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Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Memories of Being

I remember those days of brewing coffee as the rain pelted down and the comfort of a quilt and a novel were better then a million dollars.  I remember the inspiration ignited in spurts and the pen in hand racing across the paper instantly and intentionally.  The furnace humming, the moment to moment.  The smells of bread baking and the quiet street.  A magic I see now that is easily lost to jobs, bosses, and TV.  I thought I had lost this charge of child like being, this zen of writing and thoughts.  But just today I was ignited once again.  I search for the moment...was it special in any way?  What was different...how can I bottle this emotion of perfect time?  There is no language to explain the exact moment of being.  It is a time that exists always but our gritty souls are too displaced and indifferent to recognize.


Intangible and simple this moment produces complexity and beauty, and each of us tells a different story in the art of explanation.

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