This Hemic Burn

I questioned myself, tonight, if my heart was really in the writing.  I have been on a quest, informal, to post something every day for a year.  I am just under two months away from achieving that goal. This quest came about accidentally, as I had made no plans to do such a thing.  Now, I wonder if it matters for any reason at all.

That is not to say I have no wish to write.  Quite the contrary.  The path of my life as of late has been such that the creativity and the ideas, that noise which drives me to distraction when the demands of the real world come calling, have been building up faster than I can process them.  Even when I sit at my desk at my day job, my back brain is whispering new things that must see the electronic and paper pages that wrap my life.  My mind's eye sees things that beg to be photographed, to be recorded in that fleeting moment of light and shadow in which beauty or truth can be found.

But tonight, I sat down at my desk and felt the imp of the perverse tugging at my ambitions.  The weekend, much to my chagrin, was over.  The crickets outside I can hear faintly over the hum of the air conditioning, and there seemed to be faint music coming from somewhere.

Perhaps the music was all in my head.  My tired and dizzy head.

In the light of my banker's lamp, here next to the keyboard and journal which seem to be the palimpsests of my heart, I rubbed my temples and wondered where next for my wandering mind.  I could feel the veil of weariness descending upon my eyes as thoughts of bed and rest crept in on little cats' feet.  Unbidden, a small smile came to my lips. I listened to the susurrus of blood wending through my skin in threadlets of soft fire.  Feeling the warmth of the hemic burn radiating outward through the canopy of my veins, I knew that whatever my heart has in store for me, it is and will be good.  It will be the stuff of life.

The words will take care of themselves.