I have a headache and I'm done.
I want to sleep for a week but only
because its 3 o'clock and I can't see the light at the end of a the tunnel, day, same thing if ya think about it.

I want a million dollars to have a million moments
to not think about money or not enough of it.
I want simplicity because simple means
that I didn't forget to read the instructions,

on the box of life...


Every day I wake and think that its
the right time for the wrong day to
go away and come again another day,
but it never listens anyway.

I'm old enough anyhow, or am I still
to young? There never seems to be
a right age only the one your in, but
then again we're all the right age at
the right time.

I have a headache and i'm done.
Where's the fun in that.

I'm asking for help people...That's the first step right?

I have no idea what to write, and yet, I feel compelled to write. The last few days have been a tornado of thoughts and stories, things I want to write, things I want to sound witty and elegant. Instead, I ignored that tornado and it has now made soup of my brain matter and I am left to function without logical thought or really, anything else for that matter. Not that this would come as a surprise.....

Nothing makes sense right now. I feel as though I am carrying weights with me where ever I go. I'm sluggish and moody and I feel like a brooding teenager who's angst warning is about to sound. I thought I was supposed to be done with this stage of life. This whiny, lets go to the cemetery and write poetry about how pointless life/work is, type thing is SO 2003-2005, and possibly portions of 2006-2008, and 2009 and March thru May of 2010. Ok, so obviously the stage is far from done, but if I could find a way to cope with it a little bit better that would be cool, so I'm taking suggestions, for the benefit of myself and others. But since I am currently sitting here emoting and typing to myself I have a, something, to pose to all of my loyal readers (Hi Mom!).

Have you ever been in a small, unfamiliar town that follows a freeway and you get off to get gas, or coffee, or another box of ding dongs, or whatever, and when you go to get back on you just can't seem to find your way? You can see the freeway, cars of many colors zooming by, and you keep turning down side street after side street only to see that gray concrete wall. You drive and you drive, no signs are in sight, and you just keep saying to yourself "Maybe it will be the next intersection." or "It's the next street.". With every turn you meet the same gray wall, taunting you. Eventually you'll stop and ask for directions, hoping the locals will know the easiest way, but inevitably they'll end up using strange landmarks like "old Aunt Betty's house with the white trim" or "that corner with the store" and getting you more turned around than you were before....

That gray wall haunts my life. Every time I feel like I've got things figured out, I turn, and there it is. Hard, foreboding, and completely immovable. My life is beginning to feel a little bit like Labyrinth, only without the creepy dwarfs or the be-mulleted David Bowie, although there is, arguably, a lot more singing.

David Bowie aside, I suppose my real question is how do I get back on the freeway? Or am I not supposed to get back on the freeway? Should I buy old Aunt Betty's house with the white trim and live in the small town of notknowingwhatyou'redoingwithyourlifesville and raise a small family of confusion babies. Or do I take the local scenic route?

Answers people. I need answers.

If I don't get answers I'm going to start taking myself hostage.

I may or may not know what that means, but either way you should be scared, or worried, or indifferent, or possibly tickled. It really depends.

This is all going downhill very fast. I should probably stop.

Ok I'm stopping.

Soon.

Ok now.

Now.

I promise.

Undeserving of a title, but too lazy to click all the buttons you have to click to publish a post without one.

I would like to caution those who are about to read on that this post will likely not have a cohesive theme, or a followable thought line, or make any sense what-so-ever.
Wait. That's not new.

Nevermind.

I am currently drinking chocolate raspberry flavored coffee. I thought it would be gross, but with a touch of cream and a packet of raw sugar its actually really decadent. I try not to buy coffee during the week (especially since coffee for me, non-fat latte with a touch of raw sugar, is usually not cheap) but I happened to scrounge some change from the couch this morning and grab a cup of Joe. I decided that I shouldn't be afraid of flavored coffee, lots of people like it, and maybe, since its cheaper it might be a good habit to start. At this point, I wouldn't make it a habit, but its a nice change from the usual.

It may be 9:00am but that doesn't mean I don't already want to be home snuggled next hubs, in my comfys, with a large glass of wine. In fact I would like to do this for a week straight. No, two weeks.

I've wanted to be a lot of things in my life. Florist, Pioneer woman, Broadway star, Violinist, Museum curator, Community Health educator, but the one true thing that I really wanted to be and still do to this day ,is a dancer. I would have loved to be a dancer. I actually love ballet, and dance recitals, and cheesy modern dance routines. When no one is around I pretend I am a dancer, and then I inevitably end up stubbing my toe on some inanimate object or pulling a muscle. Then I remember I'm not a dancer, I pout for about a minute, then I go back to my boring, non-dance filled life.

