the far aways are here to stay..

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There were days when laughter was abound ….they came like rain, wanton and loud. Mornings spent watching the patterns spread on the wall like jeweled ink blots and yearning clowns. Evenings on the rooftop watching the world tick away…sky a molten yellow and gray, speckled with paprika clouds. Nights on the balcony, listening to music, reading from books like far from the madding crowd.

Days that began with uncertain hellos and ended with unspoken goodbyes…

don’t turn your gypsy heart

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Does it ever happen to you …when your ‘life’ seems to acquire a ‘life’ of its own? When it recedes into it’s shell and watches the comings and goings with an avid sangfroid….waiting for something or nothing, not hurting but not forgetting either but always always wanting to hop into rain puddles, huddle around liberally sweetened hot tea, waving at sunflowers tall, straining to hear the temple bells ring at dawn, watching the passage of the waning moon and complaining to you about new red shoes and him not having called?

…the stories we tell

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….become real in more ways than I allow myself to imagine. Did he call me or was I conversing with him in chapter six of my book…and were I not to hear the phone ring am I hoping it does or does it lie mute against all my fervent prayers muttered in great angst to all my gods. Am I the vagabond living on skipped dreams or do I really show up from time to time in the rat race…do I often huddle down the rabbit hole in hopes of slinging sallies with the caterpillar or do I do that in every other piece of conversation…is Mckenzie my pup or am I just walking him for you… have we met here or then there on the white spaces of my notebook….will you be coming over for dinner or have I just set the table for one?

the best part of waking up..

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…is to watch the morning unfold, looking as inviting as buttered toast. The sun is out and someone in the apartment has decided to liven things up by playing the saxophone….it’s odd I always relate the sax to a moonless night. For a brief moment I think I hear the flutter of pigeons…getting breakfast I suppose? As for me I shall squander away the morning for its mine to give. Nothing beats the feeling of warm sun on your back and the spectacle called life.

where the echoes remain

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I collect memories like others do sea shells…and I house them in little jars of colored glass…and when the rain drops incessantly I sit and open my jars quite like I was looking for a cookie …what comes out are remnants of life pieced together in a manner that I like and believe..what is it they say about the whole being bigger than the sum of the parts? Sometimes just sometimes I wish the parts would take up a life of their own and create their very own story….like echoes in the dark.