Just thinking of calmly and objectively evaluating the squall of emotion that has rocked this fragile paper sailboat for the last fortnight threatens to send dark clouds looming again. Yet even the fist of angry thunder is a mere ache compared to unrelenting reminders of insufficiency and loss. In the blackness of the night when not even stars dare shine revelations of an ordered world, there is nothing but the terrible beauty that breathes wretchedness and demands breath. That I would rather be struck by lightning than never knowing when I will have to do battle with the same daemon that lurks and creeps in the shadows throughout the passage of time; watching, waiting. The soldier stays alert, readied to face the onslaught, yet at the back of the mind, a wish of final surrender and of yearning release. Why work to enforce the buttress each day and each moment when in the end, the lacerations beneath the armour do not heal and new wounds slash deep though the shield may appear intact.
I believe the worst of desolation has passed... for now. In the warm promise of dawn, the overwhelmed paperboat is lifted and dried out by the same wind that previously turned its face against it. The melancholy is forgotten as the faint stars disappear from sight. The wind moves the stricken clouds, gently nudges the beaten beach and bears a lone albatross that has too passed through the storm.The journey continues.