Fiction

The written word:  Just one shape touching another & spaces between for as long as you let me.

 

No matter what I do it’s not all here. I left some by my front door on bended knee searching for my keys, or at the foot of the bed as I raced to get to someone else’s door, or maybe on the chair in my living room, that looking place where I open myself to visions of the lives that came before me and will continue long after.

I can collect myself like any resourceful substance and have understood that in order to grow, I can only do so by digressing. I need me to gather more of me, but this collection isn’t perfect. It isn’t even clean. For all involved, we succeed by surrendering. As I enter I am penetrating, but then it is I who is stirred and swirling, like pigment imparted by tea leaves in water.

The ultimate experience is uniting with the source, finding an element, attracting, connecting and inevitably departing. I am hopeful that I can retrieve most of my goodness – tiny habits of happiness, what’s in view and beyond from my windowsill, all that I admire and appreciate as if it has been created for me.

– Check out my novel, “Something Mean.”

 

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