After this, I think I should return to platitudes, homilies, limericks and nonsensical definitions for a time. Dont want to go through the looking glass and be left trailing that white rabbit about. Mad Hatter, indeed! Gift Horses, No Mouths It is no mean task to gather the gifts given me over a lifetime, for a few are scattered in boxes or rarely-rummaged drawers, while most flicker in memory – many doubtless lost to me if the flame never bends to their bright recollection before fate pinches it to dead wick. And when such as can be gathered have been laid out for review, how is one to take their measure? They all are dear, holding delight and it matters little who paid the greatest price in the ritual that is gifting. I took as was offered, hoping that I gave in fair kind. I lay out things rare that I’ve received, gifts unique that have held their worth – the best of these echo the beat of a reinless heart, and others, still dear, still precious suggest the choice of the mind that chose to give it, as if the gift of a chimera beyond embrace. All gifts not lost are treasures in my trove. But I wish they all bore a faint stain of blood, or a spot of dry salt from a tear that was caught, for I know those gifts were preciously bought, as I, too, have shopped all the stalls and paid the market’s demand. As the gifts are assayed and then randomly re-stored to the fashion in which I’ve let them all founder, there are no bins to isolate those that risked only logic from those purchased of passion. I will hold dear all I’ve retained and hope, if ever asked, to have words that reflect their worth to me now.
Posted on: Wed, 23 Oct 2013 12:03:27 +0000