Wine and Words

I chanced upon a poem yesterday, and as subtle unforeseen happenings often do, it shook my world. The earth shifted just a little under my feet, and I fell away, losing myself to the wine and words. Both bloody. Both heady.

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Fixing The Cracks

At some point in my life, I picked up the habit of never leaving a bookstore empty handed. It was a game of sorts, a self-proclaimed tradition or quirk, and perhaps a way of reassuring myself that I remained an ardent reader, even when most of those books remained untouched after the purchase.

Snippet #18

Hiraeth (Welsh; noun)

A homesickness for somewhere you cannot return to, the nostalgia and the grief for the lost places of your past, places that never were.

Ella Frances Sanders

(Lost In Translation)

A Writer’s Regret

You sense a dream

Rising out of the smokescreen

An idea, a word

A thought unripe;

But before you can take a close look

You let go

And it melts away from view –

Change

Do I like change?? As an escapist, I welcome it. As an emotional wreck, I despise it. The revelation of the multitudes of meaning the single word has for me makes my sanity come undone; bares open the wounds that years of internal conflicts have wrought upon my mind – those never ending battles between thoughts of my own; I am the savior and the enemy, I am the fleets of marching infantry and the crowds cowering at their feet.