Creative space

There's no place as lonely as an empty page. One can fathom the god's impulse, in vastly ringing silence of the void, to create a living being who could turn in free will and fill the emptiness with love. A countenance emerging from the darkness, see? Humanity is the voice in shadows watching, the mirror in a reflection of the face. Light flickers across shadow. An aperture shudders, a diaphragm's hiccup, and captures an awakening.

Our social creature consciousness projects this eternal hunger for mother-breast of the collective. Cats don't feel that way; they leap away from the damp spook, flicking an impatient paw. A genuine omnipotent sculptor is like a predator, too. Wandering past, brandishing a scythe, he casts our spent lives on the compost heap of time.

I dreamt of a city surrounded by mountains. A pale tornado arose from each peak around the ridge, five of them. In the midst of the valley rose a shattered outcrop like the walls of an ancient temple. Ragged clouds streamed out of this summit, too. The storm seemed to boil right out of the earth, like steam from lid edges of a pot.

I put my pen on the line.

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Another photo is posted in doorwindowwall.