A suction of silence creates a whirlwind of sound as I unfold my napkin in my lap. My head aches from spindled thoughts of ingrown fantasies, and unfinished lullabies. The colors of plastered memories leap and bound in my mind simply from sheer knowledge of the reality it lacks, and all I can do is sing. The music is all I know. The simple melody of life is ironically congealed with the rhythmic panting of time; and both march on, leaving me and my thoughts on a plane of inspired logic and intrinsic empowerment.
As I sing, as I feel, I write the epitaph. OUR epitaph.
The strength of my time-weakened heart surprises me as it fights the forlorn nature of its previous existence. The cold shell dims as the night grows darker, and the truer warmth places itself in a deeper crevice, only to resurface in a moment of perfection.
Hidden in a crevice, my tiny, warmed heart couldn't feel the rain pelting my face as I scrawled in blue ink on that lined page, or as I twirled and turned in the storm-ridden streets from the momentum of it all. Bare-foot, the energy of the world sprung through my life-filled body, and constrained my worries with a pulsating gasp of clean air brought by the grey, softened clouds.
I was planted in a spot of ground, a seedling waiting for new life-- for new rain.
I'm growing, now.
Baptism, grandparents, and Marathon Kids
2 months ago