Sunday reverie

Sometimes, when I start to write, some of those gorgeous images that I'd been watching on my mind screen, those tender stories that had started to take shape, just disappear.

It is as if my fingers are not meant to capture them.  As if words have no right to describe them, or even hint at them.  As if it would be sacrilegious to express them in any way other than how they appear in my mind.

In some ways, this feels grand.  As if these images, these scenes, are sacred, meant only for my mind's eye, for my heart's senses.

Yes, in some ways I accept this is bizarre, that I should even think to use little lines and curves that make up words to capture something so ephemeral, so untouchable by anything other than the senses, so shy of exposure.  So obviously meant for a private and intimate audience - me.

But if I don't make some attempt to capture them, how shall I remember?  How shall I share them with others?  How shall I relive those gorgeous, delicate, brilliant, tender, exquisite, sweet, enchanting moments?  Moments so wonderfully free of history, of time, of meaning, of purpose?

Perhaps I am not meant to.  Perhaps, if I let them come and go as they please, they'll send along their friends and family and distant relatives who may be just as pleasurable and sometimes more.  In other words, I shall never run out of such mindful pleasures.

All I'll have to do is show up.  How hard can that be?