I’ve never been able to see through your eyes but have always wondered what visions I may have encountered. Writing is a guide into more than simple thoughts placed with ink on paper, but a conscious mind awakened to possibilities imagined, theories contemplated, and fantasies envisioned.
Every story has a path that begins with a simple synapsis within the mind, a creative spirit that asks the question as to whether reality could afford its conjuring, a meiosis that duplicates an image and then allows its creator to pass along that which he sees to another in a reversal.
Every writer is a storyteller of sorts yet at times creates in another’s site images that are in concert with his own yet envisioned through the reader in a much different way.
I wonder what today’s story of a child in a garden seeking butterfly’s or a gallant knight upon his steed might appear to be in your mind. Do you envision yourself in this scene or that of a lost loved one from long ago, an animation as configured upon a palette or a tall ship whose master faces a fierce opponent in battle and if it is, what I may see?
He took to the meadows in search of his heart and far away did see,
The light of another a long-lost friend from times in his past when free,
And then in the distance, he envisioned white doves on a hill in the midst of trees,
Who flew to the ground and scattered like snow they covered the open seas.
The ocean his home and his sails in the winds and waters embraced with ease,
Those times in his past when he was young and wandered through thoughts, she pleased,
And in his pure mind, he saw that the world welcomed old memories sweet,
A place in that meadow where he first set sail a home which seemed a retreat,
To find that another’s stories he wrote a different point in their dreams.
For no matter where we are in this life or what our mind does see
It’s never the same when coming back home
Never the place it seemed.
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