I do not wish to think of bones, mere dust held together by moons. I focus on stories. I depend upon stories to hold together my given set of bones, though they scrape and burn as they disintegrate causing a fire of endless pain. I need stories to distract from this. I take no medicine. They research no comforts or cures. I write endless stories, not only to express my other world of dreams, ideas, persistent unfolding rooms and eyebrows raised, lashes asleep, or waves unending. They are me, I am them, and I am their translator, though no words or brushes could ever make them vivid to you. No one reads them, no ones can sense them…do you see this? Everyone is so very very lost. I keep our family aware, open, and alive. Where are all of the stories? Can you feel them? They are everywhere. They speak and dance and laugh and cry…there are trees in my eyes… There are stories. I write them down. My cursed bones can barely read my scribbles. I try anyway. We hear them, my breadcrumbs and keys for my baby, my salt sprinkles and downpours of sweetness for my husband, to follow. I do what I can with these sandy bones. I know that where I exist is beyond them, a plane walker.
All I ask of you is to do what you can with yours…be good to our worlds, and be grateful for what you do have, and can make….finding it all in the air you breathe. It is all there…always…just open your senses and, absorb. Truth is not hard to find. Love is everywhere. Breathe in this wisdom of stories flying, flying. Love it back. You are what is missing from your life.
Treat us well while we are here. We open the windows… Love, ~ Amor Milagre
