i thought it was time to share some of my 'other' kind of writing..that sometimes tries to record how my thoughts flow sometimes at night.
I can make some people laugh or scowl. The rest just stare. Whatever. If that’s okay with you, come on in. Leave your shoes at the door and open the windows. Walk barefoot, there’s dew on the grass that grows inside here. I need fresh air, even if its winter. I can tell whether a room is a prison or a porch just by feeling it when I enter.
Oh, and that scent is real. I don’t like synthetic experiences. I really don’t.
I took the time to bake that pie just so we could smell apples and sugar caramelizing together with lemon juice. I won't skip the cream.Tart and sweet is my favorite combination of flavor always. It is also the most restrictive. My throat, I don’t know why, it’s always sore. Something about the voice cords. Controversial voice cords, faultless for the words they deliver.
Well, Vocal cords if I must be correct. I’m done using correct English. There’s a language out there that we speak in our dreams and it was created so that those who never learned can understand, and even those whose tongues are destined to be rigid and faultless can utter. Every being in the Universe speaks this language in our dreams. Birds, walls, people, and more. It is heard by every human whatever their state of hearing, for the only soft and exciting place for our words to land is in the hearts and minds of another.
Too often have I flown through the proverbial ear canal route. Screamed through glass doors inside people harder and colder than rocks and steel.
I don’t know how I speak it, it’s gone when I wake up, but somehow it’s there in our dreams and it moves our hearts, travels across welcoming distances sometimes and comes up against a human wall others so that I am a ghost tugging at you.
It uproots it and throws it reeling into a empty space full of possibility, with space and riches enough for every human being there is, and returning to me like a boomerang, sliced by the emptiness it found there and the things it saw and felt far away. Such is the perceived poverty of the heart.
Such is the power of our 7th sense, this kind of communication that makes us fly in and out of our selves and time. That bridges humans with something other than just need and makes both togetherness and solitude an experience. Distance is never a matter, the heavens, the grave, the earth; all merge into one plane and eternity.
Do you hear me now? Do you see me as I speak? I have turned into a shimmering, moving plight that seeks a soft place to land, only to rest before I fly onwards again. To your destination. And mine.
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