Journal 1 of "a matter of trees".
old barns and never ending love, that was the thought I sort of awakened with, standing outside in the midday sun at this place called home once more. Old thoughts and memories found themselves stirred and served upon a platter of bed sheets and sensual emotions.

Backtracked, through time and history of a multifaceted life lived and worn. I had walked backward like a ghost that had acquired the secret of rewinding that precariously padded wool that was cataloged and labeled as time by the human mind.

Inside this place I was now standing at, layered within the trodden walls of decay that had waited just beyond the empty door frame that spoke out loud to me and the surrounding world.
Together with the withered planks and timber that surrounded me in the shape of old ghosts sprinkled with the persevering fragrance of sheets of lost mold and history, the lost world was all that remained, and inside it all, nothing but silence lingered together with all these things that once had been.

Forlorn beings rich with history but without a voice to speak their own truth.

But standing here, with one foot in the daylight of the changing present, and the other partially planted inside the still living past, what I looked at, and the presence that I could clearly feel inside the floorboards and patchy walls was not a void of forsaken emptiness.

This was not the forgotten world of a history that had been long abandoned.

What I discovered instead was that the shell that remained had found itself a new lease of life and it proudly told me that it was now the home of bees and critters. It described to me how it had weaved a different kind of song now, how it was not defined by the human strain anymore, left behind the world that had been it had transformed into an imprimatur of life and truth that lived alongside the memories of what this world had been forced to be.

And that is how I came to discover that where there once had been a lovers lullaby thought to have been forever lost in a frozen and abandoned wayward past with nothing to fill its empty blanks.

A brand new string of life and love had taken hold and this entire world was now the love nest of bumblebees and lush flowers.

wayward lost
the abandoned
tomb built by time and
turned by
dust and forsaken soil

nothing but
the remnants
days long dwindled

but now
there lies
a new love in the nest of bumble bees
and lush flowers, waiting for spring to dress in green
and the glow of beaming color and light to paint the
summer sky
blue and warming yellow.

It was the chirping
of tomorrow
that had greeted me
and not the dusty
wayward past

But did this world still have room for me?.
Could the outside world ever again tolerate the slightest presence of the hominid species?.

Questions that would remain unanswered.
Just the way your old picture frame still hung right next to where our fireplace once had burned.

Like the wall it still clung too, it was worn and broken, the glass was shattered, and half the print itself was gone. What was left was faded by years and weather, torn in half by life and time, like the wall that had crumbled.

But while this was not my beginning, it would be your day zero, so I had to put it all to pen and paper.

The witness account has been faithfully retold, honoring the way it was written down in journal 1 of "a matter of trees".

music of the day
Here be monsters by Apocalypse Orchestra

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