Who can regret the chill of the wind and the smell of the air in the spring when the sun sets? I love it when the heavens bleeds crimson with splashes of leftover daylight prophesying hints of yellow like screaming oracles; burnt orange clouds cementing inside the belly of the sky. The way that birds defy the darkness to find refuge in the path of light, soaring on the backs of colors like they were some tangible thing and beige highlights swinging low like sweet chariots. Even the wind rejoices in the shadows of the rest of the sunlight bouncing off the concrete, hoping to capture as much of its essence as possible before it retires into its chamber. Whether you’re driving home from work or sitting on the front porch mesmerized by the cool wind, the silence of nightfall and the sky, it’s the little things that bring calm. Let it fill your empty. Turn your distress into dancing, solemn into singing. Good night.
The door to the patio is open, and the screen door shields me from the insects that I may enjoy the brisk caress of the wind on my skin. And as I inhale the fresh taste of the evening air, enjoying the end of a peaceful day, I think about the genuine that often come from writing. You’d have to excuse the poetic tone of this post. It’s my thinking voice I suppose. The one I use when I’m writing this down in my journal before typing it, twirling the pen between my fingers and tapping it against my lips while staring out in space. Anyway, back to something genuine. To think back on my own writing or to read someone else’s, I feel often that there’s a realness here. Somewhere between the heart and spilled ink is an authenticity not many are willing to express verbally. Something about speaking without moving our lips causes us to speak the truth of our hearts. Something about the movement of mental messaging turned words brings out the emotional intensity many will not express otherwise. I wonder if this is why writing is often associated with therapy. For what is not spoken is often written. This isn’t to say that everyone writes for such a purpose, but it is historical that writing is an exercise that has caused many to heal or to reveal or stumble upon truths otherwise unknown or not dealt with. It is an interesting thought I sought to share before the memory or moment escaped me. Speaking of escape, it’s time I publish this post and retire this laptop for the night. I’ve got laundry to finish and this breeze sure feels good.
Hi there :).
I actually don’t want anything. Just wanted to take this time to see how everyone’s doing. Oh me? How thoughtful of you to ask (lol). I’m well, busy, but well. In case you haven’t noticed already, there has been a slight change in my posting schedule. I now have more time in the evenings to post than the day time. (Though my post have always been kinda on the late side). Anywho, I’ll be squeezing out a few posts during the day when I can, otherwise it’s pretty much me and the night owls.
But enough about me….how yall be?