Like a flower she grows towards the light, without thinking or examining the process which moves her to do so. I wish I could do the same.
Knowledge is currency here...
Even the damned can dream – infact, it’s part of their torment. To escape, even for a second or two, to forget reality and drift, only to be yanked back into the waking world like a fish caught on a line... Yes. In some ways that’s even worse than to have no relief at all. That second of two, on awakening, when anything still seems possible.
You see, I do believe in miracles. I, who have passed through fire. I do believe.
I don’t believe God really cares what you eat, or what you wear, or whom you love. I think that if God made the stars, He must have a greater perspective.
Old habits never die. And when you’ve once been in the business of granting wishes, the impulse never quite leaves you.
No one looks at us. We might as well be invisible; or clothing marks us as strangers, transients. They are polite, so polite; no one stares at us.
At such times I feel I could die for love of her, my little stranger, my heart swelling dangerously so that the only release is to run too, my red coat flapping around my shoulders like wings, my hair a comet’s tail in the patchy blue sky.
Call me cynical if you like. But it all sounds a bit too convenient. The Authorized Version of events leaves out a number of details, which Creationists seem content to ignore. I personally have my doubts – not least about the giant cow – although even now you have to beware of how you express these sentiments.
We leave no trace as we pass on. Ghostlike, we cast no shadow.
Weeds and wheat cannot grow peacefully together. Any gardener could tell you the same thing.
The advantage of travel is that after a while you begin to realize that wherever you go, most people aren’t really all that much different.
Rock salt and bread by the doorstep to placate any resident gods. Sandalwood on our pillow, to sweeten our dreams.
The serpent eating itself, tail-first. We live to repeat the same mistakes, to push away the ones we love, to move on when we want to stay, to wait in silence when we should speak. In the life we have chosen to lead, loss is the only constant. Loss, that eats up everything – like the snake, even itself.
I can smell her perfume, something flowery, too strong in this enclosed darkness. I wonder if this is temptation. If so, I am stone.
But stories are worlds. New worlds for us to visit. In stories, we live forever.
Your wolf is eating that man. I thought you should know.
I happen to know that history is nothing but a spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.
A problem shared is a problem solved.
I have never belonged to a tribe. It gives me a different perspective. Perhaps if I did, I too would feel ill at ease in Les Marauds. But I have always been different. Perhaps that’s why I find it easier to cross the narrow boundaries between one tribe and the next. To belong so often means to exclude; to think in terms of us and them – to little words that, juxtaposed, so often lead to conflict.