Thursday, 9 August 2018

It takes time to heal, the inedible nature of books.



 It's been a long while, since this one has sat before this machine in vain attempt to conjure words from within an addled brain and wandering mind.
Light and time has continued to wind its way, often unobserved by this wanderer but continues nonetheless, a sound unheard by one often dances upon the ears of another, playing mindful song leaving only the choice of whether to dance or just simply listen.

A lost and shattered soul that lay in many pieces scattered upon this sand, each torn and broken fragment blown to every shadow in every world, it takes time indeed to heal, to become a spectre of what you once were is but a start, a seed, to search out the keys, the secrets to life, survival and forward to live and love once more.

Nothing is impossible.
Only, it takes time indeed to heal, far longer than many would assume, far longer than this travelling fool could have imagined, and yet in the darkest hour, am I whole, did I collect all the pieces?

Or, did I find new pieces that would fit, smooth the roughened edges of the soul to enable it to manifest some kind of completeness.

Questions that are for others to answer, I know my truth, your own truth will be different from mine.

And so among the scorched fields of late summer I walk still, within the shades cast by the moon you might catch a glimpse, and upon the wind you may well hear my voice, if you have an ear to listen that is.

This wanderer in the wilderness has survived by the generosity and patience of good people, a debt to the beloved and a deeper connection to wyrd, love and a return to the realm of the living, the key found and the door cast aside.
And yet in truth a deeper sadness remains, to think upon a time when others may have thought to cast this wretch aside, in pursuit of other needs perhaps, or a loss of patience, understanding, these, once again are riddles not destined for this one to answer. Only regret haunts this healing mind, and yet that said may be not his own. Forced still to take the decisions for himself, to keep that choice his own, perhaps that was the design, it was what was needed, Wyrd in all things, perhaps that at least is clear.

It takes time indeed to heal,  patience is a hunters virtue and not often considered to be one of the academic, and yet without the hunter the learned would become hungry, man cannot eat books after all.

Flags, Flax and Fodder.
Tony Macleod.



1 comment:

  1. I cold not refrain from commenting. Exceptionally well written!

    ReplyDelete