Image by M i x y via Flickr |

Infinitesimal

When I was in New Zealand, a land surrounded by swiping oceans and beaten by blasts, I would let the water on the beach wash between my toes carrying a million grains of sand. The clarity of the situation made me relate to those tiny grains; as if I was one. I gazed up on that crisp Piha night – at flames against endless blackness – the burning suns faraway mirroring the forces that caress my tiny toes.

Are we like grains? Are we washed by the time of day into endless, hopeless routines that seemingly carry us from task to task without reason?

Keep Questioning?

Have you ever felt like you’ve been here before? That there is something to reincarnation? I loath religion although crying in the night I call to a Father far from me for comfort. Is there a reason I’m blessed with my beautiful days? Where do I fit in?

People shower love on me and tease me endlessly. I get teased a lot, actually. Sullen, I’ve learned to take it as their way of loving me. I sometimes pay them back, gently. My God is a God contained in Question; formless, shapeless and gentle. My creed the seconds of my days. My bible is the chores that I am given or that find me in my wanderings through life.

Love

I love women, I love men and they love me. Is love the way? Love has been hijacked by ugly folk who carry guns over one shoulder and dreadful lies over the other. The word, “Love,” for some means, “Kill.” Twisting it all around and around as if they know what’s good for all. I know that they will wake in fright one day and they will see the blackness, sadness and sorrow they have imprinted on the sands of time.

The ones who kill for love, they are living on quicksand. I just want to love and be loved – that’s my holy word.

Holy War

The ultimate oxymoron. Sad. Whoever came up with the ideas pushed festering delusions upon the innocent that today we must all pay for. My thankfulness is that I live far from all that and that maybe I can make a difference if I just be, and become and love. Only then will I go to my end in a sandbar consumed by grubs resting gently in the understanding that my sand was never turned to cement.