I think I could have been a really awesome teacher. If I had more patience.

I am deathly, horribly, paralyzingly afraid of snakes and snake like things (i.e. shoe laces on the road, large worms, eels, small worms, string, etc.)

I have a problem with food textures. I don't eat oranges or grapefruit because it makes me feel like I'm eating tiny little sacks of juice, and that's gross. I don't eat anything that bursts in my mouth like grapes, or tomatoes, or cherries. I also can't eat things that are weirdly chewy, like shellfish.

I have a new favorite color every month or so. Mostly its a shade of blue or green. Right now, its mustard yellow.

I sing. I love to sing. I'm actually pretty good at singing. I've sung to large audiences and not been nervous, but if it was just you and me, sitting in a room, I would be too nervous. 5,000 people would never make me nervous, but one will get me every time. Also, I don't take requests. If you know I sing, and most of you do, you can't tell me to "just sing something" or "sing that one song from that one show". It will make me not want to sing for you, like, um, ever. I'm a human, not a jute box, and please don't hand me quarters cause that doesn't make it better.

I am dyslexic. I can't spell because I invert letters in words, but its much worse with numbers. I would like to think this is a really good excuse for failing at math, but I know better.

I really like writing, and although sometimes its seems like I'm trying really hard to be witty, I'm not. I'm not saying this to point out that I am naturally witty, because I'm not, I am saying this because it happens by accident. This is stream of consciousness writing. What I write is that crap that just plays endlessly in my head all day. Isn't that scary?

 I would like to confirm now that this blog makes no sense, and I don't care. Yes I do.

No I don't.....




*shhhhh....Yes I do*

Fear and loathing in Portland, Oregon.

It seems lately that I am more conscious of this ever present sense of fear that hangs over my life. Now, I realize how heavy and foreboding that sounds but a healthy dose of fear is present in everything we do, or at least that is what I believe. Fear is a motivator, sometimes to make us do things, sometimes to keep us from doing things. So far, my actions seem to be focusing on the later of those two choices. I have a weakness for fear. Secretly, I think its an addiction. Being afraid keeps me safe, it keeps me from getting hurt, it keeps me in a comfortable sense of routine that won't change and won't be unexpected. As many of you know my life has been a whirlwind the last few years, and although I have crammed a healthy amount of change into this period of time, not a lot about myself has changed. Sure I got married, got a dog, changed jobs, became an auntie, moved in and out of apartments, and helped my husband through school, but what does that really mean?

It means I'm here. Looking down on a valley of uncertainty and I'm scared. Scared like I never have been in my life before because for once I have absolutely no control. If you know me, and most of you do, control is kind of my thing. You know, some people have tattoos, some people like horses or vacations, I like control. Type double, capital A organized, planned, out, listed and bullet pointed control. When I don't have that, or at least the illusion of that, I start to um, well, lose it a little (a LOT). So that's what I'm doing, being here, and not having control, and losing it at a rate of A LOT (not a little).

My fear is irrational. My need for control is irrational. Does knowing this make any of this easier? No. Not one little bit. In fact, knowing makes it all that much harder. There are a lot of days lately where all I want to do is pull the covers over my head and rock myself through the wave of tears that stings me, but doing that would mean losing control...which as I mentioned before, I do not like (with a capital N O T).

But I like the fear. I stand on the edge of this cliff and look into the aforementioned valley of uncertainty and I get a rush. Like rise in your stomach when you miss a step only it lasts for days, sometimes weeks. Even though this rush surges from fear and lack of control, I crave it, crave it like I crave chocolate or salt.

I have no idea what my/our future holds. There. I said it. I have no stinking idea. And I hate it. I want to know, like a child wants to know what they are getting for Christmas. I want to see it, touch it, be able to shout it to the world and take a large dump truck filled with life's most heavy fill dirt and fill in that deep valley of uncertainty and then plant beautiful flowers of knowing on top of it to pretend it never, ever, ever, ever existed. But no matter how many times I look on the job boards, or in the closet, or in my face as I stare at the mirror. I just don't and there is nothing, not one, single, little thing, not begging, not pleading, not screaming, not pulling the covers over my head and crying until the tears won't come, not smiling, not laughing, not paying fortune tellers or doing research. Nope. Not one thing I can do....

and I've just got to accept that.

then I have to own it.

then I have to give it a name and give it a bath and tuck it into bed every night.

whether I like it or not.

