The Matter of Impressions

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. When I was little, I liked to wrap into the royal blue coat my mother wore. The floor length covering seemed to wrap me within a scented cloud. I could smell the rich perfumes my mother would wear. I felt closer to her because she had left part of herself in the coat.

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. When I was little, I liked to sit in my father’s walking jacket. Grey and overlarge, the arms would hang off my fingertips. I could pull my knees against my belly and zip the jacket over them, up to my chin. I could smell his sweat and hints of the fields he walked past. I felt closer to him because he had left part of himself in the jacket.

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. When I was little, I liked to hide underneath my brother’s blanket. Black and slate, the blanket smothered me as substitute for the hugs he would never give me. I could smell his fresh cologne as I would spin into a large roll against the wall, imagining his strength. I felt closer to him because he left part of himself in the blanket.

Fabrics are forever imprinted by the people who wear them. Who could tell what you may have left behind for others to cherish? Perhaps you discarded an old blue coat, a dirty grey jacket, or a useless blanket that has been the treasured covering of a young child, desperate for love and closeness. What you had once used without thought has become a symbolic piece of you for another to find comfort in. You left a piece of yourself for others to be close to.

The Beauty that Awaits Us

The Sky, now dark, affords a wandering eye,
to glance about the world for perfect light.
He searches for the Moon to grace supply,
and patiently awaits their true Tonight.
The Moon, a spotless shimmer, stands alone,
her face, a glorious promise of her virtue.
She veils her truest silver for her throne
of comfort that the Sky did well pursue.
The Sky, when vacant, just a dark abyss,
an empty slate without a beam or glow.
The Moon, unmatched, awaits a Sky to kiss,
surrendering her love - a gentle flow.
Together, Moon and Sky, the waiting done,
Now serve the new world they have just begun.

To Understand What Is

The past surrounds me like mountain fog as I walk into the darkened room.
It grips me with icy fingers that chill my gut and stifle my breath.
Warily I look at the shadows, making sure that nothing is hiding.
I see naught to give me pause.

Why should something be hiding, I ask myself with irritation.
The foolishness of my fear is almost as strong as the fear itself.
I hate myself for being apprehensive.

Wasn’t it Confucius who said “Silence is the true friend that never betrays?”
What a wise man he truly must have been.
Clearly, being alone is the safest path.

Finally, I take the time to study the room that surrounds me.
It reeks of despair – the frosty decay of spices and incense.
The shadows fail to obscure the moldy patches that cover the walls.
There lingers an aura of hopelessness.

The floor seems frozen, and I can feel coolness snake up my body.
It is as though the tremendous space is only there to frighten me.
What point is there in darkness?

“Don’t touch me,” I whisper to the walls as they seem to close in.

Closing my eyes, I remember the dangers of projection:
a reflection of my purview upon everything I see,
causing me to see pain where I might have seen joy.

Could I make the decision to see beauty instead of death?
I remember that feeling of joy, letting it warm my bones.
It flows through my blood like a silky cream.

I smile as I realize that I had not lost that part of myself,
opening my eyes and looking at the room, discarding my past presuppositions.
Shock flutters through me – had it really looked like this before?

The room that surrounds me is filled with light from an open window.
The walls are painted an eggshell blue.
It is filled with the scent of baby powder and soft oils.
There is a sense of… rebirth.

Can I trust it?
Wasn’t it Churchill who said, “Sunshine is my quest?”