Journal — Poetic Ramblings

The dream isn't grand, neither is the desire. Rather to create something that gives this chapter of my life meaning. Something to look back on, when I am older, or old, I suppose. Sitting on my porch, overlooking gentle rolling hills. Or perhaps it's a lake. Or a meadow. Or the sea. Or fields of lavender in Provence. Something to look back on. With a small content smile. "I did that once." That all these little things add to my makeup of my being. I do not want to be...

Maybe if I speak it into being, This thing, This amorphous thing. Like trying to grasp fog.  I see walls, And light, soft, natural, And shadows too, Since one cannot exist without the other. And this desire to create, to show, to share. What these two hands are capable of,  When heart and mind are at play. These things take time. And I know, once the path is lit, I'll thread easily down that road, But for now the map feels too bare. Everything feels too forced. Feels lacking.