I part my lips to speak only to be choked by a cartoon question mark as it squeezes through my teeth (with a pop – the comic sound integral to a child’s world) and floats gently in front of my eyes, as if saying I never have the correct punctuation to make sense, not now, maybe not ever.

I can live with that.

I toyed with the idea of dark stairwells and waiting for life to happen, played with the thought that there’s an end to begin somewhere between the start and the finish (but definitely not the middle).  And there’s always a limit, a number to count to and a wall by a door – I’d like to find a door without a wall around it – wait, I have, and it was violently beautiful.  Never mind that.

It’s all a riddle, the delicate placement of pieces to construct a portrait – a twisting, spiraling journey to the edge of life and back, perhaps there is more sensation on the edge than in the middle where ribs crack as they twist at awkward angles.

I find that I’m not remarkably coherent anymore.  Or even, I just enjoy not making any sense whatsoever.

In the calm before the storm, the sunlight we emit pours from our open eyes and into the hearts of others, filling up rigid cracks with a slightly adhesive bond as we try to provide a barrier from the looming tempest ahead.  We watch grey clouds pick up speed, tripping over one another in their race towards our blue skies, never trepid in their advance to transmogrify our mood.  And seemingly enough, nature is representative of our disposition, presenting us an option for mea culpa but remaining a stolid judge against our case.  Our fingers interlace with the ones we love, sweaty palms gripping together in an attempt to hold on and hoping that the moments to come will prove vapid.

Everywhere I look I see wood blocking out the light, the glass we cherish covered selfishly as we rush to protect the things we hold dear.  Families are crowding the marketplace, buying every last supply they can think useful in the days to come while children listen to their heartbeat increase with excitement – no school for the rest of the week.  Frantic glances, forced cordial responses…

And all I can think about is how beautiful the streets will look littered with debris; fallen trees and misplaced branches, pieces of signs and dead power lines, flooded roads and sand-blasted buildings.  While the entire town goes into a state of mock terror, desperately trying to predict That Which Might Happen Next, I can’t wait for the rain to pour down around me and the thunder to rattle my bones.  Obviously, it’s time we made our amends with nature… she’s ready for us.  By the looks of the chaos we create in a moment like this, we will never be ready for her.

The sheer thrill of something so much more than I am…

The utter excitement of not being in control…