The Person I Intended To Be

Lock up your libraries if you like,

but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt

that you can set upon the freedom

of my mind.

Virginia Woolf

After I made pink lemonade, I sat in my white wicker rocker under the cover of the patio.  I think I was half-wishing to be drawn back into time, to be found on my old screened-in porch, and to have little feet gathered around me.  It was a time when I was secure and not afraid to be bold.  Not yet did I know the magnitude of the challenges in life, but I don't think I would have been as discouraged as I find myself of late.

Twenty-four hours of my life passed by today.  In one sense it feels like a loss, but in an other, is it more of a gain?  Where is home anyway ... is it here or is it there.  I am not who some others expected, and yet, here I am.  The person I intended to be.

Round or square, hot or cold, black or white ... choices I don't seem to care to make.  I hesitate to speculate as nothing seems to be what it appears.  Left or right, up or down, above or below ... all decisions for others to make.

The sun has hidden itself as the rain now pounds down.  The humidity feels like a sadness hanging on me, like a heavy wet woolen coat.  The splashing of the rain drops refresh my toes, but these clean feet have no desire to go.

I seem unable to quench the thirst still lingering in my heart.   I am ever so grateful for the splendor of my mind, but long for an artistic flair to dissipate my despair.  The ancient freedom of my mind whispers, "simply let it be."