after the storm, the world has been scrubbed clean.
the river banks are swollen with rain, the lakes coffee and cream, filled with silt lifted from the sandy bottom. the surface of the earth is reshaped again and again and the animals find new crevices and hollowed-out places in which to sleep. trees that were weak are felled, drowned and begin a slow journey back to the soil.
nature is cyclical. i am cyclical: every full moon (or thereabouts) i am reminded of who i am and where i came from, whether i like it or not. i remember that i am blood and tissue, bone and breath, but not only these things: i remember that one day, my soul will shed this body (which will begin a slow journey back to the soil) and return to fire, to the spark and the source from which it came.
my moods are cyclical, and i know why they name storms after women, why the sea is a feminine entity to those who travel through it. drugs can help keep me tempered, but i am FEELING, i am the pull of the moon on the water and stuff gets dredged up--ready or not, here it comes. whether that pull is joy or pain, it serves a purpose: it electrifies me and i remember that i'm here to do SOMETHING...
if only i had taken notes before my birth and left them somewhere secret, somewhere only i could find them.
but haven't i?
aren't those secrets written into the music that makes me shiver, inscribed in the eyes of the people i love? i know i've smelled them in the air before the rain falls and heard them in those few seconds between lightning and thunder. they're right there--maybe just out of reach--on late/early nights with too much wine and wet paintbrushes. sometimes i check under rocks and leaves...between cracks in the pavement where weeds push through...under my lover's chin. sometimes the answers come clear. but the other times--when they aren't--are enough to cause me to keep looking.
i'm a seeker...and because i'm not sure what it is i'm looking for, my search will never end.
the river banks are swollen with rain, the lakes coffee and cream, filled with silt lifted from the sandy bottom. the surface of the earth is reshaped again and again and the animals find new crevices and hollowed-out places in which to sleep. trees that were weak are felled, drowned and begin a slow journey back to the soil.
nature is cyclical. i am cyclical: every full moon (or thereabouts) i am reminded of who i am and where i came from, whether i like it or not. i remember that i am blood and tissue, bone and breath, but not only these things: i remember that one day, my soul will shed this body (which will begin a slow journey back to the soil) and return to fire, to the spark and the source from which it came.
my moods are cyclical, and i know why they name storms after women, why the sea is a feminine entity to those who travel through it. drugs can help keep me tempered, but i am FEELING, i am the pull of the moon on the water and stuff gets dredged up--ready or not, here it comes. whether that pull is joy or pain, it serves a purpose: it electrifies me and i remember that i'm here to do SOMETHING...
if only i had taken notes before my birth and left them somewhere secret, somewhere only i could find them.
but haven't i?
aren't those secrets written into the music that makes me shiver, inscribed in the eyes of the people i love? i know i've smelled them in the air before the rain falls and heard them in those few seconds between lightning and thunder. they're right there--maybe just out of reach--on late/early nights with too much wine and wet paintbrushes. sometimes i check under rocks and leaves...between cracks in the pavement where weeds push through...under my lover's chin. sometimes the answers come clear. but the other times--when they aren't--are enough to cause me to keep looking.
i'm a seeker...and because i'm not sure what it is i'm looking for, my search will never end.
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