[Repost from 2012]
It occurs to me that it is a recognized voice, unexpected from its origin. Poison. Instead of the curse words that surface and shouldn’t be said, I wonder how I should respond with more description. I need a peacock to suck out the poison so that it’s feather plumes can transform it into beautiful colors. May the pen in my hand blot out the stink that arises from the pile that arrived in my text box with an invisible cloak wrapped about it. May I spill enough ink on pages to purge the ugliness and turn it into the light and beauty that is only sometimes glimpsed in this place we call Earth.
The wonder and awe of childhood is that these beautiful beings see right through these cloaks we use to “think” we are hiding behind. To them, cloaks are much more transparent. I am guilty of this myself. I’m starting to see it.
When I get honest and spill ink, I am closest to understanding myself and those that have nothing better to do than hurt me. On the flip side, I also recognize those with love in their eyes. They are who I seek.
The challenge of imagination can only expand and get larger when a person drops the anger and floats in a place where perception’s reality is but a veil of lace.
Imagine: I imagine this ever so subtle poison that many wouldn’t even suspect. While it wants to spread out and infect, I see it shrinking smaller and smaller until it is the smallest black dot that is no larger than the “no-see-em” insect that stings for less than a second and is flicked off and not thought of again.