But poems don't write themselves for me like they once did.
It feels like I'm waiting for something -- a crack in the shell of the world maybe -- to let a bit of light shine in again.
I remember magic
I remember racing out on dark nights back at Kintecoy and walking moon traced paths to the top of the hill and spinning that circle around, stompdancing toward the energy.
Now. Ho-hum -- it's all so commonplace. I killed it with words. Thought I could spread it around and keep it, too. Should have worked that way.
Acceptance -- or some semblance of it -- has rocked me back to sleep. Might as well be in a church pew listening to some preacher tell me how to vote.
Still. I'm waiting for it. Waiting for that shimmer of light to get in and find itself a prism and go bouncing streaks of rainbow all over the place.
It's happened before. A startle -- caught in an iced tree in the middle of January freeze or the flight of a hawk or the strange little moth touching down in front of your eyes for a moment just to be seen. It doesn't take much. Just a common miracle like that.
Three days now, I've dipped down into what could properly be called discontent, if not outright depression. Lethargic -- but some say that's the after-effect of the Eclipse. That may be the occasion, but not the cause. Right?
It came to me while I was muttering around the house yesterday that I had been seeking the highs again -- you know, to be excited about things again like when I was a newbie in this lovely wonderworld.
It came to me that you don't get highs without lows.
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