Sepia Silence

I tried to write a blog but all I found was rain and silence. I drew the silence unto myself, snuggling in for a mind-numbing cuddle. Silence initially manifests in black and white, like an old photo whispering sepia secrets, slowly mingling with my mind and stirring up color—stringing dreams across my soul like a gypsy clothesline.

When I close my eyes I can see eternity, the lofty things with no boundaries or limitations—my playground, my meditation hall, my burial ground. It’s such an unassuming place; who’d a thought that eternity resided on the other side of my eyelids.

I glide with the silence like a bird circling above in wide solo spirals, a hunger driven waltz on the day’s warm breath, posing on the tips of boney branches, puncturing the heavens, and pointing the way.

I wonder if silence is the same for everyone?

I fidget on my red futon, a Claymation character chained to the earth by my ankles with no place to go but down—six more feet perhaps, until I get my wings.

It’s still raining.

The clouds are always brooding over something.