Stories In Winter.

Every life is fraught with stories. Stories of an existence beyond the memories of the mind.

Some come to me in dreams while others hang on the edge of a formless thought.

All seem lost beneath a blanket of fresh fallen snow. Wisps of a time just beyond my reach, peeking like the last blades of grass rendering for the final breath of light.

There they lie. Absorbed by an ever changing landscape of experiences and speculation.

Most seem unattainable, but all lend qualities we can not yet ascertain to this momentary stop in this our cosmic journey.

The passages of time will continue to fall, and all in it’s path will seem forever a formless image, but beneath the qualm that shifts and reshapes like the accumulations of snow dancing in the wind, images will expose but a paltry piece to add to an ever amassing puzzle.

It matters not, these stories painted white on white. For me they are indulgences in which to bind meaning and excitement to a life already permeated with expansion. The inspection, though full of enthrallment and promises of magic, allows for a momentary solace like one would use a puzzle. To gaze searching for the next piece of a work that will never truly be done, but will tantalize me to attempt it’s grandeur non the less.

So as my eyes peruse the geometrics of winter descending weightlessly on the breeze, I configure yet another specimen to an already abundant story. Each segment coming to a momentary cessation upon which to discover and speculate what may lie within each spatial branch of an already miraculous essence.

Ruby Koevort, One Mind’s Book of Incomplete Thoughts