Beltane Waxing Dyan Moon
I’ve never wished for melancholy, it always finds me when it will. I have, however, wished for a descended cloud, not fog, but a stepping off point for paradise, a place to enter the imaginary realm, perhaps withouth need for a return voyage and in its escapist way, its denial of now this wish does not lie far from the darker boundary beyond which melancholy lurks.
These days I’ve had a restless pointlessness, a wandering from project to job to book to t.v. This is, to continue the melancholy/paradise metaphor, a sort of purgatory, neither deep enough for blackness or high enough for light; it is, instead, a descended cloud that is fog, a barrier between purpose and action, no, more, a barrier between heart and purpose.
Slow, again. Like molasses. Also cotton in my ears, dark sunglasses on my eyes. I hear no evil, speak no evil, think no evil. I hear no live, speak no live, think no live. I dangle, neither here nor there.