Does that make sense? No? Well I guess i'll just have to live with that too.

I really need a bigger apartment.

titles are not important

Aside from feeling amazingly weighed down the last few weeks, I feel good today. I am wearing a frilly pink shirt that makes me feel young and feminine, which are things that I don't often feel. I also NEVER wear pink, but with the amount of compliments that I have received I think that my $5.99 Ross Dress for Less purchase was a win. It also makes me feel like I should be wearing a pair of jelly sandals (a high five for anyone who knows what I am talking about).

I am aware that most of my posts lately haven't been really writing, and that I can't really explain. My flirtation with poetry has had a long and checkered past. I have notebooks filled with mediocre, whiny, high school drivel that should never, ever, ever, ever, ever....ever see the light of day again, much less be posted on the Internet (unless it was to give someone a really hearty laugh, because that would be the only thing they are good for). I also am aware that the poetry posted on this self-indulgent blog is also mediocre and whiny but I guess that's probably just as good as my poetry is ever going to get.

Anywho.

Today while walking back from the mail room I saw a sweet older women with her grown daughter sitting in our Audiology waiting room. They sat quietly next to each other. The daughter reading from a TIME magazine and her mother just sitting, staring. The mother broke her gaze and reached down and began to rummage in the bottom, she pulled out two pieces of cellophane wrapped candy. She held it out to her daughter and asked if she "would you like a sweet?". That? That right there sent tears to sting my eyes and smile to my face. This tiny moment, the aging mother who sits here, with the help of her daughter, still needing to mother after all these years. It made me want to collapse on the floor in fits of sobs for the sweetness of it, it made me want to call my mom and tell her much how I love her, it made me miss my now passed grandmother, and for just a moment I could that mother, years younger, sitting with her little girl in a similar waiting room, daughter kicking her legs and fidgeting in her chair and that same mother reaching down, finding her purse, and offering that little girl "a sweet" to occupy her mouth and mind in the those slow moments before the doctor comes.

This post makes no sense, but I don't care.

Haiku to you too.

OK. Um. These were all written in the span of about 10 minutes. On pink sticky notes none the less. I've never written Haiku's and I'm sure the structure isn't proper so bare (bear?) with me.

In the morning, now
my tea bag bleeds in my cup.
Murder of water.

Watch ticks by the time.
Stop it hand, stop it right now.
He never listens.

Music mumbles psst
to tell secrets to my heart.
I feel in the know.

Wink wink nudge nudge cough.
Are you listening to me?
Yeah that's what I thought.

Copy maintenance,
I call but they never come.
The black ink still smears.

I feel all grown up.
Then Disney makes me smile,
and I feel better.

Lemon Ginger tea
smells like Pinesol floor cleaner.
Ew, I just drank that.

My stapler sits.
I don't like the way she stares.
Stapler's a she...

Wedding rough drafts....

Love is.
Love is unoriginal.
Love is all around.
Love is flowers, and song, and birds.
Love is sunsets, and moutains, and canyons.
If you could speak or write or hear or see love. Its been done before.
Love is paitent, love is kind. Yes.
Love also doesn't wake up on time, and leaves the keys on the counter.
Love doesn't do the laundry or change the diapers when you ask.
Love is screaming, yelling, crying, and scowling.
Love makes faces at you behind your back and drinks to much wine while out to dinner with your parents.
Love doesn't like the way you make meatload or how you fold your socks.
Love hates the way you tap on the steering wheel when your bored and the way you laugh when you're trying to impress people.
Love just is.
But you are love.
Love is a word, a thing, and action, a noun, verb, adverb, whatever.
But you are your love.
Your love may not be as deep as the ocean, but it could be as wide as the sky.
Your love may not flow like a spring, but it may renew like the sand on the shore.
Your love may not be blind, but it may convinently hard of hearing.
If there is a word about love it's be said. If there is a story about love its been told. Every metaphor, simile, poetic phrase, anicdote, musing, tidbit, and ryhme. Done, done, and done.
But no one is you.
You with the kind eyes and the loud voice.
You with the shy smile and the boistrus laugh.
In a thousand years, a million poets, could have complied their works and not come up with this.
Because nothing. No story. No anicdone. No song. Could have made love like this.
Love so childish and innocent.
Love so unexpected and untamed.
Love so puzzling and perfect.
Love so reckless and adventuring.
Love on its own is unoriginal and tired.
People make love new. People like you.

Blame the rain that it makes no sense.

