Enga mellom fjella

Every utterance

I barely survived my time. My childhood, my teens, my twenties, my life... yes, there were good times, but overall I lost my self in gloomy shadows. Too many generations of mistrust and secrets refused to allow my thoughts of joy to reach the surface or rid the pimple's ichor. My laughter was forever to be shushed and smiles were seldom seen and then self-conscious.

"Death is a Messenger of Joy" I read when I was 20. I embraced its cooling balm of healing and welcomed it's imminent arrival. It arrived late like most things in my life. I'd always thought that there would be deliverance at the end, but first one had to get through living indigestion. Later one could reminisce and ponder... what WAS that shit... what WAS that all about... and was it really really necessary?

Now, long past the light that knows no shadow, only sorrow spares the dimness of my empty sight, of shallow pools reflecting only half-remembered moments, mirrored as if... as if to fool me into thinking "this was worth it".

Was it? I think not, but then I wonder whether others felt the same. Their games of seeing faults, the could've-beens, the should've-beens adding up to bankrupt days. Did the living ever notice that this shame-and-blame could never matter? Most did not. They lived each day as if their end-time in a pool of stars did not exist. I whispered to them in their dreams, "your reflection in this star-time does exist and so do you and I."

And so I begged you look beyond your waking thoughts as kindness left a dimple, rippled cross the surface of your hours, obscured the pain found in life's depths, that sallow puddle, poisoned muck and tepid thirst. I asked you to behold each breath that all inhaled, exhaled without a thought. For when you joined me, you would try to breath and fail! For air's forever still without the lungs to move it. And no sound bellows from un-uttered screams.

"Utter then your dreams," I said. You wrote them down, your lifelong art. "But do not be deceived when no one reads their fading ink."

Except this waiting heart.

breathless
every utterance
remains

"Every utterance" © Kåre Enga [163.99] 2009-06-20

I started the above today (since edited and expanded) in a blog comment at ShellySunshine written on my laptop, not in my notepad. .

I had salmon for a late lunch. It was orange. I spoke with a worker at Paperworks; his favorite color is orange (mine too). I made a triangle for the anniversary of their being open for a year. It evokes an African mask; the pupils of its eyes are black snowflakes in two irises of orange.

I am promising myself that I need to soak in some bubblebath as my back is aching. Need to adjust the straps on my backpack (Livinia gave me some ideas). Can't imagine going through this ack-ack the entire time on my upcoming 'vacation'.

The last two nights of rest were better than it has been but time will tell whether the valerian root helps. It is non-toxic so I'm not too worried about how much I take, but it does stink... So when I saw Lori I bought some lavender to put in my pillow.

I joined WDC 4 years ago and immediately put up as many items as allowed. I started my blog "L'aura del Campo"  on June 20th, 2005. When I finished it on September 20th, 2007 it had nearly 24k views; it now has 32.5k.

Early items:

"First drum set" 
"Speak soft my name" 
"A radiant moon has set" 
"Boise City" 
"'heart's home'" 

were warmly met. Two now have over 100 r/r and over 900 reviews. Which will reach 1k first?

Two more early items:

"Of mice, owls and moonflowers" 
"At two" 

have over 700 views apiece. Longevity does count! Promotion doesn't hurt. Certain themes like "death" do not go out of style. Fortunately, neither does "childhood".

Montana: A pleasant semi-cloudy 71° at 3 p.m. in Missoula.
Costa Rica: A misty after-the-rain 72° at 3 p.m. in San José.

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