flights of fancy, a song

That old favourite song. That I speak of here. Oh, far too often. It brings out of me the very worst bits. The bit that, furiously working, feels that I utterly understand women who walk away. Walk away and just don't even look back. For all that I might see, visible, would be my own fury, whipping up a dust storm. Right behind me.

I look outside now and see a half naked girl-child painting a box bright red. She dragged everything out she needed and then set to work, so industriously, so intently, so happily. So happily. It half kills me, with sorrow and delight. Where did my own intentions go? Where did my one mindedness and the joy in just being go to? I often get to summon it back, it's true, and then it becomes my way of being. Until it goes again. It's good, I agree that I get to experience that joy, intermittently, it's mostly enough. Can a person get a mid life crisis at 31?

A person can be like a bird, not knowing know they have wings, then upon discovery find they are too afraid to use them (what are these things, why do I need them? hopping about is actually fine), or maybe built up a little pretty cage, right up high, crowding in with a floral print, so nice to look at. Can't fly any place.

In my dreams I am myself. The me with no anchors or commitments. No worldly good pinning to earth. I fly and fly. I have always been someone who runs, leaps and then flies the earth when I sleep. I visit people. Catch up. Kiss, hug, look, look, look.... understand all language spoken, to me and not. There are some amazing places I have been to, fast asleep and wide awake. Times I have struggled against the waking, trying to get back under, to where nothing matters but the place you want to go to and the person you are happy being.

There's a drum beat and a song so sweet, it rises up and joins my bird wings as I fly. Mostly it's dark. It's not so much longing as a distant ache, a feeling of being off kilter.

Sometimes when driving, as a passenger I get so astonished. Amazed. There are so many people in the world. They are everywhere. Who are they? What are their stories? I'll never get to meet them. Sometimes I'd like to. It's the picking up of a dandelion puff, can you see how many tiny miraculous shreds of perfection attached by nothing at all, some sort of friction? It's so amazing, this perfect creation, what for? These millions of flower seed heads everywhere you look, they are nothing, they are everything.

I see this wonderment as a the best part of me. I haven't lost the wonder. It's a pure joy, it has nothing to do with me, it's beyond. I treasure every one of these tiny moments I get like that, I'd wrap them in silk and tuck them into the draws of memory, maybe to look at later, if not, no matter, they're there all the same.

Sometimes I sit and listen and the sounds there to be heard, it's so good! How come I don't use my ears more and shut the hell up?

When I lie, for the last time on an earthly bed, will I be glad of my life and how I lived it? I think any regret will be not the holding back I did but the wishing that I didn't, that I had loved more. Forgiven more easily, spoken words I keep to myself - things that might have made others happier. They might be the regrets.

I can't live my life as easily as I blow dandelion seed in to the light, watching those tiny umbrellas of life float off. Starting anew every part of themselves. Again and again. But I'd like to try.

If only having to do all of the house work didn't piss me off so much. So utterly and absolutely. (My song of woe). I might be half way to enlightenment :)