Thoughtful Thursdays

Blossoms of bliss breeze into burgeoning mists, billowing the day away. The horizon's a sunset lei, all carnation floret and orchid violet, a concealed twilit sky - cosset me in, oh, blanket of grey. Jasmine and trillium score my dreams in musical white and gaudy greens. In the morning, only wisp tails remain, ghosts aghast at blooming dawns, and fleeing, fleeting as ballooning spiders on gossamer trails.

Thursdays, Thor's days, though  scarcely as galvanic or striking as lightning, occasionally not unlike lying between a god's hammer and anvil. Today's music was broken, dissonant, merely a noise of decibels ground out in hours and ticking time.  A pandora's box of living, a burning punishment for a theft of fire.

The mornings are chilly, though the sun still slants through the sky. Fall is more agreeable when enamored with the symbols than the inclement weather, and expecting chills that eventually transform blankets into the womb of dreams, a warmth I'd rather never leave. Waking in the mornings, greeted by a night still charged with darkness, where is diligence and motivation? My scrawlings in my journal tortured and illegible, like crow claws dragged through ink. Why is a raven like a writing desk? Nevermore.

Tomorrow is my little brother's birthday. Happy birthday, little fellow. I'm ever praying that you turn out greater than I, faithful and true, honest and kind, a gentleman and a scholar, a believer in great and good dreams. May your tomorrow and all your tomorrow's tomorrows possess an irrevocable destination without falter. When you misstep, learn still greater things from these than even your triumphs, for this is the human experience. Test boundaries, for many exist only in imagination, and beyond those fences, illumination resides. Be ever wise.

Here are a couple of quotes for thorough Thoreau Thursdays.
Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.

What you get by achieving your goals is not as important as what you become by achieving your goals.

I just wanted to write something worthwhile, and sleep isn't forthcoming. My muse is shivering and huddled near my heart, and my fingers are still typing. Sometimes, I just can't write anything I like. Tonight is such a night. I drank ginger beer (no alcohol... just ginger. who do you think I am?), ate stir fry, read, and sat before my computer, tabula rasa. I'm not thinking - am I,still? Oh, you silly sophist brain, sleep. Maybe tomorrow you can write.