Moisture

I am dried up, like a well.  Dry and dusty, a neglected old deep void; which no longer serves the purpose it was originally intended for.  The walls which were solid, hard and impermeable, have become a disjointed rock staircase for roots seeking both water and a place to secure the trees above.

All they found is the crumbling foothold with nothing to drink.  So.... they too are dying... just as this well appears dead.  It will happen inexorably over time.  Further below the well there is life giving water.   Some things require digging deeper.

Those who dug the well have long since gone.  The trees which they planted; have grown tall, wide and their roots have grown deeper too.  The country folk who lived here, boarded up the well after their house burned down.  They could not abide with living on a place which now represented such tragic loss.  They tore down the cupola which shielded the well from debris. This debris consisted of large branches or smaller twigs and smaller leaves from the older trees. They were dying, as they had been there so very long.

No one had lived here for decades.  The branches that had fallen from these graying trees, had been cut to length and dried for firewood. The same firewood, that had caused the fire which had engulfed this family's home, charring their dreams and leaving their future in ashes.  That is when they had run to the well to get water to put out the fire.  The fire that climbed up the side the house and lifting their hopes and dreams out of reach.

They found the well that had been full that morning and again in the afternoon, was suddenly emptied.  The life saving contents, gone; but where and why now?  The stood helpless, with the only moisture around, was on their faces, that too dried up from the heat and light of the flames which shot higher than the trees, right to the stars or so it seemed.

Now many years later, dark angry clouds were building over that very spot.  There was going to be heavy rain.  Droplets gained speed and size, together they became rivulets, erasing the dust clouds that the swollen drops had made on landing.  The rain came and the wind continued to increase.  The volume was so much there were now streams.

Streams joined and some dry slopes appeared to be river beds.  Underground the dry well no longer appeared dry or empty.  The well began to sardonically fill, not from the top down, but from the bottom up.

The river deep below was rising, wicked by the amount of moisture at the surface.  With the lid on the well, no one would ever know it was at one time empty; nor would they know how vulnerable this source of water might be.  The storm had been intense enough to thunder down and wash away what little lumber had remained.  The elements had erased the last symbol of the deep sadness which scarred both memories and this beautiful place.

 Refreshed, waiting once again to fill the dreams of those who dared to dream.  All that was of any significance was a rough-hewn refuse pile at the foot of the hill.   Like me.  Some cast off piece in a refuse pile.  Dried up.

Burnt out.  A void, starving to be filled and refreshed too.  Alive deep inside, more than what the superficial signs of life allow to be seen.        

1 -2 -3 Times a Gambler

Denise went in and stood back; as to not be apart of the line or not be like a cork in the narrowing space, trapped.  A man waited to the side while she took her place in line.  He looked at here and kept his distance, trying not to look at her patchwork coat. Her scarf blazing bold and bright with colour.  Her gray brown hair which randomly found their way out and around the scarf.  She followed, the others and listened to what they were ordering.  It was very foreign, the only words she recognized were "coffee" or "tea" and as many variations she could imagine.  As she got to the till. She tried to open the cup, unsuccessfully.  She handed the shinny mug to the cashier.   The Barista, then said, "please remove the lid."  " I can't " she mumbled, not making eye contact.

There was an awkward moment as the Barista looked at Denise, she looked toward the outside for an escape route, and the man behind her looked at the mug saying "can I try?"  The cashier and Barista both said, "Thanks."  Denise barely made an attempt at eye contact and move her weather worn lips, mouthing, "thanks".  The lid was off and the barista said, "Bold or Medium," Denise had no idea how she was going to pay and said, "Bold, please".  The  looking inside the cup as he spoke there was a plastic card, "Good place to keep your gold card, Denise."

Denise was gobsmacked.  She could not speak. There were no words, mumbled or otherwise that fit what was happening, in that moment.  "Would you like your receipt with your balance, Denise?"  As she reached for the card the receipt and the coffee mug and lid, she mumbled "Yes, please."  Weakness filled her legs, her knees buckled only a little, placing one hand on the counter to brace her self, she blew out deeply, knowing that air would come rushing into her lungs to refill that void.  She saws stars for only a moment.  "Where is a chair?" she asked quite clearly.  "Look around" the barista was looking at the next guest.  The gentleman was no longer behind her.  The focus was off Denise now, so she turned to look across the coffee shop.  There in the corner of the bookstore, was the man form behind her.  He was waving for her to come over there and pointing at a chair with two arms.  He had found her a chair.

She looked at his chin, saying "thank you".   "No problem" came the reply.  "I'll be right back, with your coffee."    Soon she settled with her chair facing a bookcase with more books than she can remember seeing, she used to read much.  Like her life those days were in the past.  Too far distant to help her now.  She picked up and flipped through book after book, sipping her coffee in small amounts, just as she was taking only glimpses of the bright pictures and reading a few lines here and there, she paused for a moment,
not daring to listen to the thought trumpeting loudly.  "I sure could get used to this!"

That was it, the moment was gone, she left the chair without to much fuss, and walked along the shelves which aimed in the general direction of the door, the way out her escape, coffee cup in hand. Gold card with her name on it in an inside pocket over her heart.  She had for but a moment met her Happy, and she hoped too, once again. For now she needed fresh air, the outdoors, any air, before she could not breath, before her fear paralyzed her.  She had gambled this time, and she had won a tidy sum.  Yet there was so much mystery, that she did not know the answers too, again the wave of fear pushed her toward the ground, stopping her in her tracks...... so she quickly found the only bench on this side of the park, and sat right in the middle of it, like a stanchion, that had found the support it had needed, and it took her breath away.

I'm balance or Imbalance

The difference is simply a comma and a space.  Punctuation and distance. I do not suppose to know more or downplay experience, I can only observe that to go from a statement; to a goal or a dream in some cases, can be disheartening, if one flounders.  Is it the left stronger than the right?  I am not speaking the language of politics.

Some say chemical, some say wires are crossed, others live it and do not know what to say as the lips, tongue and words are not in sync with each.  One would sound ideal while the other sounds lacking. One is replete with completeness and the other is isolated and the want or need to be fully alone, goes unanswered.  Do they have to balance one another brain 1 and brain 2 or is it one brain, in charge of chaos, in charge of bodily harm?  Then ....what are you waiting -  for sound the alarm!

Every step taken further in to get to the cure, is likened to walking blindfolded into a blackberry mass of many thorny vines embrace. When I AM is in full vigor, there is peace and poise, but when iambalance collides; only an "a" is lost and it becomes an IMBALANCE, what is in that "a" that, is lost, that, they don't know, for each is so unique,  each is so complex and so precious and so individual.    So.... where does that leave us and them?

Distrusting and ashamed.

Let them find peace in doing the one thing; they find hardest to do around others; in the expression of art and music and creativity and life. When they are by themselves, they can hear their thoughts and they make sense, without Others assertions to prove; They are better or right or Their problems are more important; as They can be louder or have some piece of paper of privilege.  It is not considered helpful, if they did not ask, for Your help or any help at all.

So pause before you speak and give them their space, "punctuation and distance",  common sense and dignity;  watch and wait for the peace to fall 'round about them and light up the place, and their face only..... until the clouds will close in again.... you wait, I have seen it.  It comes.