Life trembles like ripples on a pool, waiting for the change, the heave, the turn. We all walk along the edge, watching as our gentle pacing causes these ripples to spread and trouble the still waters, for in this way we know we're alive. Yet in our tender pacing, whether we look or not, do we ever look to the farther shore and wonder, what am I doing and could I do more?

So many days I have walked alone. So many days I would sit beside water and just listen and look. But water is such a drawing place and it is rare to stand alone. One by one people would come and question me, but not the pool or their footsteps upon it, and always, always, I'd be sitting there, brushing the pool with my fingertips and knowing somewhere, somewhere, on that far shore, my touch was making change.

But I am not as patient as the water, to pace it's slow way into a canyon. I know only the brief flame of life given to the mortal, and so instead of gentle circles in the pool, I long to reach my hand down, pull up the tranquility of that surface and throw a wave at that far bank so that the change I wish wrought may happen now!

Yet isn't now that hardest thing to catch?
Like droplets in your palms must fall away, so the nows slip between your desperate fingers and no action can be wrought with such carelessness.

Isn't that why the one who cheats Death and traps it away must learn that heedless greed only causes suffering?
What would happen if we could have Now?
Now for our wants and our desires?

What then would tomorrow be?

Light fading in winter

I react to the light leaving these days. As a creature of the night I wouldn't think that the loss of the light would bother me as much as it does. Yet nightly, I find myself curled up next to my window watching as the last rays of the light fade into their misty glow. Then all the lights come on, every one in my room, as I try to make up for the gentle warm light brought in from our glorious Sol, our unnamed sun. Eventually I'll let the curtains fall and accept the coming of the night. Then one by one I'll turn off my lights, as they prick my eyes into irritation and I decide the comfort of darkness is much more desired. Then come creativity in all her guises, precious muse to whisper in my ear. Let the hours not be marked, exhaustion my only timer, and darkness the cover to my creation. One day it will be by light seen, but for now, it is in its rawest form, a fresh cut ore and with my own fires I will refine it.
And so the night continues.