Collection of what – stones, fools, books, dreams, stories?
I have no need of these things. For what is time but a passing collection of memories and experiences?
There are things I do collect, yes. Stories – experiences, dreams, memories.
And in my hollow shell that breaks, they leak behind me in a wave of molten rivers, pouring.
I feel the spark, my heart alive, brush strokes on a pale canvas, small and secure. He watches me gently, seeking my hands. Observing the stroke, commenting.
“Do you paint?”
“Not really,” I respond, but I’m learning as I express – I explain. I feel him smile.
Nevertheless, she would still pray in the dying hours. The hours between light and dark, in the midst of waking dawn and quiet slumber.
I didn’t know if there was a god, only that I could breathe, and there was some light, somewhere, when I looked up.