If you could take the remaining half of what's left of me, and leave me there empty... Would I finally, somehow be complete?
It is rumored the Roman poet Catullus wrote over twelve thousand poems all devoted to one single woman. I think you've stolen twelve thousand thoughts. Twelve thousand hours. Twelve thousand regrets. Twelve thousand grams.
Regrets that finally fade away like invisible ink.
Thoughts. Come and go through a revolving door at a cruising altitude of 32,000 feet. Flying at night. What did you describe it as, with that sly half-smile? "Spurts of civilization?" I gaze out the porticullis searching down down and then up. Searching for stars. .. a star... a single one. One free wish and yet I see none. And what of heaven? I feel close but never close enough but never closer than I do now.
Spurts of civilization. Clusters of twinkling lights spread out among the rocky wilderness. Settlements. Small town Americana. And there's always one flashing light. Could this be a starry-eyed child? My son or maybe me... once upon a time... Beaming a flashlight toward heaven. Toward me.
Toward God.
Sending out an S.O.S
Is emptiness better than fullness? It's symptomatic of loss, yes that's true, but it can also signify hope. An empty vessel, patiently waiting to be filled again. The simple beginning of a marvelous journey... as I gaze toward heaven, or a lack thereof, at 32,000 feet shrink-wrapped in an ice-cold steel chrysalis. And the homefires burn. And a new life begins anew. Wow, what a trip it's been.
4 comments:
with the spring of sunshine beaming through an early morning window, this post had a proust madeleine effect on me, taking me back a year ago, same morning sun, not same computer room but same soothing writing. glad you made it through( another year)(I know this is a belated birthda)(and blogs are not living creatures).
an empty canvas is the purest portrait an artist can create. needless to say, no artist can resist defiling it.
welcome back to nothing
you give it air
and spurts of light
how much can you write about someone to no one?
volumes [i suspect].
Empty and full. You can't know one without the other and two much of either is usually bad.
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