Two years, and I Write...

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The hard sound of guitar and rough vocals flooded over me again and again as I drove the vast expanse of miles—the mileage that swept beneath my tires, though storms and rain; ominous cloudbursts similar to those of two years ago.

As the miles of road blew past, my mind careened over the past two years of my esoteric life: the alterations, the battles, the good as well as the bad times…all of those infinitesimal moments that have brought me to the here and now.

I slipped in and out the present as the mesas and sandstone cliffs—veiled in grey storm clouds—peeked from the heights above me as the arroyos, now flooded with overflow, ran freely through sand washes and open landscape toward the rising Swell off to the west, rising up like tidal wave of stone from the desert.

And again and again the melody thundered from the speakers, the words were pouring through my mind; it was if I were hearing them for the very first time:



It’s been years since they told her about it,
The darkness her body possessed…

It’s a blur since they told me about it,
How the darkness had taken its toll,
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a piece of my soul.
And now I’m still learning the lesson,
To awake when I hear the call,
And if you ask me why I am still running,
I tell you I run for us all.

I run for hope
I run to feel
I run for the truth
For all that is real
I run for your mother, your sister, your wife
I run for you, and me, my friend
I run for life.

It is now night...two years ago today though.

I moved out to the front porch and sat in the near silence as the night enveloped the neighborhood. A few crickets chirped off in the empty lot as a few stars peered through the clouds overhead. From somewhere up the street a dog barks and reminds me of where I am.

Why, two years later am I still writing about her?

To sort of quote Melissa Etheridge:

I write for hope.
I write to feel.
I write for the truth.
For all that is real.
I write for your mother, your sister, your wife.
I write for you, and me, my friend
I write for life.

In my head, the song still plays; the hard sound of guitar and rough vocals floods over me as I gaze at the heavens. And still, another year of journeying storms and sunny skies await yet in the wings.