Do you know the time just before dawn when the walls are still painted in the gray of fading night? Repeatedly I wake in that moment, with the dreams still real: lips of a phantom lover still warm and wet on mine; houses lurching over a gaping sink hole sliding into a blue-green abyss; ghosts from childhood walking away from me while I scream unheard; and the sound of smooth warm laughter from my friends and family still in my ears.
At times, this is the most real and aware I am. That in between moment of consciousness where reality stirs and tastes whats beneath the surface. It isn’t always pleasant. Actually, the nightmares linger longer, just as a bruise leaves a mark and a caress doesn’t show its self.
This slow spring has been a long in between. Warm, cold, snow, rain, bright sun. My body and spirit has responded in kind. I’m nothing if not a creature of my surroundings. And I’m exhausted with its lack of decision. Now it’s time for my waking dreams to take hold. I want them to stop scurrying away in the light of day. The need to express themselves in the black and white that is the blood of these things.
In short, that is the reason for the change.