There is over There.
Miles from where I am. Here is where I am.
Sitting. Wailing. Pulling out tuffs of grass.
Wondering if I will ever get There.
Because There is where the words come together.
Here is about irratiting things like stillness and balance.
Here is where words skid into sentences, sending dust flying and making me cough. Here is re-writing after the re-write. Head in hands. Then fingers hovering over keys.
Here is about reaching for some place I want to belong if only I could just... move.
There is where glorious paper realities live. My writing sticks its touge out at me. But it won't budge. It likes Here because this is where I am.
No one can work this hard and live here forever right? Like wind through trees. Leaves rustle. Moments. Pass.
Waves roll up on beaches. The moon draws the tide.
And I am going to find my legs.
One day I might be There.
Where I thought I'd die if I never arrived.
But then of course when I am There, then I am really again, Here again.
Because life is fluid. And the future is never home.
Here becomes home, every time you get There.
One day I hope we will go There together. My writing and I. We have dreams. Don't you? And when I knock on the door of There I will laugh and say, "Oh, so Here we are."
Magic. Hey presto. The joy of living in the now. The joy of finding joy half way up hills. Where ever your feet tread. Not easy... but I am taking in the surrounding landscape of Here.
After all There will always be There.
What about you? What do you do to enjoy Here while longing to be There?