October 21 — Burnished clouds

The sky was still bright, a fading cream color left by the set sun. Against it hovered dark rainclouds, burnished from silver to coal.

It was magnificent, this southern Virginia skyline, but my heart was darkened and lonely.

Some questions in life cannot be answered, only ignored or held in some sort of agonizing tension. Lately I haven’t bothered with the question of what I have to offer the world — what I could possibly do to improve it. But now it gnaws at me, cuts me off from the two extroverts chatting in the front seat, buries me alone beneath the sky. I try to grasp the feelings, look at them in my hand, name them, discern their root. My downward spiral slows, like an airliner coming out of a stall. I’ve fallen several thousand feet, and the stick won’t pull up, can’t get me back to cruising altitude.

I’m treading through a dense, scientific chapter of The Anatomny of the Soul. Nothing doing there so I turn to the blank page, that old friend and nemesis, my mental processor. I should have done this right away. This is what I have to offer the world, after all — the written word.

Ironic.

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