I stood, staring. Hair in yarns around my face,
heat, and steam, a smile firmly planted.
Couldn't tell you why I smiled, day hardly begun,
only a glimpse, winking from the hours to come,
stress and mess, hustle and bustle.
And yet a smile.

There are things that happen in the shower.
Good release, melting stress, the splish
and splash of feet as the soap drains down
and down and down. Bangs and thuds, falling bottles,
stubbed toes, knots that won't let go,
lack of time. water. energy.who knows.

Sometimes I think great thoughts.
Mostly, not.
Mostly I think, of things that happened,
events to come, words I should have spoken,
bits of prose I should have writ down.
Not really great, just, there.

Sometimes its just enough to stand.
To squeeze shut my eyes, bow my head,
and wish for the water to wash it away.
What? I do not know. Who? Who knows.
But smiling in the shower helps. Sometimes.
Never. Mostly. But it can't hurt right?

Yup. This is a post about bread. You got a problem with that?

As some of you know (or maybe none of you (as you can see I don't know who even reads this)), food/cooking/baking is and was a big part of my life. Like most little tots I started with the basics, Campbell's soup and mac and cheese (In fact there is a story floating somewhere around our family tree about a furious four year old me (or maybe it was my sister...) that called parental units on a babysitter because she was trying to convince either me (or my sister) that you didn't need to add water to Campbell's soup) and from there, inched my way slowly into the world or real food one parent supervised vegetable chopping, pot stirring, ingredient pouring session at a time. Eventually we came to a point where, and I believe it was around the sophomore year, I began to plan and cook many of the meals that graced our family table. Now mind you, this little diatribe isn't relevant to the topic, ok maybe the food part, but the rest of it is really just what I think is interesting background that really none of you (if YOU even exist) would ever want or care to know. Anywho, this little background story provides the beginnings of a very important conclusion that I came to yesterday.

While munching on a slice of french baguette left over from the staff luncheon I came to the beautiful, and somewhat obvious realization, that bread is possibly the most whole, beautiful, and completely satisfying food ever to grace the human palette. Now, I can hear some of you anti-carb, gluten-free, superhero diet, raw foodists gasp and splutter over the lack of nutritional value, stomach clogging, blah, blah, blah... *snore*...I don't care. If those of us really took time to think about the bread we have eaten, good, bad, sweet, sourdough, or wonder, and try and remember what it tasted like, how we felt when we ate it, and what it meant to us at the time I think we could remember how multifaceted and satisfying a piece of bread is.

I mean, just the components of bread itself are simply beautiful. The rich, soft flours, the fragrant yeast, and all the glorious and unending accouterments that can be added to it. Bread it of the earth, simple and delicious, and in many ways bread is like people. And no, I am not going all Soilent Green on you trying to say that bread is people, or made from people, because that is, well its just gross, and creepy, and lets face it Soilent Green is not longer very relevant in terms of it's social commentary.

Sorry.

Back on track...

Bread is inherently like people. Flour is our heart and body, yeast is our blood, etc, etc. My real point is that this bread is creative and unending in its differences and constant in its similarities, just like human kind. There are sweet breads, savory breads, plain breads, breads with seeds, breads with nuts, bread with berries and fruit, bread with vegetables, the list goes on and on. I believe that the infinite combinations of ingredients you could make a different type of bread to individually represent each single person that lives on this earth (you could probably throw some animals in there too, but we don't want to push it).

I don't know why it was important to me, or why this conclusion decided to remain with me through my commute home, making dinner, working-out, sleeping, waking up....Oh. What were we talking about?

Oh right.

Bread.

It's delicious, it's easy, it's filling, it's versatile, it's nutritious, and you can't really ever go wrong with bread. Bread is awesome.

I think we should all go by a baguette and stop fighting.

That is it. Bread is the key to happiness. Bread is the key to world peace. Bread is the key to ending hunger and poverty. Bread is life.

Bread is the answer to all life's problems.

I am a genius and I think I should call the bank about a possible small business loan.

Or maybe I could just shut up and have a slice of bread.

Next time you are having a bad day, or a mediocre day, or heck, even a good day. Have a slice of bread and just see how it makes you feel.

Awesome, right?

yeah....I knew it.

Zombies, Maltese dogs, and change.

Do you know what I wish?

I wish I was better. Not necessarily at something specific (although, that is kind of an automatic duh) I just wish I was better at being a human. Ok, maybe that came out wrong. No I am not an alien, or a cyborg, or a republican (I kid, kinda). I just kind of suck at being alive sometimes (kind of like zombies, but without all the brains).

