Reading and flying and thinking.
(09.07.14)
I'm too far past that honest age to shake someone's world with the clarity and sincerity of words. These fruits of meaning and perfectly ripe hope are not my own to pluck from that enormous tree and share. Oh, but how I wish one day to be a world-shaker. a word shaper.. a word shaker.
how much do I want my words to dig their roots into heavy hearts and make something lighter than the canvas sky itself. how do I wish to console and befriend, to love and to grow a little. a little more. and only return to the ground when He comes to see how much I've coloured the heavens.
But no.
I am already too old to be a child. Too old to be so wise.
They're there. I feel a pushing from the back of my throat against my tongue and they all want out. Now. at the same time to flood my mouth and eyes. Words want to make me cry.
This air-boat wants to tear me up.
But both for different reasons. My forehead is screwed up, I'm twitching and I want to cry. Good.
But I've easily stopped the salt from pooling at the edges of my sight. I took two care-free steps from the middle of a stormy ocean, you could say, and didn't blink once or think twice. Even now these motions - these hand spasms with a pen aside, directing their steps - they feel too forced. Unreal. I think this small fact that I am awake somewhere in between the earth's heights has left me feeling an impatient anticipation and no fear at all... well, at least not for the most part...
The Book Thief.
She bloody well stole my sanity from the moment Death began to tell her life. I look out of the plane window: we're suspended in a cold night. It feels more like we're on the sky than in it.
And now we fly on a cloudless ink-blue stretch.
There is a distant city crawling on its knees towards us. I don't know its name but I tell my best friend that it looks like lava. Perhaps I'm brought closer to God as the ground inches past in threads of amber that warns us of the hot life it holds within. The street lights, the house lights, the cars' lights. All the lights of humanity are blazing their trail through life, many miles below us. They're stretching out and yawning to wake and sleep. They're infecting the landscape with a glowing yellow sickness. That's the rest of us.
And we are a part of that. We are a part of this. We fail to still this coastal burst of lava-life on our phones and cameras, so I guess burning it onto my mind will have to do. It is awfully pretty, you'd think.
Is it France?
Is it Rome?
Is it far?
Is it home?
I don't quite care,
It is here.