Let no concept of time disturb me.

There is a kitten, or so he likes to think himself, snuggled deep within the blankets on my lap. Curled to me as much for warmth as I to him.

Shadows waltz around candlelight to quiet renditions of Leonard Cohen on the lucky-to-be-charged MP3 player and an old speaker saved just for this purpose. Their steps cover our living room in mid-atmosphere of a town wide blackout. Each sound separate from the silence under a growing blanket of unnaturally natural dark.

My sister sleeps in bundled quilts, stretched out over office and lawn chairs. The Siamese waits for her to still, gauging her body heat for his own comfort. Husband of mine is also sleeping, his form a bed for the other kitties, their eyes and ears moving frantically to catch the latest storm gossip rattling our windows.

It’s cold but I feel warmer here in the dark than I have in a long time. I haven’t felt so at peace beneath candlelight since an eight year old me spent dark nights beneath the warm glow trying to decipher fantastical stories in my grandfather’s too still home. It was as if the air around me was stagnant, only alive in the flicker flames though we had plenty of power.

Even then, I am reminded, I was a dreamer.

A word dreamer.

Now I enjoy the same moments with my patch quilt family and tell stories all my own.

My inspiration was something I said, something along the lines of:

When I can get out from beneath this self-clutter…

I am here.

Beneath the scars of a cluttered past and the rotten covered strawberries of her romance. Beneath our silver pedigree and crimson charm. Beneath cardboard courthouses, paper sins, and quarters in a jar.

Between window bars and shattered glass. Between one soft voice and wish upon a comet. Between the polka dots and an empty casket- both speaking for the presence they would always never hold. Between abrasion and comfort, and blood upon the wall.

Beneath dancing shadows and moon layered masks. Beneath the billiard tables and brittle bones, the blue green glow of double stained glass, greasy food, and filthy hands.

Between one-hundred blankets and the rock hard floor. Between book dust and burning candles, the impression and the act. Between the pavement and the night caressing silent steps.

Between vodka and coffee. Beneath hay and horse shit. Between skin and the blade. Beneath the scabs- I am here!

Beneath the words, beyond the wisdom. Within the meaning and above the drama.

I am here.

Waiting for you.

This blank bit of virtual paper is starring back at me asking that same question. It waits with a quiet persistence trapped so vividly in the nothing of infinite possibility. It know that- eventually, I will arrive at the answer.

Even if I myself don’t know it at the time.

My mind is filled with memories tonight. Little streams of thought that build and collect in the cracks of my everything. Dreams once dreamt long before I had a world to build them on, stories written in my soul before I could spell, and old energy burning in my bones- figments of a phantom feeling beyond all named sensations.

Little glimpses haunt me, calling me to know but staying just beyond my reach, thrumming with the same pull that tugs the tide high towards the moon and away again. It hurts like a single sip of water in the desert. I can’t control it. Can’t contain it. Can’t summon it at will.

But I can write it.

This beautiful story written with existence.

Expressed only by living.

It’s beautiful right now. The air heavy with impending darkness as the sun just beyond my sight begins to set. It’s still light out but it’s that strange mix of night and day when the kitties become alert and most humans are just growing tired. The world clock winding down on one side and up on another, leaving me pleasantly out of sync to witness the merge.

The grass is cool but not damp. The sky all one color, fading from one shade to the next as easily as watercolors on a canvas. A few lone birds peck the ground, picking at what remains of an earlier lunch before nesting, once more, in our roof.

The cat in my lap, warm with clover bright eyes, is telling me one thing. A promise spoken in the silence of his presence: The words will come easily tonight.

They will flow like thin paint tilted along the fine edge of gravity, covering all within reach in patterns, swirls, and splatters of predictable unpredictability. More than bright and dark they will whisper screams of the mute grays between. Cloying, tinting, and twisting what lies beyond the mirror and it’s reflection…

Words.

They are merely words.

Letters and syllable strung together haphazardly like rain tossing in the wind, occasionally illuminated by the flash of lightning and punctuated with thunder. They might rumble and roar, rattling windows, or hiss like droplets hitting the puddle. Meaningless save for the beauty in the nature of it… but for every drop the hits the puddle there is a ring of happenstance that follows soon after and for ever window that shakes there is a child hiding beneath the covers.

Yes. They are words.

Merely words.

Until they are used to say something of importance.

Then they are my words.

There is a doorway without a door that stands between one side of this house- and it does seem no bigger than a house, and the other but both sides look exactly the same. Detailess squares- the walls, the floor, the doorway, and the decorations. They all have four sides. They all lack color.

I’m walking around and… I don’t see anything. There’s no where to go but in aimless circles like a lazy fly in summer heat.