Contentment and security bleed in through the doors and windows of my heart. Peace blows its fine wind across my mind. I fear for my identity. I raise my hand to beat the drum. Is my pulse still there if the beat of discontent is not? The warmth seeps in, my fingers uncurl. I resist the urge to tilt my face to the sun. How can I be I, if my countenance is not bleak? Mirth escapes my lips. Am I a creature of laughter?
Shadows play across the shade. My brain feels through levels of sheltered memory. I am old and age hangs from my brow. I am young and exposure stings my flesh. In all this, joy? Where can I enfold this antithesis? A child of extreme, yes. Brooding and rage; hounding and silence. How have sprinkles and starlight added to the mix? Purring, musing and sweet kisses. What am I in this embrace?
Write a collage.
The Horse of a Different Stripe
When I arrived at the horse and pony show,
I saw all there was to see;
there were Morgans, Walkers, and Paints.
Yet I couldn’t help but return
to this particular zebra,
the spark of my imagination,
the inspiration of my dreams.
There was no help for me,
I want what I want and need what I need.
It was all about spirit, all about soul.
The fire in its eyes matched
the burning of my heart,
ignition at the point of recognition.
Then I stumble, then I fall,
bad behavior and wrong thinking,
the selfishness of the self-involved
takes hold and runs my mouth, “
Nice mount, great steed,
But can nothing be done about these stripes?”
The flash in those eyes,
the knowing knickers, said it all.
I was trying to stay in my small place
and that would never work with her,
if I wanted the Zebra,
I had to be willing to go to Africa.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault