The flowers are a new masterpiece each day, changing the frameless scenery, gazing upward at the ever-present sky; they are the warmth of the land that give thanks to the warmth of the summer sun. They are the rainbow that arises from earth and water, yet can be nothing without those golden rays. Each day of these playful months will come in moments, the gift of the present, lived in barefoot dances, wind-tousled hair, laughter and song... the layers of winter left in some forgotten closet.
In those streets he was the only beating heart, the only being of warm blood and flesh. The walls around him were doubtless home to many in the fairly recent past, yet now it was an unfamiliar maze to all. The light fell on the words that spoke to nobody, unaware that their audience had vanished, or that the streets lay silent beneath no boots at all, save his. It was as if God had stopped time, removed all the distractions so he could see it for real, see how it really was, what it really was. And in that moment all he wished for was another beating heart in this deserted city, another being of warm blood and flesh, one more pair of boots to walk next to his.
She was five and having a collosal tantrum... but all behaviour is a form of communication and truer than any words. So I took that moment to see her soul, to see the pain that is behind such actions. I let the love I have for her well up inside of me and shine though my eyes and be there in the gentleness of my hugs. And as my thoughts became calm I saw the same happen with her. It was as if we linked up in that moment, I became her anchor in that personal storm she was suffering. Then there we were, as if everything had suddenly become calm inside of her and the start of a baby smile spread over her cheeks.
"The intention to be loving and kind is what makes things work, emotional indifference always leads to bad places. And the brain trauma caused by not feeling loved in childhood leads to those fragile egos that seek power instead of to nurture and be compassionate to others. That same damage leads people to racism/sexism/religious tension because they seek a position that entitles them to a better sense of self, to gain an unearned sense of pride to dull the pain of feeling unloved. And so the solution to that tight circle of harm is to love the mother who can then love the child, and always to support fathers too. That's the road to a peaceful world and one we all need to embrace."
After the blackness of night, Earth's star rises on the horizon, spreading her gold in every direction. She comes in the way that natural forces do, needing not invitation yet feeling her welcome. The light is her gift, bold and free, for anyone who cares to open their eyes in the dawn and watch the world awake. This is our sun, a fire ignited to bring warmth to creation and inspire us to seek our own beauty within.
The tree had the most beautiful skin, every brown from deep chestnut to rich mahogany. It changed too, as the day matured, as the sun came to strength, illuminating the details that made it such art. Some say they love nature, I guess they do, but I'm in love with nature and that's another thing all together.
When the pain comes my brain makes a million excused to cave in, and I only need one. My thoughts are as a brilliant rat in a very bad maze, for it's just too easy to solve. Then I'm there, at my addiction, awaiting a new fix, praying I can survive this "cure" for the never ending search for comfort.
The chair was about as soulful as a bank convention at the Hilton. The wood was cheap and the paint machine sprayed. The advertising had cost more than the annual budget of a developing nation but it would sell in its millions so no problems there. It was a pleasing enough design, scandinavian most likely. It would blend in almost anywhere and appeal to many tastes: straight enough for the minimalists with a cute cross over at the back for the "country at heart" crowd. Perfect. Banged out in a factory and shipped flat packed. Tina wanted to do something to make it at least a little bit personal, but Mom frowned every time she brought the stencils out.
A vast blanket of white hung heavy over the hills. It suffocated every building and every tree at their base, swallowing every distant object and vanishing around every corner. It crept round St. John's church, its silent footsteps tiptoeing around each gravestone in the churchyard, passing by Jane Thomson, Rupert Nicholson and many others, before finally coming to rest at the foot of a freshly covered grave. Scott stood in the still silence of the churchyard, his only comfort being that of the cold white blanket that hugged his shoulders and grabbed at his trouser legs.
As he took in the form of the beast emerging from the half-light of the encroaching night, his eyes widened and his voice was not able to articulate a single sound. His brain froze, offering no course of action for his now trembling limbs to take. He felt a warm stream of liquid course down his leg and into his running shoe.
There is the hug of gentle arms that still gives the space to breathe; then there is the hug of strong arms that tells everything that your are - body, brain and soul - that they are with you. I love both, the duvets and the human shields, each has their time.
All the reasons not to do this come flooding in, as if my body chemistry just sent them a blanket invitation. I feel the soft panic that can grow or fade depending on what I do next. It will fade if I back away, but then I have to do this all again another time. It will grow if I let these thoughts swirl into a vortex of stupidity, eating their own tail. Or I can breathe real slow, let the thoughts leak into the ether and be the real boss of me.