On Easter Mourning

*This was written this morning on my Mother's screened in front porch, where I went to meditate, hoping for a few moments of solitude, and so I began to write freely and without scrutiny as I would prefer it be read...
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It's Sunday morning, Easter. The sky is blue, and the birds are singing their Mourning [sic] tune. This slight chill in the air is all that is helping me make it through. I'm sitting out on the front porch, looking out on the yard where I grew up--this place that I've called 'Home' since before I even had memories. So, why do I feel like a stranger here? It's like all of a sudden, I'm a passerby in a foreign land. Maybe I have slipped through a wormhole and fallen into an alternate plane.

Maybe the 'other Me' is happy, smiling and worry-free with no stench of death surrounding... not posing in anticipation of the darkness to come, reflecting on the darkness already behind the way that I am.

On my third cup of coffee, I try to relax. The caffeine doesn't even try to torment or challenge me anymore, we're like old bitter friends, listening to the vulture's cry. I wish I knew what the birds were trying to say, their ancient tongues hold secrets of the universe, perhaps? While I, only flounder in madness living by the teachings of the insane and whispers of the wicked.

This is the brightest, most scenic sepulchre I have ever laid eyes on, it is no wonder why we may linger here for as long as we can. Who knows what's beyond that broken window? (The one covered in dust and debris from the acid fog and tainted dew of a billion years). There are forty shades of gray which make up this sky that we nicknamed "blue". My heart is ten years old, but my soul is a thousand and two.

The watchers in the clouds, sometimes bore of these ripples, reflecting in the sands; this Illusion of "Time" has me racing for the unreachable cure. A cure, but for what? We're all afflicted with that which has no name but we've come to know only as Life. The mysteries therein no more simple than the soft, velvet dust of a moth's wings.

It won't be long, perhaps that we look down and laugh at this tiny fishbowl and wonder why... 'why did we waste so much precious energy' trying to get out of it... trying to see what it really was--when little did we know that we were going to be the lead fool of this big and silver screen all-too-soon.

There are some roads that ought not be taken, and not all words were meant to be spoken. For the ocean waves inside the tiny seashell, hold open the doorways to a whole other universe; one we will soon enough know. Until we meet again on the other side...

Jackie