The Rambling Writer

A place for me to post my musings

[jonthewriter]

Sail

Blue expands before him in all directions, he is alone on his ship. A salt tainted breeze blows pleasantly at his back, easing away some heat from the midday sun. A gull screeches overhead. He controls his destination, but where to go? The horizon is empty, there is no structure to be found. The irony of choice in an expanse of nothing weighs on him like the sun in the cloudless sky overhead. He’s made mistakes in the past. Wrong turns, misinterpreted signs. He’s sailed into storms. Will he again? The horizon is barren, he has no clear direction, and he is alone. The cost of unrestricted freedom is loneliness. Is it worth it? Are better shores ahead? He sails on. There are more choices to be made. Through the good and the bad, he alone is the captain of his ship.

[jonthewriter]

Soar

Soar. Tall green firs line the small valley, a large clearing of soft grass sweeps by below. My personal slice of heaven. My body has become air. Lean, limber, light, aches and pains a distant memory. I am pure and youthful. The winds lay a foundation across which I weave a tapestry of dives and arcs. It is pure art, bubbling from my soul like a spring from a mountain. Higher. Twisting and gliding above the meadow, there is no danger. Such joy! Elation! There is no room to feel anything else. Pure freedom. Unadultered bliss. I soar across the winds with no semblance of a worry, my mind saturated with the youthful happiness of the moment. I am free.

[jonthewriter]

New Growth

The smoke has cleared, exposing the scraps of yesterday’s reality. Scorched earth littered with fallen giants. Some still stand, their blackened bodies looming over the wasteland. A reminder of what once was, what could’ve been. Missed opportunities. Optimism. Attempts. Failures. Renewed hope. All consumed in the blaze, sentenced to memories. The blackened giants left standing a reminder of them all. There is nothing left alive. Or so it would seem. There, just beneath the extinguished coals. A cone. A seed. The wrath of the fire has provided an opportunity. New growth. Across the barren landscape, saplings emerge. One by one, the torched giants of yesterday fall, replaced by the green beneath. New growth in the shadow of yesterday’s wishful thinking. To dwell on the past or the present? Old giants or saplings? Only one can change the future.

[jonthewriter]

Weight

One more step. The unrelenting light punishes him, alone in the center of the indefinite, the weight intensified as a function of his exposure. Crushing, persistent, remorseless, weight. He’s carried it for so long, what will be left of him when it leaves? For he knows not when, how, or why it will leave, only that he’ll eventually be freed. One more step. The mantra has carried him through heat, cold, rain, snow, scorching days, and frozen nights. It’s been so long. The weight has eroded him. What has he left to give? He squints against the sun, a bead of sweat running down his temple. In the distance, Mountains. Salvation. Or is it another mirage? He is tired in a way sleep won’t fix. One more step.

[jonthewriter]

Paths

The sun beats down from overhead, a steady, relentless force. Dry, cracked earth looms in the distance. The river narrows. He flashes back to lush forests, a vibrant powerful river. Hope. The grass beneath his feet has become sparse, the river has shrunk, the sun intensifies. Ghosts left upstream. He has been here before, stubbornness and hope driving him to the rivers end. He’s been left in the desert. Will this time be different? The sun reaches its apex, anticipating a decision. He stares downstream. Some paths are meant to be traveled only once.

[jonthewriter]

Hope

A cold chamber sits in darkness. Unused, waiting. Cobwebs line the corners, dust settles on the hearth. The light is all gone. It cannot be forcibly returned, nor may it be kept against its will once arrived. It must come on its own, whether fast, slow, or not at all. Patience. This is not something to coerce. The cool fortitude of earth lays over the chamber like a thick blanket. A giant in slumber. When will it wake? Will it wake? Patience. In the distance, a minuscule orange light flickers into existence. Is now the time? Patience.

[jonthewriter]

Close

The sky is clear and cold. Dead leaves litter the sidewalk, illuminated by moonlight. He walks on, a steady stride. Not quite relaxed, not quite pressed. A pace fit for thinking. The moon is full, his heart disgruntled. She is too close. Trees whisper in the breeze, the moon shines on. Her soft light filters through every thought in his mind, yet he cannot let her know. Bold and bright and independent. She glows for none but herself, the illumination of his heart a mere side effect of standing near her aura. Leaves crunch beneath his feet. Too close. He glances at the moon. Some words are better left unsaid.

[jonthewriter]

Soar

Waves thunder. Jagged rocks in a war of attrition with the sea. High above, a bird soars. He knows neither why nor how the rocks and ocean clash, only that the beauty of flight has freed him from the eternal struggle. Why has he been chosen? The sun sinks on the horizon. He ascends into the golden orange rays of the fading day. Why does he soar so? Sea and land clash below. The ocean swallows the sun. He glides higher.

[jonthewriter]

Patience

There. Submerged in the current, a small sliver glints. He ponders the situation. Piercing green eyes flash through his mind. An ephemeral brush of brown hair on his shoulder, the smell of freshly bloomed flowers lingers. The sliver glints in the sun. Too deep, too fast. Liquid glass rushes swiftly over the top; the gold amongst the rocks is unreachable. Patience. Gentle curves flow through his mind like a meandering river. Slowly. Gently. This is not something to be rushed. Will the water ever recede? Perhaps the gold amongst the rocks doesn't wish to be found. He sits on the bank. Patience.

[jonthewriter]

Flame

A dim flicker in my window, illuminating snapshots of wind-kissed powder falling softly outside. Alone; fragile. The mystery of the flame lies in its simultaneous fragility and strength. The slightest draft may extinguish it, yet it stands capable of lighting a thousand others without losing its essence. Alone, fragile; together, unstoppable. The strength of the flame lies in the act of giving. So goes the soul.

[jonthewriter]

Wild

Strip, strip, strip, pause. Wait for the tug. I see a flash of her deep blue eyes as she glides across the room. There's the tug, the hook is set. A wild thing dances at the end of my line. Conversation flows as easily as a riffle in the Madison, a connection forged. Headshakes and runs, the wild thing will not yield easily, as nothing truly wild should. I begin the chase. Eyes the blue of a mountain lake in July, deep and untamed. They haunt my thoughts. The wild thing fights on, and I with it. A herculean battle of wills. The wit, the humor, the golden cascade of hair flowing in the breeze. The erosion of willpower. I look the wild thing in the eye. It screams of defiance and strength, this is not something to be tamed. Those cerulean eyes. Pure and open, hungry to conquer the world. There is a fire there yearning to burn. The wild thing slides from my hand into the blue, my fingers lingering on it's tail a moment longer, relishing the ephemeral connection. I watch it glide into the depths, untamed. One last glance at those eyes. The golden cascade trails in the wind, fading into the distance. Some things are best left wild and free.