It’s been 6 months since I drew the black cloth across this mirror,
six months since my best reader took his leave,
moving on to a place where all that can ever be written has long been known.
And though it wasn’t entirely that loss which stopped my writing,
it is thoughts of him that move me to write again.
I heard an owl late last night, calling out into the darkness again and again.
Low and mournful, yet steadily.
No answer came, but the call continued until I fell asleep.
I woke up thinking about my friend; how he might hear the voice of that owl
and come up with a tale about destiny or faith, how he might connect all the tiny dots
between fact and fantasy to create a story full of meaning and enlightenment.
And I guess that's what I keep struggling to accept - that life is basically about each of us
making the daily effort to connect those dots, no matter how fragile,
reaching for enlightenment by creating our own meaning.
Calling out into the darkness whether an answer comes or not.