Transitional Fossil

" The question isn't "who is going to let me"; it's "who is going to stop me".
Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Monday, March 17, 2008


Is it too much to wish for?? To be back in a darkened attic room laced with white christmas lights. I would not be so low, slipping and sipping with mellow, expectation-free tongue some beverage encouraging fairy flight.

Is it too much to ask for small smiles and laughter, whether gentle or rancorous being absorbed into the soft
wood walls. Echoes of voices lost in the beyond of the ceiling. Is it too much to wonder about touching the
moonlight lounging in the window, without lifting a whishper??

Is it too much to hope that lost friends, wander without reason into the room in search of smiles, warmth and hugs??
Final figments of conversation terminated years ago renew themselves as flowers do after the monsoon. Tales regale
the moments of our lives, sad and true. Fuck-ups who became stellar parents. Reaching those stars we were all told
about. Abortion and amputation, triumph and exploding joy. All squeezing from us tears ignoring the silent drummer boy taking cues from the ox and lamb.
There's not too much to ask, sipping coffee, looking out at the wall of white carrying weather. A warm breeze precursor parting the shroud of a day
trying to decide what's really important. The day finally making up its mind regardless of what others think and never in a hurry. Sipping on surgary syrup swirling tastebuds.

Closing my eyes I dream in the day of that place, of trust and safety, setting my worries on the backs of dragons, my doubts in bottles adrift,
my doubts in the clutches of griffin's claws. I draw a slow breath, though four are recommended.


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