The long journey home.

It’s like stepping into a childhood dream and living it all over again. A foggy memory come true. It’s reaching and touching the nostalgia that until that moment lay buried deep within. It’s allowing my heart to feel again. A deep sigh. A tired exhalation. A secret spoken out loud. It’s touching a portrait from long ago and watching it come alive. It’s smelling the jasmine out on the porch and finding my way through the lost alleys of my childhood. The familiar smell of you. It’s closing the door to the seven year distance between us. The past merging into the present. My two worlds collide. It’s knowing I’ll see you soon. The long journey home.

~vagabond~ © 2010

Unwritten

The saddest story ever told is the one that hasn’t been written yet. A dark tale of a heart that weeps, its blood red nostalgic tears seeping and staining the dirty white snow in which it lays. Sitting atop once fond memories that now lie buried deep below this frozen ground. The cold winter wind moans in grief, sweeping furiously through the landscape before pausing reverently at this mound. This graveyard of memories, I visited it today. Bringing flowers, I placed my hand on my heart that weeps nostalgically, not once daring to uncover the memories from their burial ground, lest they haunt me. Not once daring to tell the saddest story ever told.

~vagabond~ © 2010

Writer's High

It’s the struggle of your heart to find just the right words with which to express itself. That obsessive urge to find clarity that consumes you. It’s the longing to be heard of the voice that screams inside of you that you constantly muffle with the noise of the world around you. A lost identity that searches for a face.

It’s that moment in which you sit at your writing desk and the world disappears around you, melting into an insignificant nothingness and all that remains are the memories that you revive, the dark fears that you confront, and the dreams that you find freedom in.

It’s that heat of passion in which your soul recognizes its truest self and spills itself out into the words that your pen furiously scratches onto paper.

That’s writer’s high.

~vagabond~ © 2010