winterkoninkje | Alight the fires of Spring

"It's strange," quoth the non-random opening line generator. "It's all so very strange." The emotions of my life have followed queer courses throughout the years, uncommon channels carved in the stone and clay walls of consciousness. But even within the Strange there is that which is strange, that which does not abide the patterns 'midst the over-patterned chaos.

Me and Time have never been close friends, and so I cannot state with the utmost precision when it all began, or more rather, when it all did end. So too, me and Memory have been distant associates all to often, and so I fear myself unable to rely on her wise counsel to discern that fated moment. And yet, unspoken, there lies perhaps the knowledge of that seed from which now years later withers the fearsome bloom I dance so merrily 'round as outwards raises the storm of indiscretion.

In my youth it may be told that I was perhaps over-fond of staring out into the untold depths of other worlds which were all too often located in mundane locations such as out of windows too dark to see at nights, and on occasion between the hairs on the back of one's head which naturally led to awkward explanations and sheltered gazes. This was perhaps not the best means for social engagement as a child, and yet it was a tireless pursuit which kept me occupied and entertained down countless technicolor rabbit holes.

And then, as with all events in the world, there came a time when it all stopped. The dreams did not flow so freely, the worlds hid themselves beneath the bark of trees and under other refuge, and an overactive empathetic response slowed down like the ticking of an unwound metronome until like the music now it ticked, tocked, and stopped, discordant rhythms weaving themselves into the metre until at long last the weight of them brought down crashing the entire edifice of incalculable empires.

Yet — for always is there a "yet" — the memories of such star-spanning cogitations always lingered, tempting, taunting. The question of whether they would one day become again reachable looming ever larger until, ever present, the question vanished altogether save for whispered rumours in dark alleys and musty alehouses. Tireless, yet silent, speculation until after many long aeons doth stir beneath the mirrored surface of the Deep first in ripples and then at last in unquestionable vibrations some untethered beast. Welcome phantom friend. And with a sound not unlike slo-motion the glassy surface is parted into warped translucent baubles thrown into the air, the iridescence unbroken, as reaching out I am welcomed home.

...

This move has been good for me. The trip downtown follows a more diverse path, through interesting neighborhoods, more-urban centers if even they are not quite the most savory examples thereof. (Rose Quarter transit, I'm looking at you. And don't you get cocky over there Lloyd Center.) The bridge into town is the same as the Max crosses, though perhaps it is just the freshness of the change which casts the light to fall differently in the mornings as I cross, that cool river breeze wafting through the bus like a seaside breath.

I also got back in touch with an old friend again. Not the strangest of occurrences with this friend, though it'd been a few months. But the new thing was what came from that discussion. Back in the day we were quite close, a rapport as I have not known before or since. Since then we've gone into and out of touch, and over the years the unspeakable connection ceded into the mere closeness of old friends. In recent conversations I've fallen back into some of those old patterns however, feeling emotions I'd thought forever lost these past many years. Not feelings for her per se — that gives the wrong impression, not that I don't still care deeply for her — but rather feelings for life, for the world, some certain spark within me what animates my spirit and gives force to my actions.