This...  or that..
the pull of this world
and its long supply
of disappointment,  is strong

I shall Reframe my Journey
almost continually

There is a swirl..  a rising
line, taut..

before limply settling
back down onto the water

There are moments  in time
that live forever

There is a time within
those moments;
I never truly had
the chance  to live

There is a Journey to reframe


I will find my life again,  
   somewhere

Buried deep
within that framework

In the midnight hour
there are thoughts..  fears..
But mostly  there is a consolidation
a gathering, if you will

Within warm, pulsing plasma
flows erythrocytes
leukocytes
and thrombocytes

Bringing nourishment  to my bones
carrying oxygen  from my lungs
giving swell to muscle
Signifying movement  in me

When you write
there is an Undoing
within my undoing
A building up

as I am being fully  torn down.
There is an entropy when sitting down
Undone, by your wondrous Undoing
An Aliveness  felt

When so little around me,
feels even remotely alive

..It brings containment.

When young.. the world was dangerous,
at least the world within my home was.
In order to dilute the moments of perpetration,
I developed the ability to bring my little spirit
into the acknowledgment of atoms,
molecules and particles, within the universe
whose  very entrance into the room..

    could make miniscule,
   that which was behemoth.

In doing so, I was brought into the  awareness
of just how beautiful the Universe really is..
and also the intense depth of beauty that exists
in Realms that are just barely outside
of our awareness.

Within those Realms
and between those Realms,
are spirits that float..  
hovering between this place
and the beauty of that Next one.

Through touching those deeper parts of the Realms,
those spirits are ignited.. .
   and through that beautiful ignition,
   are brought into full flame.

It is there within you, my beautiful friend;
that your Otherworldly words are given birth..
bringing within them, the depth of Love and Healing
  to those of us down here that need it most..

..A beautiful love that yes.. exists within the Realms..
But in it's very essence, flows directly from the Core Heart
of the Universe, which is always the place of Love's origin..
having come from that amazing Heart's deep Ache for us.

That beautiful Ache for us all, deeply touches you..
as you hover in and out of its Realms..
and then deeply touches us..
who have learned to draw on its power and beauty
for even our own very existence.
I am one of those who have had to learn
to draw from those things
just so that my spirit could even breathe..
And in an instant , upon reading,
I realized that you were one of those that go
from this place, up and over to the Next.
What you bring back down to this place,
Ignites every single part of who it is that I am.

You, writing from the feminine form..
mixed with the feminine of the masculine..  
deeply stirs the aching masculine within me.
There is a hunger almost sated,

as it leads into realms of a deeper hunger
and touches a rarely touched, deeper ache.

Warm tingling, leads to almost a tremble..
The deeply-touched heart cannot help but to  pulse
warmly
and fully,
into all of who it is that I am..

Sensations that lead to the need for deep release..
the thick, gathering of that ache
     in gratitude-filled response,

the deepest of penetrations  
into the gorgeously-receiving openness    
of such a beautiful, Life-bringing spirit.

There is a giving and receiving,
that is both Giving.. and Receiving
  in its own beautiful nature.

I hope I have not said too much.
   I am so glad to have you near.

As if like the rushing  of waters;
there is a pouring out
    from the Heavens..

A song..

No..  a voice;

Ah..   a whisper--
from Other-worldly  lips

There is a spirit,  
beautifully aligned;
  A movement..
a trembling of the hips

Floodgates  of Vapor
Floodgates  of Steam
Within the liquid,
Crystalline Luster

Falling down..
like words, Spoken


..Into the Unspoken words
  of an Unspoken Dream

There is a thickness to Presence
when light has fully come.

It does not press—

   it holds.

It gathers around you
like dusk after heat,
like blankets not laid over
but risen up from within.

You don’t need to speak.
You don’t need to explain.
You don’t need to hide—
because you are already
hidden
in the Light itself.

And in that hiding,
healing begins.

Here, the ache is not judged.
Here, the story is not required.

Here, breath is enough..

  Not because it was taught to grow,
  but because it remembered
  what warmth feels like..

That slow kindle of hope
becomes heat again—
flames returning
to the heart’s own hearth,
too long left cold
by darkness and despair..

A hearth that survived
on wet matchsticks—
built only
by its own need to endure.

---

It is the hearthfire
that feels the light of hope
first.

The more ash-strewn,
the more hollow,
the deeper the heat
of Light’s permeation.

---

So the soul,
once clenched around its pain,

   softens.

Not all at once.
Not forever.
But enough.

Enough to rest.

Enough to believe--

that warmth this deep
could only come
from the Giver of Light

   ..who never left.

And in that warmth—
without pressure,
without fear..

everything begins again.

I have gotten to the place
where I hate most everything
Except for the deep, raw truth

      of true brokenness.

The love that I  feel
for those  left so alone
undoes the twist of my hatred,

Bringing a warmth  that
keeps me alive, in my deep longing
to be with beautiful spirits,

                       kindred.

"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"


"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.

And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.

They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.

Here’s why:

Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.

When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.

That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.

They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.

It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.

And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…

They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark

while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."

The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.

She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.

And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.

She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.

Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.

And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.

The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush

a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.


Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.

Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:

even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.