Breaking the dam

A name, a sound, a texture seen in a light cast by a late afternoon sun. These are what it takes. The unexpected, the moment of insight after scales have fallen with the dried mud made from spittle and dust. Yes, I have been blind these past few months, unable to see words worth writing, thoughts worth sharing, ideas worth investigating. For a reason unknown to me, I had to write today, tonight, I cannot sleep until I find new words, new phrases, new reasons to take the time to shape the invisible language of thoughts. A smell not easily indentified, waifs through the open door to the upper porch. The moon has not yet risen, the heat lingers from the new summer. There is a kind of simple release in the connecting of words. It is a way of health, a path down which I have not traveled in many weeks. I feel the damage from negligence, from ignoring the pain, from the damed up silence leaking through the cracked reservoir. It is like tears falling in rain, unnoticed in the flood, but stinging like alchohol as they squeeze out from under closed lids. Unseen: the way of sadness. A new sculpture finishing in the studio, the head upturned, blackened nose and mouth with its stain running down to the chest. The ladder made of damaged branches tied with twine not strong enough to hold. A piece of the lingering sadness that moves at the deepest levels of the unconscience. At the still point of the turning world, there the dance is. Ever still and in stillness ever moving. The way.