You shuffle about your life, wistfully, absently filling once empty spaces with your vision – yet never deliberately, or with the toothpick of intent. As I do, you comment here and there to people who have no ears to receive you, realize the fruitlessness of this endeavor and return to silence. Subtlety with regards to the delivery of truth is not a fineness either of us can attest to.
From afar I can feel you, too… Going about your business as I go about mine, gloriously ignorant to the crossing of roads ahead. I know not what form you’ll take or what gifts you’ll bring, only that I am for you and that there is work to do in preparation.
A daughter. Ophelia. Bright. A spark. More powerful than is good for her in her formative years, although we will be well equipped to make the appropriate preparations for a child of such energy.
Yet upon close observation the future escapes through cracks between the fingers of the present, returning my attention to the hand I’m given. So I file these thoughts away to a cabinet at the back of my mind marked “return to” with my other uncashed cheques and await that prosperous seed to take fruit in your appearing before me complete with curls and chocolate-dark irises.
… I hope you drive fear into the hearts of men greater than I. I hope you come ready to humiliate me with your feminine glory. You will find me unafraid for under the bright light of philosophy I have corrected my fear.
Back to my silence. Back to watching it turn.
I surrender myself to timing.