Pieces Of You

creating my own dreams

8:49 a.m.., Tuesday, Nov. 22, 2005


The fire is softly burning. The ghostly orange images dancing, reaching for the chimney above. The coals below, glowing with energy, feed off the dry birch.

The fire crackles and pops, but I barely notice. Sitting here in my sweats, with the lights down low, covered in down comforter, with a cup of homemade cocoa resting in my hands, I stare. Hypnotized by the fire. My mind meandering through the highs and lows of my life.

I am alone this day. Yet not lonely. I am away, but here. Resting. Exactly where I choose to be. Content to sit still, feeling the heat of the fire against the skin of my face. The dryness of the air as the moisture is burned away.

Here, where it's comfortable, it's easy to bring up the images from the past. The faces. The sounds. Even the smells. It's easy to feel the things I have felt before. To see myself as I once was. To remember.

But not so easy to allow the intrusion of memories of mistakes. Of people that have hurt me. Or days that I thought would never end. It's not so easy now, even after years have passed, to accept the hard reality of loss, or pain. It's so much easier to skim, to edit, or pretend that it was always someone else's fault. To move past the unpleasantness, and back to the happier times.

Here, on the love-seat, in front of the fire, alone with my thoughts. I am master of my world. Shaping memories as if silly putty. Rearranging the past to suit my mood. I need not trust another to assist, they would only get it wrong.

I realize, as I roll through the years, that nothing in my life has been so extraordinary that others would want to hear the details. I realize, that despite my earlier beliefs, I have never been as unique as I felt, when it was all happening to me. Or as I made it all happen, in my own little world. I was just another soul, wandering the paths that opened before me. Sometimes afraid to veer off unto another. Sometimes, afraid of my own shadow. Yet, always, continuously, putting one foot in front of the other. Unreeling the moments that when strung together, would define the whole of my life.

And all the while, while I sit thinking, the fire keeps softly burning. A crackle here, a pop there, as some bit of trapped moisture boils and explodes in its hidden chamber.

I know my story has no ending. Not yet. Those chapters have yet to be lived. But I also know that every memory made so far, will contribute to the final outcome.

And the final outcome, will ultimately, be up to me.

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