Wild Blue Yonder

July 21, 2010

That Barbra Striesand  song has it all wrong.  Memories are not misty.  They are sharp and real, like throwing knives.  Maybe that is why it’s called a “stab” of recognition.  They are hovering everywhere here, ready to pounce on my unsuspecting subconscious.

No wonder I’m always daydreaming about running off into the sunset.  I think there might be a kind of peace in standing on the edge of the world.  Of course, the world doesn’t have edges, and if it did they might well be terrifying.

But.  Wouldn’t it be lovely to sit there and dangle your feet  against a blanket of stars?  You could pick them out one by one as they emerged from the vast velvet darkness.  Just sit there and watch until it got cold and it was time to come in.

There are things out there in the wilds that cannot tell one speck from another.  I am pursued by these memories, but I am not their captive.  All they ask is not to be forgotten.  I can put them carefully away on a bookshelf to be thumbed through again whenever i find the time.  Then I leave the room, cross the hall, shut the front door and pocket the key.  There are skies to ponder and hills to roam, but even the farthest wanderer has to have a home.


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