Empty Pages

When you've sat and stared at an empty journal - or past, really - or an empty screen for long enough, you realize you are too tired for writing.

Hello, empty page, what say you?

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Ah yes, that's kinda the point, isn't it?

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How many stitches, how many times must the needle enter and exit before the quilt is made? Every shudder sets the thread painfully free - what freedom is that? Blind, bereft of beauty, a thread without an eye. Love is not the luffing sail, but tacking into the wind. Oh, and it's such a wind that drives dreams through the sky above the clouds of sea, into a world where setting and rising sun meet.

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Well?

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Almost Christmas eve, and the rain hammers the walls and windows without relief, a lullaby that settles the house into a Christmas silence, where not even the rodents dare disturb the Christ child's sleep. 

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Good night to you, too. Isn't it all just doodles, anyway? Why this congestion of thought that stumbles forward like a sinus headache, and none of it parseable into coherent thoughts I may ink. Good night, deer, nibbling at frozen grass near the trees. I hope I enjoy this as much as you.

I think I'm going to suffer being sick at Christmas.

The sky was bruise black, today, an eeyore hide of sky, not the jaundiced bruise of impending tornado. And the rains dutifully came, washing our sighs away, and breathing new scents of pine into the mountain air. Does the night smell of lightning to you? I can see it in the doe's eyes.