The close-knit drawings appeared again, along with the (thick) smoke, appearing, dissipating, re-appearing, perhaps with breath.
I looked up and saw a young crow wanting to fly. A white speck falls and the wind takes it east.
Like my wrist, I feel like there comes a moment where you have to decide if you can continue living like this, with some sort of obstacle, or if you are willing to go through possibly more pain with faith that it will be better if changed.
What if we did it together? Made something together that filled us with light instead of sucking it dry?
He suggested we put on our wellies and head for the river. What I found was a clear blue sky; in place of beams, rippling sunshine, glittering minerals lining lips of silver. Next was tall grass and curly roots turned upside down as their earthly worlds crumbled into the current. A broken stem, keeping pace with the flowing water, turning around, again, once more. His stick may have been bark and that's why it came to join mine, though just ahead. or was it the water, or maybe both? too many variables.