The Power To Write

If I don't write I wouldn't exist, so I put my words in action. I ran and opened the French doors and for an instant, I imagined I could hear the church bells ringing tolling beneath the surface of the wild Ocean. A single fisherman stood waist deep with his rod trying to catch a fish for his lunch, only to be surrounded by the cold gusty wind blowing enough to freeze the church bells from continuing to toll loud enough for me to hear them. Suddenly they stopped when I felt the air was crisp and salty through that late afternoon, time for the sun of that same morning going down, sparkling as the electric lights. For some reason which I could not reveal to myself why I became unhappy, or maybe insecure, tired, pale, maybe unselfish or unsympathetic with myself, all those feelings ran through my whole existence as I could not verify my thinking. I looked rough for once in my past years. Suddenly the dangerous calm was gone. It had been replaced by the white clouds that reminded me of my wedding dress, as a shadow hidden behind me, in me, in front of me running away from my permanently changed soul. After sitting for hours I felt maddened by thirst, it hurt badly as I remained in isolation, dazed, blinded, deafened, having no liquid, or food for hours. OH! How badly I needed to forget about my soul, feeling like a burning bush suffering for so many years in secret. Growing up I mastered into adolescence an obsessive image, a place that can seem to me somehow an extension of myself. My children. Terry 12/8/2016