An apprehensive looms across the horizon and I go walking through the roses… late August blooms and the blushing of the hips… the cool dew beneath my feet hints at frosts to come… the morning is poetry if you look at it right… the quiet solitude, hot mug of tea and time for reflection…
I often wonder if I make the right the decisions…
We have had a friend staying with us and many conversations seem to turn to past lives… who we were before we are who we are… the memories that we have and more the shards of memories that are not complete… like little pieces of glass just waiting to be stepped on… Laura listens quietly… taking it in and asking penetrating questions… leaping along the threads to grasp the entire picture.
My creative writing has all dried up again… and though I have ideas, then the lethargy of ennui takes hold. I realize that I want something different but I can not define it enough to ask for it.
I often wonder if I make the right the decisions…
We have had a friend staying with us and many conversations seem to turn to past lives… who we were before we are who we are… the memories that we have and more the shards of memories that are not complete… like little pieces of glass just waiting to be stepped on… Laura listens quietly… taking it in and asking penetrating questions… leaping along the threads to grasp the entire picture.
My creative writing has all dried up again… and though I have ideas, then the lethargy of ennui takes hold. I realize that I want something different but I can not define it enough to ask for it.
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