Visions Of Years

As I linger in the early hours of morning waiting on moments of inspirations to whisper into my life their transcendent musings of life’s revelations, I close the eyes of my mind to open the visions of years ago scenes, where the ideas of such things, danced in the meadows of long grasses among the breezes of unwalked fields, untouched by hands will, in times unrecorded by the illusions of indefinite existences of event.  My skin ready to feel the touch of the sun’s warmth upon my face where the years have gathered beneath smiles, frowns and tears, of joyful laughings, unreleased sorrows, and childish fears.  Breathing deeply in wanted scents of flowering fragrances, swept round about my senses, I release my anguished mind to the possibilities of luxurious interpretations of much wanted participation in living where all the quintessential ethos of my femaleness is intoxicated with the visions of my longings for being beyond the predetermined minded visions of this woman that I am and her needs for to be all the woman that she is without labels of ideas placed upon my feminine as prototypical, stereotypical, societal responsible self.  I wishfully forgive the definitions of the years I have accepted as things I should or shouldn’t, could or couldn’t, willed or wouldn’t to embrace the individual who has evolved into the wholeness of a woman displayed by others’ judgement and rejections to open the thinkings of my covert thoughts in their bountiful examples of whimsical charades.  Not for acceptance or to portal the idealism of another’s intentions but to satisfy the rudimentary interests my inquiring intellect has explored within itself unattended by the constructs or instruction of another’s reliance upon my acknowledgements.  Ever longing to relate to myself this life of constantly beginning the attempts of understanding life as it is to itself while others grace it periodically with their acquisitions of intelligence in their learning of all things now to know.  Would that I could explain in magnificent words the ever present yearnings for all the softness there is in the universe around my physical body to present itself to my senses in enduring comforts to ease the overuse of my thoughtful anatomy which has gathered it’s infinite reservoirs of living from the daily contentions of being needed indefinitely for the continuation of scheduled existing as an exemplary, proficient, helpmate to all those who were in want, need, and expecting that I be as they wanted, often not what I was or as I could be without denying my own necessity.  With hope filled whispering the silent prayers in my thinking to become more of my own thoughts, more of my own ideas, rather than the regulatory demands of a mastered obligation given to the boundaries encasing the walls of the minds around me needing them to know that I existed far greater in my flights of imaginations than I would ever be given due decency to express to them as I always taught in thought first of them.  My feet always preparing for long slow walks through a glade of woodland trails inhaling the smells of the forests grand introductions to the earth’s warming richness, my hands always searching for a hand to reach for mine own without a possessive grasp of ownership; rather wanting to conjoin in the delicacies of quite understanding, owning nothing in those moments, rather sharing in the unveiling of an inner exploration towards gathering the essence of aliveness in each breath.  My legs always devising the distance to walk a city’s sidewalks in a cool evening breeze inhaling the cultural smells promenading through the night’s air while the sounds of the traffic and musics of the civilized citizens drift in and out of the corridors of tall glass window displays, some opened, some closed, in search of nothing except the conversation of a soothing companion explaining their day, life and thoughts to decorate the craft room in my mind.  My eyes my own to note each object of interest without the notion to describe, simply imbibe, the construct of its existence for later examination within my laboratory of idealistic ego to cast upon a day unfulfilled by the formula of living that bores my inner child’s need for conquest into womanhood.  Unafraid of being censored for the endless curiosities of scents wrapped in the textures as tangible tranquilities, that like a needed lovers touch, release the explorations of the intellectual capabilities into realities beyond the borders of contemplation; expanding them beyond moments of implications into the realms of enjoyment where what once was unnoticed becomes appreciated, what was once disregarded engages the mentality of possibilities, and the anxieties of expectations is destroyed by the realizations within the essential needfulness complementing the unorganized risings long held inside the attentiveness of unobtainable manifestations.  Then as always my weary body calls to my eager mind to cast aside such flirtatious adventures of gratifications and re-enter the excruciating reality that is to this day my own.  Where my bed waits for my presence between the cool sheets welcoming me to partake of it as the arms in which holds me in my most vulnerable state of being; giving way to the subconscious to take hold of my most intimate self.  I look there for another to comfort me from the foreboding emptiness that keeps me alerted to the history of my ever searching psyche; the one that reminds me again how unobtainable dreams of being have given me over to unexplained journeys throughout my life as a sleepwalker often waking to the confusions involving my purpose for being on my feet rather than safely contented, comforted by the willing arms and soft voice that prays to me that I might sleep next to them as they keep my wandering mind, my loyal dedications, safe within their truest affections.