Saturday, August 17, 2013

I did not die.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glimpse on the snow.
I am the sunlight on refined grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quick birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die.
- Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932

Hel has held my hand, and led me back again. I'm more alive than ever; I hadn't known how dead I was. Half-rotted, half-dead; that part's gone now. Stepping back, now, into a life I've never led. It's a little disorienting.

Today I painted. It felt so good, I didn't want to stop. I wanted to get really into it, but I was wearing my nice clothes - meaning, the ones that don't yet have paint on them (well, now they do, but they didn't when I started, dammit). I put the paintings on the wall of the gallery next to my older paintings. They looked disoriented, too.

I smiled on my way home from the gallery. I smiled all the way.

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