States of being.
It's much too hot for this time of year. The air is too thick. The days too long. The nights too short.
It's that time of year. When the giant steel birds and insects infect the sky, making the window panes rattle as they fly by.
There's an empty space. A void. Nothing can fill it. It tramps around the hive in mud stained boots, much too far from home. A place that no signals but for the short waves kind can reach.
I long for its return.
It's almost a year since I last wrote anything here, or much of anything anywhere. Here I feel exposed. Naked. Vulnerable. There's no safety here. No net. No deadlock. No PIN code.
It's a free fall. I'm not the sort to sky dive. Much less nakedly. Irresolutely the words come. Cautiously they are laid here, in neat little orderly boxes. Much like the boxes that line my garage. Like those boxes they contain too much of me. They are too naked. Too exposed. Too vulnerable.
So now I wait for the steel birds and insects to quiet, wait for the sound of mud lined boots in the drive and for the filler of spaces, to fill the void once more.
And when he comes I shall forget all about moon, stars and leaves. Except for the leaving, the leaving that places those all too personal little boxes into steel containers, the leaving that will see the blissful exchange of this unforgiving hot chewable air for the crisp cooler air of home.