missing pieces

I figured out how to do that first prargraph so it wont bother me, the metaphor-ish parts; I will add more details of place, bringing its tone down into setting location. More will be seen, thus the words will carry differently.

Yesterday morning while brushing my teeth, bits of story floated by. I wish I had just stopped what I was doing and written it down, but there wasn't time, Cheese would have been late for school. So I just jotted down some bits on the nearest thing I found. Later, I was annoyed at my inability to read it. scribble scribble (it is always hard for me to read my hand writing, even in my notebooks, words, ideas, get lost). I only meant to write down things, that would bring the ideas back to me when I looked at it later, but still, part was lost. The feeling of the moment did not get set down. After I dropped my son off, I sat in the parking lot, got my notes (clothing tag) out and wrote down more of it. But I longed to be able to read, a few words here and there, words that carried meaning and feeling, that cued more, words that can't be read, can't be known, can't be understood, so now carry nothing, but ink, a squiggle of color on a bit of garbage.

I wonder why I only write when I am supposed to be doing other things. I am sitting here right now, no breeze flows over me, carrying words and images. Brushing against my check, with its own, so I will turn toward it, kissing fully on the mouth. (yes, I know, that is wrong, I totally changed my imagery there. from wind, to lover. so? maybe the wind and I have a special relationship). No, I am alone. I must not be open. Though I think this is the thing that I want to do, I must actually be on my guard against it. While else would I work on it only when there isn't time, would I, only hear it then.

I do like the pieces that have come lately, they have filled some areas in, told me stuff, reassured me. That even if I don't feel I know all of it, it knows all of itself. And I do believe that if I take the time, and give it my attention, it will reveal itself to me.

I wonder if I will do that, take the time, give it my attention? I know eventually it will happen, sneak in around my other life, but I wonder if I will choose soon, to walk into that room, and sit down, and feel it all, and face it all, and not get up, not walk out, till I am done. Till we are fully a part of one another, this story and me. Today, both of us are untold, unfinished.

The treadmill calls.