Tea in the Space Between Stars

I remember a conversation I had with someone once where I was complaining about some petty relationship issue, and she looked at me and said, "Everyone just wants to be loved."

I stood there, speechless. All the energy removed from my opinionated rant. That was all that needed to be said. Such a simple, pure and gorgeously succinct statement.

I told a beautiful friend tonight that I know, deep down, the reason I long for deep and meaningful connections with people is because I miss having a family. It was taken from me at an early age. But that desire can't be fulfilled without the most profound and affectionate of relationships. If I cannot connect with someone, not only are they not my family... but I see no reason to invest in the relationship on any level. Because I think that to honor this thing we call "being human" - having the ability to love on such a deep level and having the capacity for empathy - we must give love and give affection on a scale befitting our human abilities. Certainly work relationships aside, as we must make room for practical and professional interactions.

Doesn't everyone long for this connection? Doesn't everyone want to experience love in a very intimate way? Why do so many suppress the emotion and avoid the intimacy? It seems so odd and such a lonely existence to me... but that is because I have existed basically all of my life as a passionate lover. I love. I am head-over-heels, madly, passionately in love. Always. I can't not be. It is... what I do. My art, my hands... what my eyes behold... it is all so much love.

I've never found any justification for a life lived without loving as many people as possible, as passionately as my heart would allow.

Eugene says his tea is not hot enough, and would I please warm it for him. I love him, so I will.

Fixed Purpose

All you have is time. Time that seeps, time that weeps... time that crawls into your crevices and chews on your memories. Moments of breath and woe, moments of laughter and light. Drifting off to sleep, starting awake. Every moment of your short life, how much can you feel? How much can you share? Is hiding an option? Or will time bring you into alignment after your self-imposed dislocation? Abruptly set right, the universe shifts into full focus, with time ticking, ticking, ticking... eyelids fluttering like delicate wings that, if you follow the line down to the body, are attached by constellation and with immeasurable fortitude.

The Craving only the Wind Knows

Eugene here. The Girl is hiding in the sea, where she believes her skin might be better prepared for the weather ahead. I took some time off from Race Training because I sensed that she would be in need of my services. As expected, I was dispatched to fly above a volcano, capture the fire, and bring back a treasure of light. I was also instructed to keep a close eye on her soul, which had recently been spotted dancing under the moonlight in a form not previously recognized. And just as I was about to begin planting the glass vials (that hold her precious tears) beneath the earth for shattering effect... I was recalled from my mission. It would seem that some form of distress had taken hold of The Girl's heart, and so I immediately began to fly home. Every now and again, she is startled by the silence of a skipped heartbeat. The wind could not carry me fast enough, so I had to make an emergency landing on a cloud and await further instruction. When it was finally safe to fly again, I found her curled up and holding her breath, waiting for What Comes Next. Once I opened the treasure of firelight and warmed her with it, she began to tell me the tale of her disturbing vision in the darkness. I reassured her that all was well, and she agreed that sometimes nightmares serve only as reminders to seek the safety of friendship in the face of tumultuous winds.

Point to the Horizon

Just woke up from a dream and grounded Eugene. Flightless assignmemt is going to annoy him, but apparently the wind couldn't carry him all the way home just yet.

Highest Order of Shine

Eugene and I were discussing fireflies tonight (before he hastily exited for Race Training... the Tournament is very soon.) He tolerated my head on his Pegasus belly for all but 10 minutes while I waxed poetic about the only thing from my childhood that I actually miss: fireflies.

Not just the shining little bugs, but also the sound of crickets at dusk. The sudden chill when the sun disappears. The little lights burning brighter and brighter as the sky sinks into indigo. The smell of damp earth and the feeling of wet grass beneath my bare feet... jar in hand.

Who gave me that jar? The glassy-eyed eccentric with the apron smeared with Vermouth. The quiet man in the corner. The boisterous boys clamoring for the last bit of food. The crickets. The wind blowing. The ominous sound of barking dogs in the distance.

My jar would be filled and I would stare into it, trying to see where the light was coming from. How did they make such brilliant light when they were such tiny beings? How does it shine so bright that for moments after I can still see the after image burned into the darkness behind my eyelids? I would let them land on me, and be delighted when the light reflected off of my skin. I imagined that they were inviting me into the jar.

And forever, all I have ever wanted, was to shine like that.

After my story, Eugene snorted and flew away... and for a moment, as he ascended into the deep blue sky, I thought I saw him glow.