I think, like most people, my relentless search is for something much bigger than myself.  The sensation is almost impossible to describe.  Hm, like a memory that I just cannot pull together.  I keep thinking there is something I am supposed to be doing, right now, at this one moment, instead of just sitting here watching this colorful monitor.  At one point, I could draft an entire novella in a day.  Now, I struggle to eek out a single one-thousand word chapter within that same time frame.  What is it?  What has changed within me so much that my writing has become so abrupt.  I can see the stories, and most of them are already well-past finished in the spirals of my imagination, yet they refused to form whole and coherant bodies of work.

I’m intently waiting to reach that next level.  Eyes open.  Ears tuned.  Lips trembling with silent prayers.  I am finding the keys, but where is the door?

Does anyone else hear it?  Feel it?  Sense it?  Movement..a pulse..a beat..a whisper..a thought..an urge to gather..Waiting..watching..listening..as the slow and purposeful wanderer approaches..masked by the noise of this world, hidden behind the blinders we wear, but always real and ever-present.

Kisses like cream.  Taste sweeter than milky chocolate.

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