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Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
One thing about getting old is you look back much more than you look forward. It only makes sense I suppose, since there is more behind than ahead. But it's also a sense of loss, and wishing that old times and the people there could be brought back. Last night, I fell asleep for a minute or two and the television woke me. When it did, I was in the kitchen of my childhood home, talking to my mother. Both have been gone for many years. But it's always a difficult transition from comfortable dream to reality. I found this little poem in a file of doodads and scribbles. Don't know where on WDC it might be found, but it's probably out there, somewhere. Never believe a dream, that shows you what you want to see. Never mistake your desire, for somnolent prophecy. So often I wake, in a place I hold dear, until I open my eyes, and your face disappears. Or, as Roy Orbison put it: In dreams I walk with you In dreams I talk to you In dreams you're mine all of the time We're together in dreams, in dreams |