In the pale crook of trees, swallows threading their song through the fluttering green of newly unfurled leaves makes my heart tremble.
Things are up in the air, and I’m holding my breath waiting for unrecognized brilliance. It’s like I’m occupying the thin space between air and water in a drinking glass, where the whole world is reflected in a line.
I spend whole days skimming, flitting, careening. In my journal I write, half finished sentences, copied quotes, words from lyrics or poetry, finger bones gripping in quiet concert, the lead becoming a rush of loopy js and ys, answering the same questions each morning: what do I feel? What do I want?
The thing about routine is that it tricks you into the slow, sedate delusion that you actually know what you are doing. For granted are two words that come into play here, with their accompanying ache and grayness, each syllable painted the color of the rain heavy sky.
And the thing is, for quite some time you can slip into a groove. Things set in and walls gets built around you like a Lego fortress, and you’re there inside it, contentedly going about the brightly colored bits of your day.
My dreams are surreal and technicolored and sensual. It’s a weird state to have suddenly slipped into. I sit and watch clouds get tangled at the horizon; or the light playing tricks on buildings and over water and the wind flirting with tiny sails on the sea. I have work to do and things to untangle in my mind and all I do is watch the clouds.
Even amidst the teeming life full of gratitude, I catch myself missing things that never happened; surging nostalgia for the could haves …
Copyright @ Nee