Brains!

The storm is coming! The wind blows hot at first. Chunky clouds, swelling with rain rumble over the land , pregnant with rain. My head aches from the weight of the sky. “The Forest House” depresses me, and I wonder when I can see or feel that intensely again. I wonder if it’s happening now. I can feel myself being pulled in by words spoken; yet I have always been the one to say, “We’re never going to make the bus”. I wonder about it, what it’s going to be like when I am dropped from lily pad to lily pad, finally making it to LA. Words spoken now could be glimpses into that time, but also preliminary thoughts of disappointment may lead me to find out otherwise. Sitting here I can almost feel the way I used to be, rivers are flowing again. I just have to get to them. When I hear the music of the water I have to be careful not to rush through the woods to it too quickly, or I loose the sound to my own feet crunching in the under growth. It’s delicate like a snowflake, it could melt away at the slightest change to its environment.