I think we all have times when we just feel like we trudge from thing to thing, not really expecting, well, anything. I just wish I created a more vibrant tapestry for myself in life, or more change (hey, vibrant tapestry makes me sound fancier, and I need to use this college degree for something dammit). I mean, it's not like I want a snake to show up in my shower every 4th day or a gopher to bite my toes at the park when I take the dog out, because those thing would be, well, mostly horrifying and painful. I suppose my needs are based on the envy that I feel for others in my life. I know, I know, envy is a bad thing, we should be content with the happiness that we are given (blah, blah, bla....ZzZzZz. Oh, sorry I dozed off from all your judgemental, judginess). This may be true but, is it wrong to want a little of the spice back?

You know what would be a lot easier, if you could just by spice of life at the store, but not to one of those specialty stores that make you drive out in the the middle of nowhere strip mall land where you feel like you are suddenly going to be ambushed by a mess of dateline cameras accused of talking online with a 12 year old boy where the store employees give you weird looks because they just KNOW you're not from around here and its really hard to find what your looking for and your afraid to ask because of the suspicious employees and your a little creeped out by how sticky the floors are kind of places, because that would so NOT be worth it. You know what I'm saying though? Just walk into the grocery store and pick up a bottle of Spice of Life *Now made with 30% more sunshine and edible glitter!* with your necessary milk and apples or soy milk and frozen pizza or Rolaids and laxatives (You know, the usual).

So yeah. We should get on that. You know what? Since now all those wicked smart NASA people are going to all be out of jobs we should get them a grant to develop stuff like this. It is after all, science, right? Or maybe its voodoo or perhaps it would be the job of those America's Test Kitchen people. I'll do some research....


Anyway, I need some change, but like most Americans I fear change.

Oh wait. No I don't, well I do, but I don't mostly. But come on! Sometimes change is scary. Have you ever cut like 5 inches off your hair with a new stylist who half way through cutting your hair tells you that she just graduated from beauty school and you are her first customer. That, my friends, is pure fear. The fear that your need for a "new spring look" will wind up making you look like a half-rabid Maltese with a skin condition is enough to set you off of change for a good 5 years, along with giving you a startling fear or salon chairs and Maltese dogs.

What were we talking about?

I am so lost.

What to do when hate is no longer a four letter word but rather an endless string of crazy ramblings, run on sentences, commas, and other nonsense.

Today I'm a little hateful. I know that hate is a strong word, but, on my honor, I swear I'm not hating people, or even actions really, just situations and things (and stuff and junk). For instance, I hate that this grogginess will not leave my head, no matter how positive I am about a good day, no matter how much healthy tea I drink, no matter how much I wish (hope, pray, do a mythical rain dance for, etc.) I was back in bed sleeping peacefully with my dog and husband (oops, I think I'm supposed to put the one I love more before the other, or maybe that's what I did (*wink*), just kidding....kinda). I am hateful of the stack of dishes that seems to follow me from home to work (staring at me with it's googly plate/cup/bowl eyes) and the stack of laundry that isn't far behind. I am hateful of the insecurity that plagues my morning routine, of knowing the strength that insecurity will gain when I arrive at my office filled with marathon running, rock climbing, eating lentils and kale everyday (sweet, thoughtful, encouraging) co-workers. Most of all, I am hateful of all the little things that seem insignificant that I would love to obliterate from my list, my ever growing (festering seems like a better word) list of to-dos, will-dos, don't dos, don't want to dos. 8 million, no, 800 million little things to hate, to loathe, to detest, to scorn, to stomp on, scream at, sneer at, pout at, kick, punch, and karate chop all ninja style with the furry of a thousand blazing little hateful dagger filled suns while yelling indiscriminate things posing as witty repartee...at.

See? It's a problem right? Its not just in my head, oh wait, yes it is, and THAT is the problem right? Its all in my head, which, biologically speaking, is nothing more than slimy, pinkish/whitish tinged coils shoved into my skull sending tiny electrical signals and releasing chemicals and hormones and other sciencey, fancy doing stuff, stuff. BUT to me (cause that what you really want to know right? oh... you don't? well...to bad) it is like a constant elementary school game of red rover when your 1st grade class is playing against the far bigger, far stronger 5th graders and you just keep sending over kid after kid after kid and one by one BAM! each of those kids is close lined, knocked to the ground, birds and stars adorning their vision unable to regain their reasoning behind participating in this ludicrous game (seriously people there is a reason why schools won't allow it to be played anymore, its brutal, I believe in my day there were broken bones and concussions involved), and that ladies and gentlemen is what it feels like to be a thought in my head. It's a pretty picture huh?

