not quite but almost

The Way Of Things

An old diary sits isolated on an old wooden desk, covered in dust.  The pen sitting next to it has dried out.  The floorboards creak warmly; a static protest.  Only the desk is illuminated, a shaft of thick light penetrating the heavy air from the skylight above.  The weight of the dust is enough to keep the diary closed.

In some respects, I feel like I've been away from home for a very long time.  It's the feeling you get when you're wandering through a town you lived in during your youth.  You see things that you recognise.  You see change in places and people.  You still feel it's a part of you, but you're no longer a part of it.

I've not blogged now since October.  October, looking at it with hind-sight, really was when my life began.  Everything prior to that now seems to be a rather bloated prologue, stuffed with cliche and bad grammar.  If I were being precise, I'd probably say that the date and time in question were 15th October, and 8:30am respectively.

I suppose I'd better mention a welcome to 2006.  I think it'll be a year of change for me - changing my job, my lifestyle, my... shoes.   We're half way through it now, so I'm a late-comer to the 2006 party.  This, however, is taking the "fashionably late" thing to new places.

There is someone new in my life, I have a new job, and I know love.  In most senses of the word.  I've been proactive in some respects, negligent in others.  I have made wrongs which need to be righted.  I have made some people happy, and deeply upset others.    I think I have found a track to follow now, after 8 months searching.

Before I join the track, there are a few things to be done.

from an allegory

There is a small corner of a large forest. Sheltered by the strong, knotted roots of two large Oak trees, moss flourished on the rock in the centre. Beams of sunlight occasionally broke through the closed fingers of the vibrant green branches above, bathing the rich grass in a flow of warm kindness.

Beneath one of the roots, a tangled knit of twigs swirled together in a feather-lined nest. In the nest, two eggs supporting each-other. From the side, a robin observed, her small, unfettered face looking on calmly. A breeze gently shook the tall grass surrounding the rock, gently supporting seeds from far across the forest. The grass swayed back and forth, offering no resistance to the breeze, trusting in its strength.

A caterpillar climbed the rock, inching its way deliberately to the top. The robin looked on placidly. This was home. The caterpillar would be safe here, as the words of an unwritten truce seemed to be whispered by the brushing gusts. The caterpillar paused, and looked about it. Moving on down, and off the rock, the caterpillar seemed to betray a sense of achievement. It slowly moved on.

A crystal clear pool of water had collected, protected by the horizontal arches of two roots. It's unbroken, glassy surface reflected the cautious face of a squirrel, curious about the sight of it's own face. A waterboatman broke the illusion, shattering the image into a thousand tiny ripples as it skated across the surface. Slowly, the image restored itself, becoming stationary from a soft undulation. Content, the squirrel drank.

A paragon of tranquility, life and beauty, nobody ever knew it was there, and each time the full moon shone into it, each time the rain made everything slick with life, each time frost coated each blade with clean frozen dew, it cried out to be found.

Maybe finding it would destroy it.