A Lyrical Essay Inspired by French Adventures
A golden train crossed the way, presenting itself, beckoning the question, to go or to stay, but it was never really a question, the answer hidden within the engine’s roars as it stole life, minds driven wild from the absent itinerary.
Inch forward, to the train. Entering the door, feet submerge into an icy liquid, landing upon stones, balance thwarted from slippery moss thriving in such a habitat. Willingly let all surprise, all sensation, escape. Embrace the unexpected, and slowly the sting of the water and the unsteadiness will cease. The gold replaced by the setting sun, the engine now the roar of the stream, the train beating hearts urging movement onward. A mirage of myself.
A city of lights illuminates the sky in the distance. Although one home is left, another is found. A home never truly a home, never a material or physical entity. Not simply a house, architecture illuminated for temporary recreation. A home internally is the destination, the ever-winding journey to never really find it.
Mist shyly prances down from the Heavens, and beyond religion, this provides assurance of God. He has full attention as the moisture collects in droplets atop foreheads, nestling into the wrinkles as strained faces appreciate the beauty. Without lowering the gaze, wiping skin, rubbing the dew between thumb and index, intimately absorbing Mother Nature.
Sticky weeds and briars, thistle and flowery plants. Minty aromas—rosemary and thyme, perhaps. Smells of the Earth and of a kitchen, a true Garden of Eden.
A bird or a lizard, a creature of movements and sounds, scurrying, to say hello or who knows. Suspense of that which the eye cannot see, the dangers of make believe. Snails and lizards and things that slither, at one with each other, nothing but breathing beings as we fixate together in harmony. Still, slight chills as barks and growls howl in the distance below the hills.
Sitting in the middle of a brush, at twilight. Clouds, hidden within the dark air above, open up to reveal the stars. Three of them dip, exploding and melting and crashing all around, but all so delicately. Inspiration bubbles through left hemispheres and flows from fingertips, overtaken by a higher power, phalanges simply messengers for the spirit. Shaking from the night breeze, they tremble in effort to portray emotion.
Warmth from the journey, from heat escaping warm bodies emitting conversation that enlightens the soul, all we really having in this world, our memories of conversation and photographs, all stemming from adventure, from travels, from those that can parallel similar experiences, bouncing their energies off one another.
A recollection of what’s over our shoulders and what’s to come from the trek beneath our toes. An appreciation for the icy river, for what once froze ankles reminds of the heat above shins, a mental trick: the glass half full, never really half empty. The beauty of perspective.
A magnetism for life, constantly repelling and attracting, pushing and shoving, always in motion for a new beginning, a beginning stuck happily in the middle, never actually at a starting line, perhaps at times juxtaposed at a crossroads, but never one dead ending, all entwining and revolving and leading to their intended purpose, despite the chosen turn.
Never settle; never stop; never change from always changing, as a wise man once said, simply blossoming into what you’ve always been.
The meaning of life simply involving the linking arms of neighbors on the search for kindness, the kind of karma that encourages the rotation of Earth’s axis for the golden train to rise another day.
Above, the constellations connecting to Christ, a modern day connect-the-dots, a reflective map of paths to come, the image behind the image, a dream of belief.
Wild dogs whispering, sending shocks of fear down the spine to toes resting cozily inside sneakers, desperately trying to keep warm. The golden train at a pit stop for the night.
Sing us to sleep, as I dream of reality.