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Saturday, July 13, 2002
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bridy thinks that I am doing well. hah. well, i'm not doing badly. truth be told though - i'm just not doing at all. I am the little black box that holds the burnt out remnants of my 'communion with the trees'. The bits that are left over when the smoke and fire and euphoria are gone. The thing that lingers when even ashes have been scattered by the wind. I am the recepticle for indolent remains. not moving or changing - just holding more and more each day - and in some small way, waiting for the dawn. some day I know that this waiting will be filled and I will be cast aside. From careless hands I will fall, hurtling into bonfire - die - and be remade again. Until then I wait, collecting peices and sensations ((bodies, light, moonbeams on the river bank, the thick rumble of a murmur at my ear)), like an author saving up memories to weave into the fabric of a new tale. I don't know what good they'll be - but I'm saving them nonetheless.
if i gather enough peices, maybe the puzzle will finally make sense.
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