A Stream Running Up a Mountain

O, love is never easy
It’s almost always out of your way.
It’s not the path of least resistance.
It’s not some words you get to say.

He is rough and she is gentle. He is smooth and she rocks like ice in gin. He is jittery and patient. She is cool and hot.

I love them.

My friends are splitting up, and I can’t be unhappy. If they say so, they say so. We all have corners of our life that beckon us.

They live together in a small space, but ok. Small spaces are relative. Actual space holds no meaning against the prairie grasses bending down in our minds. When we are lonely, we are lonely. When we are ready to make our way forward, our feet will itch, no matter the quality of our mattress or the curve of the leather against our soles.

Best to be willing, and to answer all the questions honestly.

In the middle of night, when I cannot sleep, I paint passionate fictions to try to ease myself back into dreamland. But I can never, ever carve out the kind of stories my own mind sculpts when I dream on.

There aren’t really any straight lines, thank Allah.

It’s stream rolling up a mountain.
It’s a wave rolling out from the shore.
I wish I could say I’ve never
Felt that way before.

–Mary Black “Treasure Island”