Happy Sunday! Today’s Shi Sai is a bit like a ping pong ball that has pinged out of play and is now ponging off random surfaces. It happens. Sometimes my little experiment with words goes off track. At least at first reading.
It is only after a second read through or a third…maybe a half dozen more that I am able to decipher what spilled out of my brain over the course of the past week.
Sometimes I wonder why I do it. Why it is so important for me to write day after day; words upon words and more words. I tell myself I do it for myself; that it keeps me sane. That much is true.
And there is this other thing. I suppose it’s also true, for me at least, what they say about writers and artists. We long to be remembered, to be understood, to be known. I admit this part is true, too. I am entering the last decade, or if I’m lucky, the last two or three more, of my time on the planet. My life has mostly been about deepening the rut of survival, raising kids, sleeping, working, sleeping, working.
And there is a third reason why I create words, art and the like; to counter the negativity best expressed in the saying, “Life is a bitch and then you die.” I don’t believe this; that nothing matters. Everything and everyone does. Matter, that is. Like renegade ping pong balls we bounce off as many surfaces as momentum and gravity will allow because inertia is not an option, because not ping ponging is death.
Oh…and we bounce off each other too. That’s the best part. The messy, magnificent part. My words, this blog allow me to bounce off more of you than I ever imagined possible. And so I write. A lot. It’s as if I am saving the best part for last. When all is said and done…and written, it’s not a bad way to go.
Have a great week in and out of the rut. keep pinging! ❤
Shi Sai Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 26 February 2017
I think I’ve missed the point.
we call it prayer
the power was ours all along
pools of vibrant life force welling
at water’s edge
fire meet ice
the heat was rising
what of the shattered remains?
I can be spontaneous
it’s not that I’m not strong, you know
it’s early morning drenched in dew
hear the truth
nectar of the
she had a mind and wasn’t afraid to use it
you likely know a scapegrace
when days grow long
memories of dying stars
we’re all but lost but for the brave