Behind the Twisting of a Blackbird Tree…

There are many blackbirds in the branches outside the window today. I wonder what they say to each other, what shall I do here so far from their company… I wonder why birds fly into windows when it is us who wish to be set free from the walls our hands have built and painted.

Now I shall tell you about the sky this morning and how it is slowly becoming behind the twisting of a blackbird tree. Winter sunrises seem rare, a bit more than semi-precious…I wish to wrap the coloured light up in sterling silver and let it hang about my neck…. I would like to feel its weight upon my skin, upon my vulnerable chest. About the sky…Yes, it was so very beautiful as I drove my failing car around the lake shore…The colours were of the lightest blue that at undetermined times would sink into dream-like champagne…The sky was painted in such a way that it looked as if the artist had dipped his fingers into a violet field. It appeared that he let his fingers drag across the expanses leaving spirits of complexion upon heaven’s face…and the colours kept weaving themselves in and out of clouds and strands of morning sun…

By the way I am at the wooden counter of a coffee shop…I like this one, for nothing feels quite familiar. The old man who owns this production is bizarre…he shouts out phrases at random and I’m not sure that anyone ever really understands him. It feels good to be a bit more well and to leave the confines of our bleak hotel room. It just feels good to be here alone and feel safe….

The blackbird tree has become quite full…


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Filed under Glass of Water..., Journals Unabridged, mental

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