la fille avec yeux de kaléidoscope

I am fighting writing so much. A thought struck me, a picture came with it, so I grabbed someone else’s words that ran with it and tossed them into the post below. It felt good, but as I sit thought after thought after thought races in, each with its own picture, each running somewhere in my head. I opened Word, wrote two lines, and bailed. Now I find myself with fingers to keyboard again.

The past 72 hours have been redefining in a very core way. I dislike such changes. I dislike passages. I dislike the lonely side of being alone. I dislike what it portends for the future.

The path I walk has narrowed. The forest is closer to my sides now, and that is unsettling. There’s always an issue within me of safety. I’m perfectly fine for long stretches, but then a moment arises and I need – need – reassurance. The path I walk now isn’t wide enough for anyone else.

What is interesting, purely from an observational sense, is the unknown length of the journey. Does the path end around the next bend? Is there a resting place? Did you ever get to a stage in your life where it really doesn’t matter? The commitment was made to walk, so I walk. What is there is there; my conjecture won’t change it.

LES AUTRES parce que vous n'avez pas gardé
Ce voeu profond-juré a été des amis du mien;
Pourtant toujours quand je regarde la mort dans la visage,
Quand je grimpe aux hauteurs de sommeil,
Ou quand je grandis excité avec le vin,
Soudain je rencontre votre visage.