Spotless

The waves which wash over us in solitude, after a movie, a book, a song we've heard that touch us in ways we only feel when we are alone. Those times, when we feel our greatest potential for loving.
Love is only a word to scratch the surface of describing the greatest of human potentials, it's in those moments where we are closest to the divine in each of us. Those moments when we clear out the cobwebs from our mind and see ourselves as we truly are, when we cling to memory, to moment, to that tiny spark of love which we've known in our life.
Across distances over mountians to the top of the world, someone is there, someone who someday I'll share a coffee with at a tiny cafe and laugh together with.

Snapshot

Alone in the sun as the rivers roiling waters churn,
seagulls circling over white caps breaking the surface
on the pier some fish for sport
here in the car I sit, listening to the radio and having my lunch.

A moment's glance backward

We all wonder what life would be like if. Those two little overlooked letters, separate meaning little, but when placed adjacent to each other, pose such grand questions. "If I'd only".."If she did this"...."If he did that"...."If I would have.." We spend hours, unconscious of their passage in pondering the possibles of our alternate untaken actions. To what end? What is it about our lives which lure us to these unforeseen unknowable, yet cognitive outcomes, which barring the invention of time travel will have merit in our conscious lives? Where do these points of introspection lead us to in our daily lives, are they merely escape from our moments of weakeness? Do they carry us to the next moment of defining choice, the grandeur we seek to attain through our ultimate choice of mundane action?
It is in our moments of post-thought that we begin to know ourselves better, when we examine ourselves 'through a glass darkly' that we remove "I" from our very own equation and see the moment of our own personal errors. In each of those moments, we've stripped ourselves bare. Bare of any shred of haughtiness, boldness, overbearing attitude, and inhumanity, that we find that spark in each of us of the divine. Our minds have found the mechanism to know the alternate reality of which we are the unordained master of, that of forethought, of pre-action and wonder, which we only visit after our error, and after each of our own solitary denoument. The stories which we write in each of our lives find their climaxes in the real world, yet we are the greatest author of fiction in hindsight.