Silent Lucidity

The snow fell silently outside. Passing in fits behind the shuttered window, the white stuff coated the ground with a harrumph. Drawn to its nutritive and convalescing embrace, I found myself outside making a semi-conscious snow angel. The snow caressed me as I flung myself at the ground without missing. The pillow of cold packed powder cradled the back of my neck as I burned my energy into what was once water in a cloud. The life of a snowflake, eh?

"It's only when I lose myself in someone else, that I find myself." - Depeche Mode

Memories. Part of having an excellent memory is the feeling of never being alone. The movie in my mind. Something constantly running in cerebral technicolor. Thoughts of first meetings and last dances; Places I have lived, loved, left and longed to return to; Images of ecstasy and tableaus of turmoil. It's all there, ready to recount.

Moments in the snow. The mind wanders through the blue sky dotted by falling flakes of white wonder. Moments wane as the spirit sails. Unfortunately due to the laws of thermal dynamics, hypothermia can put a real crimp in the plans of the day. The body rises, but the spirit continues on in a frolicking angel making romp.

The house was remarkably silent for a Saturday afternoon. The creak of the old oak chair was my only companion. I've always preferred silence over hustle and bustle. Maybe it's because I like to live and tread lightly in this world. I find the less distortion I create, the easier it is to surf through the waves of life in the half-pipe we call Earth. So here I am digesting and feeling human, while I take a few meditative breaths and really feel the ambiance of the room.

I'm imagining leading a life of constant amusement. Of finding the interest of *everything*. Leading a remarkable life 24-7 and having a perma-smile plastered to my ecstatic mug. Then I realize that being able to recognize the beauty of others, physical and spiritual, is my special gift. Though I myself am not blessed with the innate desire to be "scenic"; Being a patron of the arts allows me to experience the expression and energy of people consumed by expression itself.

Creativity that does not result in productivity is wasted energy. It's like mental masturbation. Good in spurts, but if you have read Portnoy's Complaint (Phillip Roth) it can become a sinful obsession. It partially explains why I stopped smoking pot in University. I would get stoned and my mind would spring alive like Alice in Wonderland. Stories and characters would appear like rabbits at the well. Yet nothing more than half written prose full of promise ever resulted. When I gave up the constant companionship of the cannabis leaf I regained a sense of purposefulness and found progress through the act of completion.

I am surrounded by beauty and purpose. I delight in the discovery of hidden talents. These glimpses of candid candy can be seen in the eyes. The eyes cannot lie; cannot hide disappointment, and cannot disregard the empirical evidence of sight. I like eyes, and I take measured glimpses of that facial feature when afforded the opportunity. Let me drink in your eyes and I will tell you your dreams.

"Dreams morph. Dreams get quashed. Eventually she stopped wishing..." Mai.