TIRED THOUGHTS IN THE LAMPLIGHT

It is almost past midnight. I should really go to bed: wake up early, taste the dewy morning air and read with rested eyes, in one hand, an earthy mug of green tea, my Bible in the other, her pages wrinkled and tearing. But I cannot fall asleep, not now, not when my heart is beating like this; this story burning in me. 

Do you know, that when I write, I follow my thoughts outloud in my deepest voice, think; the weedy patches of grass between the edges of a gravel road. Perhaps too low for a woman who is not in her 50s nor a chain smoker, honestly, that's probably why I don't talk in it often, but I find it silly, when it is so comfortable and natural. Though I do sing in it. Good grief. 

Today, I met a friend to discuss a film project, which I am very passionate about and am awed at how details and people are pulling together Divinely. As we walked around the MOA, we watched people--thousands of faces, stories buried inside. I sat and read the faces best I could; just bits and pieces really, wishing somehow that my intuition and imagination would catch snag of a thread and tear one open, (not the person open of course, but the story, just so we're clear). I wish that I could sit and listen to those hearts speak and spill, those hearts, so many broken, diseased, calloused, wary, lonely, bitter, distant, lost, betrayed, doubtful, soft, searching, protective, ready, fearful, crippled, hopeful, stone... I wish I could sit and listen. For hours, my eyes on theirs, and absorb what they have to say, whatever it may be, even if the words are cruel, but just sit there, listening, not speaking, yet perhaps. 

I really should go to bed... these tired thoughts.

But I will sit here, at this lopsided desk, with its oddly carved designs that I had thought masterfully done, drink the silken night air spilling in from the cracked window, and write, and talk in my low voice to no one in particular, release this burning in fragile words that together creates something much more powerful.