Fleeting Portents

I long to be a child

Oblivious to the pain

Always open and trusting

Enjoying life’s simple games.

I long to be a poet

And design my fate with words.

Or maybe a musician

And enchant all with my chords.

I even long to be an illusionist

And conjure all the wonderful things

But I’m good as lost in this cycle

Meaningless then my deeds would be deemed

Sometimes I long to be a pretender

And dwell in my clandestine world

With all my masks and facades

My cries then won’t ever be heard.

But I am simply a person

Whose soul wanders aimlessly;

I long to make the difference

In this world stained with misery.

I am me.

I don’t long to be

(someone else anymore)

I long to live.

2004

Driving.. crying.. raining..

Those aren’t what I remember anymore as I slowly open my eyes and become aware of the soft whisper of raindrops and graying skies right outside my windows … It IS the first rainy Tuesday morning.. Lovely.

SUmmer’s almost over, huh?

My wild sunflowers that line the University avenue, that looked up and waited for the sun’s kisses, are replaced by my fiery orange fire trees..

My beautiful portraits put me back almost to a blissful stupor..

I thank God for my renewed strength; the beautiful, orange flames that my fire trees shed remind me of every reason in the world to keep looking at things with the same glowing passion..

Sigh..