Blood, blinds, brocade, bravissimo

My poor blog has been neglected. For the last week, I have written nothing. I am sorry, o online piece of my mind, and I beg for your forgiveness.

I cannot sleep. My body is exhaused, and cries out for rest, but I can give it none. My finger is bleeding, and red is spreading between the acrylic veneer and true nail beneath as I type and stimulate the flow.

I look at the light shining between the slats in the blinds, vertical slits dancing left and right as the air from the vent rises up, it is morning, and I am afraid, uncertain. Dreams have been haunting my thoughts, situations of horror dwell in my mind. What ifs, and could it be?s float in and out, plague me, consume me. I have no control, and I don't know what to do, where to go. Fear, loss, irretrievable. So I sit on the couch, borrowed pillow and golden jacket in hand, and watch the footwork of the blinds. I pray, and trust, give up control. What else can I do? besides watch and wait... there is nothing.

A green brocade dress and a smiling woman, her hair is the same color as her dress, but it is red. How can this be? Do not ask, because I have no answer for you. Yes, yes, I realize green and red are complimentary (meaning they are opposites (this makes no sense (but then again, opposites do attract (or do they?)))). She plays to entertain, is her passion true or feigned? I cannot tell. She loves the instrument; perhaps it would be better to say it loves her. It will do anything for her. Caressing the strings with a horsehair bow, it sings for its lover. Sawing its sepia body in half with vigor and passion, it cries for the woman. No matter how she touches it, it rises to meet her. Does she appreciate its loyalty? Or does she only live for the chattering applause of a full opera house?

Passion. Love. Trust. Watery chai and latte minus the espresso. Candid conversations and runeful reprimands (or rueful?).

Feeling. I am feeling. Words carry feeling, but is feeling compatible with language? Or does it come in the form of a performance (encore, bravissimo) or in light flickering on bloody carpet as it pokes through vertical blind slats?

Broken windows, broken memories, broken beliefs.

But broken brings blessing. Healing, love. Redemption without loss is not redemption, right o my love?