a few days, about 20% of my thoughts…:
The book I’m reading now and again after many times before was born in 1968. The words in it received the right to have themselves, and only themselves, placed in that particular order in 1964. That must have made them feel special.
It has the warming earth smell that only a book that has lived 44 years and spent most of its life mostly being either held by adoring hands or lovingly hugged by other books can have. It’s a nice smell, and I frequently find myself inhaling it’s comforting scent.
I think since they’re made out of trees, after a while a book that hangs out with other books in happy places like used book stores begins to get nostalgic, and thinks warm thoughts about when it was a tree with the earth and the animals and the birds and the forest where it came from, and that’s why they smell the way they do. I also think that they’re probably happy to be a book now, especially if the words in it are put in ways that keeps it being carefully held and read, even again and again by someone like me.
I haven’t heard laughter so light in a long time. It’s as if it were made of feathers dipped in helium, finding their way to me over the seas, out the earpiece of the telephone and infecting my face with a smile that my heart made whole.
I do my best to be me, to not offer what I think you want to hear. I search for what I need to say and say nothing less…
because there are too many games, and there is far too much bullshit. The rivers cried are seldom mine anymore, though I have travelled down their agony; at times breathing in death, at times becoming the rainbow that the mist created…
It is not a simple fight, but it is worth it
and my past clings to me, and everything makes me more than the magick of now.