Far going, far gone, the remembrance through time occurs within the cerebral cortex which fluctuates into the ambiguous of proprieties. They manifest the long days of winter, making me wait out the cold until spring comes marching through the doors. But for now, I’m elevated through the doors of the cold breaths of Old Man Winter.
With each day passing, I’m enriched by the folds you bring. An oblong shape circumvents me to reach out and hang on tight to the icicles hailing me at me door. I got out into the fluff, jump in and raise my arms in their air.
There is a hazy shade of winter biting me in the nose. This year it began during the late part of November. I fail to fathom the joy of the snow which only stung my nose and made me sneeze. I’ve forgotten how as a kid, I used to love to jump into the crunchy white. Upon sinking my feet in, I’d roll the snow starting with a tiny ball I molded in my hands. Then I’d lay it down into the snow, move it forward, and watch it grow into something enormous.
This is not what I dream of today. I now await my fate as I delve my head onto the coolness of my pillow. I sink my mind into the field of dreams, and welcome my unconsciousness, only to obtain a new consciousness. Through these misty realms, I find myself back in school learning about things I never considered. I’d think to myself, what am I doing here? I finished school years ago. Why would my psyche bring me back to a classroom? What have I yet to learn in life. I’d hear teachers in the realm of my dreams say different phrases which made me think.
Upon awakening from the dream, I grab my journal and write them down to further analyze at a later time. However, I often forget about them, never thinking about them further. I move onto the next source of inspiration for a poem or story. Or I stay quiet, listening to the rhythms of my own breathing.
In the coming hours the moonlight fades into dawn, and all who hailed the glory of the darkness now laid exasperated by the crimson sky.
I delve into my daily routine of writing either in my journal, or composing on my computer. I set my egg timer, letting my fingers take off from there. I sometimes have to force my mind to come up with the words as I race against the clock. I’ve learned over the course of time how it’s best to write the first word popping into my mind. Whatever phrase it happens to be, I’m certain the good Lord has a purpose for it. What the purpose is, I often don’t know.
For all I can do is continue walking down the cold path on a journey filled with quietness in my head, although life itself can be chaotic. There is the noise coming from the voices of those we live with. Sometimes it’s pleasant while other times I just want to escape and hide in the complexity of my own mind where a treasure trove of mystery resides.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015