Skipping Stone

Some days I feel as a skipping stone
sharply thrown
How long until it drinks dark waters?


Spssh against the waters, raising a spray, fwoooo through the air, the waves whizzing by beneath the spinning stone, flat and volcanic. Sleep.

Fwoooo

The seas of my dreams were savage with squalls, last night, where the sleeping oceans tasted the tears of the sky. Dream-tales of friends beside, then waving goodbyes before dissipating into mists like ghastly wisps of twilight fog - graveyard mists. I slept and woke, drowning in an inexpressible sorrow, for the images on my bleary eyes were fleeting, but stained the somber shores of waking. I woke every hour for a few minutes, surfacing for moments..

Spsssh

Then awakened, and the morning drizzle and southeast breeze pulled over the hills the sweet resins of the forest, the pines, the maples, the birch and fir, the mighty elm and the regal plum. The rich scents of mud and chilling rain.

Fwooooo

Work was... different. The project is vague and disorderly, through no fault of my own, and much time was spent grinding out irrelevant details while important points gathered dust in the corner. Blind eyes turned onto difficult problems while we leaped over anthill obstacles, thinking we'd determined the course of the world, ignoring the mountains rising up before us. And always a definite consternation, lingering, of inhibited progress on milestones ill-defined.

Spsssh

But, freedom. I read, in its entirety, The Summer Tree by Guy Gavriel Kay, and though not the greatest work I've read, it contained some interesting developments and its flowery diction was smooth and easily read. I slept through my lunch hour instead of writing or reading, as intended, but the sleep was needed after last night's choppy

Fwoooo

Sometimes days are like skipping stones, ever striking the sea, dousing you in a salty spray like a slap in the face before you are, again, soaring above the waves. Today was such, though I believe it ended soaring.