Questions without answers

You asked questions about places: countries and cities lost and found across the globe, and I have no answers. Again, you spoke of health and dancing, animals and fancy shoes, and I simply cannot fathom the depths of your oceans, nor answer your questions, dear - but I am listening. You furrow your brows, and penetrate mine with your eyes - are those questions, too? I know nothing.
In a frenzy, a flurry of effort, you direct me inquiries of people, media, drinks, and the features of the moon, of lunatics and fanatics and events of the news, but what can I tell you of these? You discover me empty.
Sighing, you fall back into your seat, at a loss, for of what worth can he be?
So what can you do?
I'm a magician, petty. I catch butterflies in a finger cage and, gently blowing on their wings, transform them into rainbows; I pick a rose from your hair and lay it beneath your feet, gingerly, with utmost care; I sing to the storm and it walks on knees of lightning across the country, blowing its lugubrious horn; I carry hearts across deserts, and where no water is found, I shed my own to share; I seize the wind by its hair, and send whispers along its length; I walk the edge of the world, balancing on the edge and dream, leaping over the rim into the sea of stars; I crave the power of wheat and see the scimitar sweep of the moon in my sleep; I leap the lilies of life alone, but you may come along, if you please; I hide the feather of the phoenix behind my ear, and it warms me there, and upon it I may wish anything; I can change the shape of the clouds, and make every carpet fly; I disappear, I'm smoke and mirrors, there's nothing dearer than a night at the ankles of trees, falling asleep to the breeze beneath the celestial winks of stars.
Can you hear it sing? If you have questions still, after listening to the mountains, the rivers, the streams, what joy will my answers truly bring?
No, I have no answers.

pt1

Where are you going?

I've been tired the last few days. Hanging out on Friday after a long week; a late night Saturday night, which ended in getting home near midnight with no writing done; waking up after only a few hours of sleep for some writing before church, and then going out to eat. I settled down to take a nap, and the roommates started yelling jokes from one end of the house to the other - no nap.
My thoughts have been ranging all over. I won a competitive game, recently, that took me almost two months to top the charts in; a friend's mother is dying, and has been dying for almost a year, though this will likely be her last week; sick family members; missing people split up over the world; reading poetry, and digesting the intricate imagery; scouring classical pieces for useful tidbits, and contemplating on creation, life, knowledge, sin; friends hurting, living, loving. 
On top of it all, I'm writing hours each day, keeping up with the strict pace I've set for myself for this novel, trying to bring the mystery to life with all its characterization. I even sat for hours in a coffee shop, analyzing each person who walked in, imagining their days - what a bizarre, daydream exercise.  I listened to thoughtful bands: Sufjan, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes, trying to fabricate feelings as I enter into different settings, and help myself envision the spacial, temporal, emotional constraints of so many variables.
I'm over-thinking this.

I wanted to write a thousand different things in my journal and blog-blather today, and I'm finding I'm getting none of those done. I wrote two-thousand words and then halted, turned off the lights, lit a candle, put on my slippers, and played guitar. I deliberated over how much I wanted to get done: learning how to write poetry; studying lyric, rhythm, rhyme, meter; understanding more on the nature of mystery and tension; studying character development and setting construction; learning, again, about some of my favorite time periods: victorian, renaissance, feudal, Edo Japan, mandate-of-heaven China, early yerushalayim, aztecs, incas, and the mayans, the mesopotamian fertile crescent: the cradle of man.  I yearned for a study of trees, plants, flowers, and where they naturally grow and flourish. I wanted to follow the patterns of birds, which trees they prefer, and how they build their nests, and when/if they migrate. I wanted to know where the animals go and when they come, and how they find their food, and where they all live.
I wanted to know everything: geology, geography, history, biology, chemistry, physics, mystery, mythology, fantasy, science-fiction, classics, languages, people - people, oh so much! 

But instead, I'm sitting and playing guitar, plucking at chords and singing lightly into the darkening skies of night.  My mind is craving for more, and my heart is telling me to collect some weekend rest, while I may. I miss A, and our roommate adventures, our talks into the night, the last word: chandelier, before we slept. I'm ready to jump, I'm ready to fly. Fire an arrow, Jonathan. Is it beyond me?
Where am I going? Where do I go.

Are you looking for answers
To questions under the stars?
Well, if along the way
You are grown weary
You can rest with me until
A brighter day and you're okay
~ Dave Matthews

This song is my night. I wanted to know everything, and I'm only given more questions, and the light song of fingertips across strings. Does everyone have such nights? Nights when all the colors mix together to grey.


I'm a fledgling, a monarch with morning-cold wings. Breathe on me, and I will fly.

Tuesday Night Lights

Autumn appeared and Summer played its last mischief. The sky was beautiful tonight, like a shadow cast over the purest lapis lazuli, fading into a dull ember orange near the skyline. With a foxtail moon and a dusting of stars, the temperature and atmosphere is perfect for thoughts and simply laying in the grass, staring into the heavens and asking questions of eternity. Where next, Lord? Oh, never mind, it matters little, doesn't it? I can't see very far, truly, when contemplating the greatness of this world, this universe. What's it like, Father? Do you eternally see it as good, each moment since creation?
Silly questions, frivolous questions, but Cassiopeia  smiles and rocks in her little wooden chair as she listens, and pulls up a glass of water with the dipper, though the bear, whose tail it is, was not impressed, and Orion chuckles as he holds aloft his hunter's prize.
Every year, I think, has held its ends and beginnings, its hopes and queries, its trials and joys. What would it take, I ask, for a fulfillment of my dreams? What must I do? The stars just twinkle in response, and the divine is silent, this time, though the breeze over the hills is not. There are a lot of questions, a lot of loves, a lot of thoughts, a lot of wishes, broken or filled or patient, swimming across my mind like those satellites in the sky. Many of these will be broken, shortly, but they'll be replaced with new dreams. Is that the way of it then? Why bother fretting, when all will be clear as this sky, eventually?

We're alike, the moon and I.
Wax to life, wane goodbye
Shedding silver light by night
Shift away by day
No argentine remains to grace
Fae forgotten dreams
I'll trace your name among the stars