Roses to the Moonrise Burst Apart

And I am back.

Randomly, purple-y, wonderfully, exasperatingly back.

Being back means I have a month's worth of deviantArt to check and catch up on (thousands of Daily Deviations, messages, and random things like that).

Checking out what everyone's been doing on Facebook (which I've finally leaped into and regretted it almost immediately).

Purple is my new favorite colour since last Wednesday.

My hair is wonderfully short and bouncy and fluffy and soft. Sort of like a puppy, but less tongue.

Last Thursday (sweet thursday), I saw the two most beautiful things in the world.

Mountains in the morning and mist-covered, up-lifted hands.

Life is funny. How fast it floats by.

Have you ever been walking on a windy day and glance up at the sky and feel the wind and see the clouds appear to stand still.

Then you stand still and those clouds fly forward.

Life feels like that A LOT.

You seem to be moving forward and think that you are making headway, but then...

You stand still.

And look up, just a little.

And find it hard to move, and realize that other things are moving so much faster than you are and why are you hurrying in the first place, anyway?

What hasn't changed?

I still love tea.

And writing.

I adore writing.

And it is still troublesome to take my head out of the clouds, seeing as how it's been up there so long it might as well be connected by my hair-ends to the cloud-particles.

Oh, I missed this.

This, this whole flowing thing.

I can't even call it writing.

Sacrilege!

It's flowing! It's freedom! It's an escape.

Forgive the length, but my fingers won't stop. My brain is waving uncontrollably as the tons of words that have built up over the last month are irresistably spilling out from my fingers, into the keyboard, through the circuits, and into this blog.

Can I explain adequately?

Can it be explained?

I borrowed a book from the library about the 101st Airbourne, of which Easy Company from that most beluvered mini-series was a part of; and there was a snapshot of a wounded soldier with a white gentle face and story-telling eyes sittting in a foxhole.

He died two days later.

I hate that.

I hate it I hate it I hate it.

I've wished many, many times to have lived during that time.

Oh, I know I would've been caught up in some sort of fighting and maybe would've been captured, but I would've lived.

This--this life that I live right now, it's--I don't know.

The greener grass and all that, you know?

I don't know.

Oh. And my arm is still swollen. Has it been a few months already?

It has.

Someday I will post a favourite poem on here.

I did not lose my heart in summer's eve,
When roses to the moonrise burst apart:
When plumes were under heel and lead was flying,
In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart.
I lost it to a soldier and a foeman,
A chap that did not kill me, but he tried;
That took the sabre straight and took it striking
And laughed and kissed his hand to me and died.

--A. E. Housman