One Moment of Truth

The rain alights my face and I thirst for the God I raise my hands to that he would make a way for a life that is written in stars.

Still I wait for the bell to resound and my life of details to resume. My gut aches knowing that it surely will but I would rather reside in a hovel of something real than this fantasy of hope that promises a prosperous adoration but rather provides a hopeless illusion.

I wonder, will anyone ever know the beauty of what once was and if they do would they even understand it?

Count with me the times we laughed and joy filled us and then watch, watch with me as it is promptly carried down our chosen paths like the leaf drowning in the stream in the current storm.

Are we such cowards that we lie down and allow it washed away and mercilessly, tossed onto the rocks that lay in wait? The words that were never spoken are chiseled there, yet remain unearthed.

We relax back into our comforts and still there is none, only a void where once there was a fondness.

No, the sands of time are sinking and we shrink from troubles as we carry ourselves away from here; tripping upon the apparent lies we told ourselves. We digress for we were never worthy of such a love that we could not even muster the strength to fight for.

Once again I await; my one moment of truth.

My “Room”

Give me but a window seat with only the light of the day for inspiration or stars coupled with a sliver of the moon, a closet dimly lit to stare into the stupor of my mind and all of the characters who live within.

I suppose it is simply an unspoken “do not disturb” sort of respect I feel I deserve. However, we all know that as a mother and wife, even going to the restroom unaccompanied is a fantasy.

For those of us who write we want only for our passions to be seen worthy; for it to hold a certain validity and therefore, also stirring an understanding of the craft.

If you were to ask the design of my “writing room” I, for you, would paint the portrait of silence. A place where only the monotonous ticking second hand of the clock above my head sings a song of peace. The extricable section of my day, if it were, where I live a thousand lives in as many different forms of myself. I dance, I walk along rivers I have yet to see, save only in the many worlds of my mind.

It is of a certain obligation that each of us unlock the worlds and characters from their detention because you see, for those of us who compose into words the palaces and hovels we envision, the world within lives and breathes as surely as the composer.