Friday, August 14, 2015

Westward Bound

The moment is pressed time, the  heavy shrill, shock of it when fingers first bend and grasp, an audacious charge, a surfacing up and out to a breathing knowing existence akin to the dizziness after a childhood spinning, blindfolded in the center of a bare living room. 
I thought maybe it was natural, me --some form of me --jolted into awareness. Now I suspect it is alien, a presence of foreign, indecipherable substance, this entity that has gripped me, graced me,propelled me into consciousness, whispering a long, long way to go.