Centaurus has returned to the night sky, for some time now. He humbly guards over the Southern Cross, his sword ever ready to strike the glowing heart Antares should Scorpio lay siege. The scorpion waits patiently, his tail wound around the center of the galaxy, drifting across the celestial sphere, with his red heart exposed to the universe. To lose the Cross is to lose our bearing, our sense of time and place, and the heavens will fall to the Earth. Without a South, there is no North. Is he aware of the utter chaos that would ensue from his folly? His heart glows red, a star so far away that burns with such intensity, does it overpower his mind? Perhaps he has no mind. Perhaps he only attacks because the centaur defends.
On the Earth, among mortals, the Specter has returned. You cannot see her except for in times of darkness, when sadness engulfs the world. Until then she drifts under the opera of the heavens. She seems to be endeared by this season of death, though it only comes once a year, for she leaves her world far across the seas to merely pass through our world. She likes to watch the green life wither from grass and the fields burn to charred remains. One can never understand her fascination with Death, though it was Death that untimely took her without reason. Some say she is in love with Death and comes once a year to secretly witness his life. But I disagree; I think she comes to watch the world die.
The next two months will border the fringes of insanity. Getting things ready for Kamp Kwacha in July, then a VAC meeting, my sister and Henry are visiting in August, and camp begins as soon as they leave. September is the island in the distance and the seas are growing rough. I am ready to come home and reclaim the semblance of a life I have left. There are many things that have changed in me. I have learned to be realistic and not a daydreaming fool. I have learned that one cannot evade Death, he comes when he desires at no one’s convenience. And with Death around any corner, I think every day of what’s important.
My family. My friends back home. My memories.
I have also discovered that we never really fall from innocence; it simply secludes itself into protection. People never really grow up. In better words, there is no growing up; there is a layering of defenses to protect that child inside. The mischievous one that can love and hurt unconditionally. That needs attention, caring and love yet yearns to be free and explore a world of senses. I get satisfaction from thinking of myself as mature and grown up, but I too am only protecting a jealous child who is afraid of being alone and the dark. That sometimes wants to destroy life without thought but loves intensely because he knows of no other way. Impulsive and desires to explore the world without straying too far from home. This is the child I fear, love and protect.
I miss her more than ever, I don’t know why. It seems that in times of sadness my mind drifts to a happier time in a happier place. I don’t think of what happen anymore; no longer try to decipher a female mind. It does not matter and even if I do try I cannot remember anymore. But the happy memories are enough. They are a shining light in the darkest of days and without them I would be lost. So no matter the pain, the tears, the utter hopelessness that ensued, it was the gift of these memories I am grateful for. Wherever I am, whoever I am, I can love, I have loved and even a small memory of that can radiate a relentless hope. Thank you for these memories, especially in these months.
On the Earth, among mortals, the Specter has returned. You cannot see her except for in times of darkness, when sadness engulfs the world. Until then she drifts under the opera of the heavens. She seems to be endeared by this season of death, though it only comes once a year, for she leaves her world far across the seas to merely pass through our world. She likes to watch the green life wither from grass and the fields burn to charred remains. One can never understand her fascination with Death, though it was Death that untimely took her without reason. Some say she is in love with Death and comes once a year to secretly witness his life. But I disagree; I think she comes to watch the world die.
The next two months will border the fringes of insanity. Getting things ready for Kamp Kwacha in July, then a VAC meeting, my sister and Henry are visiting in August, and camp begins as soon as they leave. September is the island in the distance and the seas are growing rough. I am ready to come home and reclaim the semblance of a life I have left. There are many things that have changed in me. I have learned to be realistic and not a daydreaming fool. I have learned that one cannot evade Death, he comes when he desires at no one’s convenience. And with Death around any corner, I think every day of what’s important.
My family. My friends back home. My memories.
I have also discovered that we never really fall from innocence; it simply secludes itself into protection. People never really grow up. In better words, there is no growing up; there is a layering of defenses to protect that child inside. The mischievous one that can love and hurt unconditionally. That needs attention, caring and love yet yearns to be free and explore a world of senses. I get satisfaction from thinking of myself as mature and grown up, but I too am only protecting a jealous child who is afraid of being alone and the dark. That sometimes wants to destroy life without thought but loves intensely because he knows of no other way. Impulsive and desires to explore the world without straying too far from home. This is the child I fear, love and protect.
I miss her more than ever, I don’t know why. It seems that in times of sadness my mind drifts to a happier time in a happier place. I don’t think of what happen anymore; no longer try to decipher a female mind. It does not matter and even if I do try I cannot remember anymore. But the happy memories are enough. They are a shining light in the darkest of days and without them I would be lost. So no matter the pain, the tears, the utter hopelessness that ensued, it was the gift of these memories I am grateful for. Wherever I am, whoever I am, I can love, I have loved and even a small memory of that can radiate a relentless hope. Thank you for these memories, especially in these months.
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