The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" – Dream
Her Father loves her.
He has given her abundant chances and choices to find her way in the world. Even though she stumbles through life without a clue most of the time, she has ample opportunities to keep trying, again and again.
She does appreciate the rarity of it.
She is always looking beyond or behind where she is now. Never grounded in the moment. She is using those words again. The ones that leave no wiggle room. Never. Always. They should be stricken from her vocabulary.
She has a vision of the way her life should be.
She walks outside. The air is crisp and sweet and fresh. The sky is large and deep as only a clean sky can be. She feels the particles of life as part of her. She is the air. She is the sunshine. She is the sky. And they are she. She wants to cry from the pure joy of it. She does cry. Fat happy tears that wash her soul clean so she can keep going for another eon. She hungers for the feeling morning, noon and night.
She searches for that perfect moment.
It's in the smile of a baby while she waits in line at Walmart. It's in the glint of light reflecting from the melting snow. It's in the sound of a melody from a song she's heard a million times but today it sounds different. It's in the taste of a ripe strawberry as she chases the juice that runs down her chin so that she can have it all. It's in the smell of leather and spice on a man who walks by and glances at her with perfect green eyes.
She clings to the memory of perfection.
It's in the writing. When she has despaired of ever writing a coherent sentence again. When she deletes hundreds of words because they are not worthy of being flushed down a toilet. When she just knows - she just knows - her words are not even good enough to be called horrid because they lack any sort of emotion. That is when she no longer hears the sounds of the cars driving by. Her vision turns inward. Her heart bursts with the bright ecstasy of being the words. It no longer matters what the words are because she is the words and the words are she and she feels one with the All and her Father loves her because once again she's felt the gift.
By Jove, her Father loves her.