The shore of magical things.

womwodsThe romance of Ravel stretched out through the trees of the forest as long as the eye could see. The field was just around this corner or that one … I weren’t so sure. A haze coated the mossy floors and hints of orange and sepia peeked through an opening e’ery so oft.

I could live here a while I thought while lazily strolling the thick of the aging oaks and random pines. The pomander of distant flowers caressed my nose with a hint of autumn in its linger. T’were like a gentle kiss to remind me of a world I am sorely denied while conforming to the mundane haps. Lousy afternoons of fake smiles with lingering blips of horrid noise and glowing lights, my mind rockets to a plateau of subconscious environs.

There were brief encounters with cycling thoughts of what ifs. No artist would resort to a confined space and feel pleasantly absorbed and fulfilled. We commonly seek out a freedom that doesn’t exist in a cubicle or other workspace. The little deaths of that confinement can also turn into a grueling chapter about loss and disassociation with your peers. It is amazing what I have personally used as fuel for scribe.

Now I wanted to know what I could do to embrace this growing need, and what steps I could take to obtain my every dream. Have you ever had that a-ha! moment while also staring at the reality of it. Sometimes I wonder if something about it is lying to me in order to temporarily seize me in the exact position I am at until it feels like setting me loose into the world I belong in.

Running through the hazy environs of the forest would indeed free my soul. A heavy dark cloud would dissipate and the rains pouring of blessed tears. This is the land of forgotten dreams! A borrowed moment suggests the way towards the field and sea. The shore of magical things I thought; if only I could reach you now …


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