journal-11, arrival

I had forgotten or dismissed all of the ingredients. jambalaya in the pot, zuppa di pesce, or what have you. regardless, what I'm saying is that something didn't taste right. so years went by and life rolled along and I got used to the hunger, never choosing to indulge. nothing seemed appetizing. or my palate changed. or I swallowed my tongue in my sleep. I really don't know

numb: its a feeling of not feeling. hold a flame to the skin or be kissed by a beautiful smile... but nothing. no reaction. its that absence

there comes a time of change. everyone has a spring season. I sat in my winter and got used to the cold. it felt awkward to dream of the warmth of sunshine. where in this pale surrounding were the colors the others played in? underneath or above or beyond what I saw before me? I heard laughter in a vacant playground. the whiteness stretched out for miles in all directions. somewhere things were blooming, I just couldn't see it

you have to be willing to be rescued when the chance comes along. what I'm saying is that spring is not a place, its an arrival. an acceptance. you allow the thaw. you look inward and outward to see the colors. you feel the blooming everywhere

I hold one persons hand now, and it fits right every single time. the hunger is gone because I am now fed. I taste completion. I feel the kiss and I feel the flame. these colors are new and they are all around me. they come out of nowhere, they come from within. I look at her and I constantly feel the arrival. I wish I could explain it more. perhaps... as these years go by

( my photo )