Every season has a such a way of affecting me, and like biting arrows, Winter's wind and her never subtle, poisonous reminder of timing will always penetrate my every layer. No winter has ever found itself the exception, even in a state of perpetual sunshine. I may ignore her for as long as I can, but I am no stranger to the stillness and the quiet nights of a time, where even the most formidable of beasts seek comfort.
It is a time for reflection and a time for sowing. Reminders of yesterday are coupled with reminders of tomorrow, and together, they impregnate today with promise and possibility. For Spring will come, Summer will follow and I will find my color with the maples and the poplars of Autumn.
I will be the scene that I've promised to make.
. . . . . . . . . . .
So very mad is the restless heart of a vagabond! Hidden behind a stoic facade and his wind battered face, there is a fervor that burns, burns, burns. It grows in intensity and in hope for tomorrow, for adventure and a story, making him "mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time..."
But, today? Today, he dreams and he writes. He writes his scene, finding purpose in the day, for it brings forth tomorrow. The seeds that he plants and the labor he bears; the cold, winter days that he endures in the process, they serve and remind him of the potential of an open road.
His feet itch, all too often. They are insufferable and he dreams unceasingly of letting go, having the current take him wherever it may; for yellow bricked roads and another blank page to govern.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Momentum is such a difficult thing to find in the cold, dark days of winter, but my journey is light. I carry nothing more than my pen and paper, maple seeds and soil, my dreams and routine. I want -- rather, I need -- to know and to be Love, to experience a life of change that can fill the many pages that I'll write.
Life and Death.
The New and the Old.
Ebbing seas of Pain, Joy, Bliss and Sorrow.
... all these things, I want pouring from my heart and dripping from my pen, as I write letters full of stories and send them to everyone.
I mean, there's just no room to hold onto anything else.