Tiny Bud in Full Bloom

Call me crazy, but I still stare at her photo, change the one on my screen saver, always say hello , ask her how she is. Gone for over a year but my heart feels it as if she left yesterday. Hearing her bark between sounds in the neighborhood, wondering if she's in the breeze that took her away from me. Gentle winds blowing back her fur from that pansy-eyed stare. Seeds floating from an unseen parallel universe, bringing comfort, woe, heart ache. She's still here. Hasn't made the trek to the other side. Did she love me that much that she can't let go, or is it me? I'd give my entire shoe collection to see her once more, pat her head, give her a treat, even let her chew on a favorite pair of heels. Perhaps she'd like to see how Lola is, bark from the invisible world just to drive poor Lola that much closer to delirium. And I know she feels her, too, as she sits in the doorway and stares out, searching for her friend to waddle back home. Longing to lick her face once more, risking injury, but it'd be worth it to her. Just one more time we could cuddle her, plant a thousand kissed to her forehead and bid her goodnight.

March to Nowhere

What saddens me today? The fact that I put my opinion out there regarding something that I am passionate about, yet my usual followers stay in their camps because mine perhaps makes too much sense. It's strange what type of relationships are forged by sharing exact ideals rather than recognizing the balance. Balance. Because my thoughts don't mirror yours, it's better to ignore. Truth too hard to handle, perhaps? Or maybe my words have a tendency to make you think about things in a different way. An uncomfortable way. But I deeply think about my passions. I worry about job loss in this country. Buy American! People chant that around the states, yet they don't blink when buying into a market that can possible erase a family's income. I think of those things when I state my viewpoints. I think of everyone concerned. But a part of me becomes nervous when the majority begins following the path of the lemmings. Critical thinking lost on the parade.

Chronic Happiness

What can one say about spending fifteen years with the same person, day in and day out? Never have I done anything for that amount of time continuously. Nothing. I'm a person who lives for change - hair, clothes, wall paint - it never stays the same. So how did this one person enter my life and stay in it for so many years? Matter of trust. My life in his hands, at the end of the day he's the solid one ready with open arms and kind words. Voice explosions? Occasionally. Rarely. He bites his tongue, perhaps. But in this life it's rare to find anyone who will be there throughout my serial mood changes. Take in my child as if he's the one who birthed her. Honesty. Integrity. Days filled with laughter. He's there to wipe away tears, hold my hand, offer the best advice. Level headed. The calm to my wild surf. How often does anyone see that in one lifetime? In the disposable tendency of the current generation, he is an oddity. The perfect fit for me. How many can boast that about anything in their lives? Yet, if I only have one life, when I leave it I'm assured that regrets don't exist.

Time Travel

I can sit in the big green chair and listen to your sounds. Leaves rustling with the wind. The click-click of Daisy's paws as she races across the kitchen floor. Breath in the memories, their strong scent lingering as if I never left you.

Why the spirits anchor me here is the chronic mystery. They act like an invisible shield, keeping away strangers. Ghosts of days filled with joy and scant trepidation. Where is the time machine when I need one? Just step in once - open-ended return date. Go back to the place where the couch is my morning perch, Daisy curled behind my head in a secure and restful place. Or maybe that's somewhere in the distant future, my bed the time machine, where I lay to rest one last time and awaken here. Trees rustling with the cool pre-autumn breeze, my husband in his cave, Daisy on his lap, Lola lingering by his side.

So WHAT?

Damn the spider solitaire game! It was meant as a time-passer, but now it has become my newest enemy, taking me from the real reason I sit at my computer. But am I ranting because I haven't had the stones to return to my manuscript since releasing a few pages to unknown eyes? Fear? Me? Better I were afraid of spiders - a regular arachnophobe. Eight legs creeping up the wall; eight decks staring me in the monitor...

I need some magic powder, a bit of pixie dust or whatever crap will make my muse get over it's fuckin' self and start back to writing. The way I used to long ago when I never cared if anyone saw my pages because I never intended for anyone to SEE my pages. And then it happened, I allowed others to glimpse, and that opened the flood gates of opinion. Did said flood realize my thin skin? One can see though it to the blue veins - almost see each fiber of nerve and lack thereof.

Oh for just one day of feeling the lust for my former writer self. If only I had courage in a bottle, I'd do shooters prior to the game of what words work best in this paragraph. Must one really think before acting with a pen? Does the pen have a mind of its own? Well, it should if it doesn't because if it relies on what's stored in my skull it's in for great disappointment.