordinary candles (though one has a scent of a "Fraser Fir") and no extraordinary writing as there is no extraordinary writer. And yet... I feel Free. This "dissertation" came in a brief thought as I washed my hands and I sat - unquestioning to let my hands design this message. For peer-review - my peers being the aforementioned candle flame, darkness and of course my "self".
Pausing Only to drink some tea. The mistiness(mistress) that billows from my cup - yielding a scent of Septembers dried mint is cause for story unto it(her)self - the dance of heat into the cold room taking no notion that it(she) should be otherwise. The dancer is not alone for the sharp northern air knows this warm water vapor all too well, as it happens on this occasion there is an audience and one, in particular, who desires's that this otherworldly moment to be in Sunday Morning News. By then though the magic will only be whispered for the few who know that it has not been for wont only here, only there and only now.
~~~
Decorate the table and chair if you paint such a scene for it is only a dance where the dance floor is set.
You see it is messy, tattered and old but the dance floor is present wherever the eye can connect.
~~~
So now there's a scene - with lighting and mood,
A beverage to sip, an elixir, serene.
Wouldn't you know that right there centre stage
Is the one who is reading and is writing this play.
It's you dearest reader, your miraculous mind
Has now painted a picture in the blink of an eye.
Whose eye was it that blinked - I couldn't be sure
Let the magic continue - let the pleasure be pure.
There is but one way to see, that's no platitude I promise
Yet I know all too well the blindness of solace.
I much prefer Truth - I know deep in my bones
The deepest it goes, through even marrow,
Where coldness or heat or impact on "me"
Can never disturb this feeling of FREE.
I digress on the matter yet to me it's no digression
But to stay with the scene - let's return to progression.
The writer who sits has been waiting for now
and the waiting's a game he keeps losing somehow.
Yet tonight feels quite different - perhaps drastically so,
for the writer began writing - verses in prose.
Hesitant & wary now Where is he going?
Released from the worry to understanding and knowing.
The notebook is out, the pages lay waiting
they play the same game with their role in creating.
The heat has been building though this Hamlet is cold,
there comes a brief moment and the tale must get told.
~~~
It depends on the fierceness - a fiery desire to sit quite contented and explore Life on the page. So here IT is. Rather sweet yet bitter, smooth but quite sharp, twisted and straight and it's Truly AWE-ful.
Look, Listen, Understand.
The writer is you.
