The Deepening Fog

Tell me of this, the wheedle the warp, the beadle and snap, the warbling bird that sat above my head. I cricked my head and held it to the sky. The clouds were made of branches, crooked and beautiful. The ground was damp and dark, a mess of dead leaves. The light cut lines of dull grey through the air. I set off again, a weight in my boots that has seldom been there before, but neither a surprise to my heart. The cold was manageable as no wind scratched through the trunks of the trees. I held a simple pace, over hillock and round creek, the crystal light a deepened fog. I’d gone for at least an hour before I looked down at what I was wearing. A tattered suit and totally inappropriate shoes, a gun in my jacket pocket. I stopped and pulled it out, a black and frigid lump of metal, I had no idea how it had gotten there. But considering I had no idea how I had gotten where I was too, the heavy weapon in my possession was a small task at hand. S.H.

This Maddening Little World

Yes. Well. Let's make this an actual "blog" post, shall we?
I sit and stare out the window, waiting for the answer to leap into the room. The trees may as well be matchsticks. The sky may as well be a painting. Usually there is always one clear cut answer within the heart. It may be speaking the same language as the brain, or it may not. Either way, there is always an answer. A yes or a no. On those rare occasions when there is no clear shout, I have no other energy in me but to sit and wait. Maybe one of those birds has the answer for me? Oh ... no ... it's flown past. An interesting annoyance it is. To be leaning towards social adherence, and then turning away from it just as clearly is confusing to say the least. What a maddening little world we do live in. S.H.