| HELLO AGAIN ! |
| From Veronica |
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| I Guess I Was Just "BORN TO RUN" |
| THEY SAY THE EYES ARE THE MIRROR OF THE SOUL. IF THAT'S TRUE, THEN THIS IS ALL YOU NEED TO SEE OF ME. THE REST OF ME, THE IMPORTANT PART, I LAY BARE, EXPOSED BLOODY BUT UNBOWED, UNASHAMED BUT NOT PROUD. |
| Life is made up of a string of experiences, each of which when woven together form the tapestry of a life. Sometimes, as in my case, somebody "drops a stitch" and there is a flaw in the tapestry. Enough of these flaws and the entire fabric simply can't hold together as a single piece. There are those people, albeit few in number, who have the skill within them to make repairs on their own. Others are lucky enough to come across people who are willing to spend the time and help with the repairs. I fall into the latter group, and some of you who know me from the Internet have been one of those who took the time to stop and see the value in me. Outside of this medium, I have few friends (many acquaintances) but just a few whom I consider true friends. This page is dedicated, at least in part, to all of you |
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| My bark is worse than my bite. Photo by Veronica |
| RAIN I remember rain, cutting through wet clothing like a sharp cold knife against warm skin. Looking up through dew drop eyelashes the sky, a bruise, shows no mercy. Night, its darkness already approaching, casts a shadow punctuated by lit windows in buildings where warmth and food and maybe even love rests on soft pillows. Christmas lights, like jelly beans tossed by some giant, scatter bright colors on the licorice streets shiny and wet with rain. Blowing into stiff cold hands my breath, puffs of smoke, create a momentary warmth. A doorway looking like a baby's yawn holds out the hope of relief from wet wool and chafing bluejeans. Standing, back pressed flat against unyielding door, I look for...someplace friendly. Hunger, twists in my stomach, thinking about food eaten two days ago. People rushing by with umbrellas, to where? Homes, families, dinner. I close my eyes making the pictures disappear, forcing the hurt, now in my throat, to a corner of my mind. Warm tears mix with cold rain making a salty drink. I try to catch faces with my eyes but blurred images ignore me. I am invisible, not only to myself but to everyone. Sleep is an escape from life, from hunger and hurt. Sinking into the doorway corner wet and cold I create my own warmth in my jeans adding water to water. A hand before sleep drifting eyes touches my cheek, a warm hand, a dry hand. I feel myself standing or was I lifted? The hand takes mine, small in large, wet in dry. I'm not invisible to the hand as it leads me out of the doorway into the rain. I follow not caring to whom the hand belongs or what it wants. I only know I will be dry. |
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| If you liked my pages...or even if not, I'd like you to sign my guest book. Too many of us leave no footprints. Too many of us are afraid to say what's in our heart. Oh yes, we often speak our minds, that's easy. It shares only thought..opinions...advice. But to share your heart with another...well now, that takes courage. |
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| A THOUGHT OR TWO It's our choices that show who we are...rather than our abilities. There are things known, and things unknown, and in-between are the doors. We are not what we know, but what we are willing to learn. Rational thinking is a trap. Simplicity isn't easy, and being at ease isn't simple. |
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