So maybe I should see a therapist (*scoff*), or maybe an exorcist (*giggle*), or maybe, just maybe I should buy a million dollars worth of chocolate pudding and fill an Olympic sized pool with it an swim around all day, wait, that wasn't relevant (or was it...). I don't know, maybe its the pessimist in me that daily beats up the optimist nerd and takes his lunch money(I'm thinking about buying the optimist a gym membership, he really needs to bulk up) or maybe its just the fact that I take things way to seriously, or maybe I just need to shut up. What I do know is that being a little hateful can ruin your day, even when its only 10am, and that my friends is no fun, because this day barely had a chance, I mean it is Monday and we all know that this guarantees an automatic day fail, but the hatefulness, that just makes it worse and I've got to find a way to fix that, or channel it, or...something. I'm open to suggestions.

As long as they don't involve snakes. Or tomatoes.

You have to draw the line somewhere.

(You might not realize this but I am actually kind of normal. I swear.)

Happy Monday!

It wednesday and that, well, that's just sad.

If this blog is any indication ( I say indication you might say "red flag"), I obviously try much to hard at, well, pretty much everything. So I'm a bit dramatic and I probably think too much of myself (or maybe I think so little of myself that I have confidence in my lack of confidence)? Who says that's a crime? Ok, it might lead to crime considering they are traits in 2/3 of serial killers but hey, who doesn't like Dexter right? I love Dexter, and if you don't well then you probably just aren't as cool as me and therefore should be going about your business continuing to not read my patheic/manic ramblings about Dexter. Anyway the result of this um, epiphany, is that I am now going to try and not take myself so seriously (if I hear you laughing I might cry, and my tears are tiny ninjas so watch it). Here is a list of recent discoveries/events in my life;



*I really like laughing cow Swiss cheese wedges, even though I hate Swiss cheese (don't judge me, someday a tiny snake will pop out of one of the holes and bite your lip and then who will be judging who, huh? )

* Canada is a great country and they make the best hash browns ever. Ever.

* I ran a 5k, which was hard and it hurt, signed up for an 8k and didn't do it. Take that consistency and follow through!

* My husband started cooking dinner. This makes me happy, and sad because, well, I don't know it just makes me sad.

* I started watching Dexter ( are you bored by this list yet? Oh, you already stopped reading. Oh. Well. Um. Yeah.)

* I started reading a strange melange of blogs and as you can see I have also started using fancy french words that mean ordinary things. Pamplemousse!

* I really like coffee, and tea, but not together cause that would just be weird.



and then there are these,



And.....I'm done.

Hoping to be more clever tomorrow, or at least less, needy...


But don't hold out much hope.

Just working the cobwebs out.

The clouds a rumble, they seethe and storm, as through the mist they come in form. The horsemen, baring steely down their gazed affixed against my rooted ground. Pull up sharp; the pain in my chest beats wildly, madly, a beast to be let, a gaze is locked, an iced chill slides melting betwixt the fire in our eyes. I strain against the bonds held fast by the wishes and wants that have long since past and in that mirror reflected back a reel plays the highlight into the sputtering blackness of tears that bred the storming seas of wanton love and un-chased dreams, of boats that were built and never sailed, on friendships grown but left to stale. A catch in my throat, my sad scream dies, his hand reaches forth to grasp my prize. A battle rages, to fight or to lose, to relinquish the pain which deepens the bruise or to hold it fast to my heaving breast and endure the abuse and in that battle I'm transported again to the carefree memories of childhood games, a moment of light, a glint and flash, the coin of choice spins bright and fast loaded with promise and decision we stare, each silently hoping that triumph is theirs. And with a jolt my eyes fling wide, a gasp escapes as hope returns, the reel flickers black and the calm is churned. My head is lifted, the beast is at rest, as the horseman's hand retreats to his chest. A breath and a nod are all that's left as into the torrent they ride abreast, with a lightning streak and a thunder clap the four dark figures ride into the dwindling gap. A shudder is brought as the gray retreats as through the clouds the sun now peaks. Weakness overcomes as I fall to my knees my eyes are raised as with the sky I beg and please for the blessing and beauty of another day. To see through the darkness the light that shines beyond the scope of yours and mine, to find favor with the ones you love and beg forgiveness from the ultimate above. To see in ourselves not failure or pain but to abide in the innate goodness that exists once again.