Who are you?

Who are you that takes me off course? To cause wonder, now? Images beneath old shadows, unseen. In this canvas, hear. I am other than form and memories. What is there of me? From time, I take longing and find waiting for want.

Who are you that lasts from the past?

Remember me as I have forgotten you.

I have prepared.

Make those stupid little pills do what the doctor said it would do.

I am sorely missing in great tides all of my yesterdays, and in too many ways, that pause only harms what is left - nor will it ever be within again. Ever! I only need to smell the triggers, feel the triggers or see what was, and with a heavy sigh and a small thought, give in. I want with such unsteady, greedy hunger, all I have lost, but such heartache is replaced with heartache. It is not a "midlife crisis" or the "longing for youth", but is the unattainable spirit from what is locked in the past. I have spent too many years looking out too many windows, searching for too many new colors, only to find all the a fading, unfamiliar distances vanish. I feel fragile, brittle, and alone, (being a broken, single father). I know for him - I am severely disabled, unable to set a mouthful of stupid little pills to do what the doctor said it would do. I bite them, smash and scrape them, grind a thrush of grit flushed spit of common swallows, willingly eat of this morphine-insanity plea. I stand before and dragon's fog and been taken from me a place where without is worse, and the slide, is the dragon's will bringing you home. I am tired, I am safe and giving-in, without ever pushing away, reached it alone.

I do like storms.

Felt the rain, sand and dust today which had cursed its way across our path, hitting us hard as we ran headlong into it. I was enjoying our longer than usual walk, and because of the wind, which, thankfully, served up that "rains near us smell" the good cold smell. We found ourselves hiding under a patio roof, so as to just to be in a different way from the rest of our boring day and we knew the evening forcast was of wind, rain and thunder. Yes, like many do, I like "storms" the storms of every season, but you have to admit the summer's thunder and lightning almost makes those in pain happy enough to argue with it. I mean, I can remember one very early spring morning with the sun just about to lose itself above the cloud, and of course, because that morning it was no match for the insistant black rolls of angry, grey, swollen scream covered belly pushing thunder and lighting shards all over the place. I'd been falling onto myself that night, and although I found myself staring through wind pushed tears. I lent upon the screen and answered several lightning strikes with what kept me at home for awhile so the neighbours would forget to ask "what was that all about?". My bedroom is white, besides the hardwood floors, everything is white, everything is cold, dark and quiet, besides the wind sweeps that I so long for and reason with by keeping the window open, almost all of the time. The bed sits along side, wall to wall - floor to ceiling windows with long white drapes which I keep drawn. I lay on a large, fat, feather quilt because its light and always feels cool and seems to escape my touch, easly pushed out of the way. The view, as I lay in bed, a downtown, a cityscape with its sparkle and glow, its mirroring off the river. I see this from the 11th floor, and take it as a gift. Its enduring, I mean to sleep is beautiful, but to sleep in this room is a working, an effort, a seeking.

Anonymous.

Your words have lent moments in my time, with curious thoughts and quiet smiles. I am soulfully unaware, belonging so long to the darkest colors and the narrowest of shadows. I have forgotten to see while looking, and, forgotten who I am. Who I am is what you see, but all I see is how I feel and all I give is that. I know not what else: comfortless within rage, strain upon pain, needfully still and effortlessly unawake. Off what again to some cry, warm, hunted and of inflamed spirit. So, things to think on, that have me recently well, are words that have caused me to wonder and noted a watch on my will. Thank you.

but, I am here.

I am here, for some of you who care and I know some of you do. I am here, just here and its most likely why I havent been here. I am true to being tired, exhausted and fighting hard to keep my son happy, clean and fed. Its the hardest thing to do, mothers and fathers, but those who mother and father alone, especially those of us who are disabled, severely disabled. The ones of us who are twisted and bent, of us who are struggling to see, who are not blind, but who are of impaired site lines. Those of us who are of little strength and are without the reserves in ourselves to take from, nor will ever add to and must continue with a little more than less. But, I am here. I miss you, who cares and hope this is what brings me near again.