Maybe?

Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the state of mind. Maybe it was the inspiration. Whatever it was -- I loved it, and I still do. It may not be a constant I may not always stop and think to myself "This is why I'm here, this is why I'm doing this," but somewhere inside of me, I know answers to questions that have never been asked.

Christmas time is here again.

A snow-covered ground plays host to feet rushing off to buy last minute presents while cookies bake in ovens and egg nog sits in frothy glasses. Santas on every corner, misletoe in every doorway, garland on every rail, bulbs on every tree, gifts hidden away in every closet. Children counting down the days, mothers reading stories, fathers wrapping presents, dogs and cats playing happily by the tree. Is it I and I alone who walks with a heart of lead and nary a thought of yultide joy?

goodbye my sweet, sweet youth, goodbye

The dawn is breaking and youth is fleeting. A new life is on the horizon, but memories wander the edge of these new and uncharted lands, much like ghosts wandering between this world and th next. They circle 'round me, begging for one last walk. I gladly accept and we head down the path, snow crunching beneath our feet. We've taken this walk before: in happiness & in sorrow beneath the burning sun & below a clouded sky both alone and with our dear, dear friends. Halfway there, we meet our dear friend music. He's been with us (my memories and I) for as long as we can remember, but even more these last few years. Memories & melodies keep me warm; I am grateful for them both. We reach the stream, its frigid waters sparkle with reminisence. The ghosts of my memories take the shape of a day in early spring: a picnic with a friend. I blink and they reform: A frustrated evening spent on the swings alone, sorting through teenage angst. Images fade to nothingness and melodies give way to the chirp of birds. My memories glide toward me & the melodies of my youth hold my hand. It is time to go home & in the morning, we will move on.