Where we are...

To The Lady on the Train,

I don't know where we are - but wherever that is - I know that I am beside you.

The Man in the Station

In your dreams...

Angel,

I hope that you slept well. And when you slept I hope you dreamt.  I hope that your dreams took you to secret places of wonder and beauty - the place in your heart where a secret candle burns, ambered light casting flickering shadows looming larger than your own body.

I hope you dreamt of swimming under a clear blue ocean - gliding and turning to run your hand along her smooth belly of a great whale as it swims above you - and to feel the power of its mighty tail as one final thrust propels it to a final farewell, in a wild current water and white bubbles.

I hope your dreams took you to flight - bursting through white clouds into a brilliant sky. Your outstretched fingers to touch the feathered wingtips of a golden eagle - sharp eyed, sharp beaked, and a piercing cry of triumph. I hope you soared high enough to see the world as a blue marble - a jewel on black velvet - and a million tiny diamond forever in every direction.

I hope you dreamed of holding the hands of loved ones - those who love you and watch over you. I hope that you spoke of all that you need to know. I hope that in your dreams you know that they are always there.

I hope that you dreamt of standing straight and tall and proud. I hope that you dreamt of your happiness and knowing where it was. I hope that you dreamt of all the beauty and wonders that are within you. I hope that you dreamt you.

Just me.

 

 

 

Owned...

To The Lady on the Train,

There isn't a part of me that you don't own. There isn't a part of my life where you don't fit.

The Man in the Station

Te o Toriatte

To The Lady on the Train,

Te o toriatte Kono mama ikō
Aisuru hito yo
Shizuka na yoi ni
Hikari o tomoshi
Itoshiki Oshie o idaki

From The Man in the Station

East Coast Camp

Angel,

In front of me is a small crackling fire of poplar and birch. Just behind me
is calm slow river. But for the very first yellow leaves of autumn landing
on its surface, you could hardly tell that it had a current - the surface
only broken into small ripples by the fish along the riberbanks.
In this part of the country, the mountains have been ground down to dark
rolling hills and the valleys are thick lush green lands of incredible
beauty. Early morning mists coil like magic. Until the sun turns the land to
an emerald streaked with the emerald blue river.

And there is sky here - high and blue, or ceilinged with clouds - but not
hemmed in by buildings and noise and choke of the city. Here, the sky
promises of an unknown treasure just over the horizon, just beyond where you
can see.

It is the promise of that treasure that calls the traveler ever forward. It
is what beckons to the heart of every adventurer. And all of us, nomads in
our own way, pursuing our own quiet desperate quests, we push forward toward
the next horizon.

We push forward until hunger or tiredness or some ache of loneliness calls
us to stop for a rest - which is when we discover that the smoke of our fire
rising above the treetops and drifting over a silent river signals that the
magic just over the horizon is actually right here.

Just me.