Well . . . I sit here . . . in front of my house in the mountains. . . (a little tipsy) . . .
trying to find a way to mollify the reality of being alone . . . . .
I used to romanticize the life of living alone with nature and feeling the rawness . . . surviving the rawness . . . even embracing it!
but I can't remember having had an intelligent conversation for all these years . . .
like you can only take so much redneck philosophy! . . .
The woman who holds my heart, the one I would die for … (or more importantly the one I would fiercely live for) just seems to be absent . . .
yet only she can permanently cure this Sisyphean loneliness . . . I simply feel lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
So . . . here I sit . . . in front of my home in the mountains . . . (a little more tipsy) . . .
and I notice the white pines growing atop the south hill, producing the shade necessary to allow the slope covered in thick pure moss, and I see the willow with its unruly haircut, giving me the feeling that its OK to go against the grain of social conformity, and here comes the turkey brood, 17 babies! the mother teaching them to follow her deep throated cluck in order to find their way back to security, and I watch the whitetail hop away as soon as they realize they are noticed, and the frogs come around to the house when the stream abates, and the phoebes sit on the branches and fly out again and again, mitigating the threatening insect invasion.
Yes . . .
I continue to sit here in front of my home in the mountains . . . (definitely tipsy now) . . .
unable to ignore the overwhelming thought . . .How can this Hell be so beautiful?
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