A Realization of Self...

I read once, perhaps a letter by one of the Bronte sisters, or Christina Rosetti or someone of a great name, that she wrote by candlelight always, and with violet ink. It reminded me of the ink that I used to bleed all over my papers when I would write on the roof back on 38th street...when I would hide my thoughts on imagined-papyrus and see the city between the foliage on the magnolias. Their leaves fell in cascades in our yard. I used to sit up there for good moments, writing down my life, sketching the cityscape from my favorite vantage point, praying past the moon to the God Who never fails me. That year I learned a little of who I was becoming.

My life now is no less than it was then, only now it is unfamiliar. Only the pink light that slants in through my windows brings a fragrant remembrance of my earlier life in the olds of Hyde Park, on the sweetest street in the City of the Violet Crown. I sometimes think I'll go back there, sneak up the steps and climb out onto the summit of roof, sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of this world, and steal a token of time from my past. If only...