I took an early evening walk last night and when I went to bed the insomnia was absent. So I might do another walk tonight and see if that works again.
Since I actually got some sleep I feel more wakeful today. There's a poem waiting to be finished, and a painting waiting to be started. And there's a novel waiting to be infused with shadow, and a poetry book ready to be laid out to be an offering.
There is a little grimoire sighing in the wings, waiting for its cue. I pat it reassuringly, while I gather tools and ingredients, and spin the threads of magic into spools.
Last night I dreamt of — the old house, my childhood home. From one end of the street I could see a raging wall of water rushing towards me. On the other end I could see a raging conflagration. In the house was a crowd of people, mostly strangers, that was expecting to be saved. I was expected to find a way out. I told everyone to stay, except for one indifferent handsome boy, who had always treated me with something akin to antagonism. I told him I knew where we could find his family, but I knew they were gone and swallowed up by the flames. I told the others to stay, that I would clear the way, and that they could follow my trail after fifteen minutes. They believed me. They trusted me.
There was no saving that could be done. I could only save myself because I knew where I could go, the sliver of doorways leading out and away, because the place would only allow me to be saved, everyone else was a sacrifice. I wanted to try to save him, to take him with me, but would he forgive me for lying about his family? For not saving them?
I could not save him. He was not mine. And I could only save my own.
He gripped my hand like a lifeline. Fifteen minutes and this whole world would be consumed by water and fire and only I knew, and only I could get away.
I stopped and he stopped. “Listen.” I said. The roaring of the water was very loud. The sky was a melancholy grey from the fire-smoke. I turned his face towards me and then I kissed him. My return for all his indifference and small cruelties, his sharp pointed dismissals, his unmasked avoidance. I felt something came to him then, a realisation, a recognition, something too late.
I woke up.
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I am an artist-in-progress. I started my creative journey in 2012 and have never stopped taking steps since. Always one step at a time. Always moving forward. It has been an increasingly tough and occasionally rewarding road.
Models & Mentors
Emily W. Martin
That Curious Love of Green
The Dainty Squid
The School Of Life
Crafty Fun Kids by Sinead
David Beaver Art
Head Graffiti Studio
News From The Hill
Pretty Odd Peach
The Fiery Redhead
Upward Facing Blog
View From Zany Mountain
What Karen Did Next