When Passion Comes Again

There is quiescence, peace. Flipping through the pages of memory as I rest in my recliner, there is wonderment as well. There are the stops at moments when I first paused routine, to stand and silently observe a time that I alone would on that spot create and that would outlast itself. That is the nature of passion, isn't it? Nothing to shake the earth--those around me probably would notice not a thing at all. It wouldn't make the papers, nor the chronicles I'd share at suppertime, but I'd remember! I'd remember, through the decades, page by page, remembering, those few seconds rushing by to join the ages, interspersed by those events that do not matter very much. The kind of ink so carefully inscribed within the margins of these pages is invisible, yet certainly indelible, nor would I ever wish to have it disappear. Casual in its creation, this strange, silent nothingness prevails as mine alone, a curious intangible that only gravecloth might accommodate, and that most restlessly. It is a passion, certainly, and second-hand, and yet delightfully unique. It visited me again today...made me wonder if there are other aging dodderers who muse as I upon rare moments when a sleeping passion rouses, stirs and journeys home again to re-create like some divine, ex nihilo... ~