Dreams of the Colourblind

I'm sitting here in the early morning dawn, watching the snow fall, listening to the Mask and the Mirror. The trees are dressed in icy garments; they dance with the unseen presence that changes the air from clear to blue.
I rarely sleep.

The echoes of the vendors in the market blend with the words of her music, and I am transported to another place - followed by Afghan boys - shades of fruit and material in bright oranges, greens, blues, and fuschia.

Today I don't want to stay. Today my heart wells up with things too deep for words. Today I have forgotten all but the dust of the desert and haunting green-brown eyes. Today I shroud my face from the heat and cover my head. The sounds of sixteen million people. The air spins around, smoke filled, loud, pregnant with dialects alien and yet familiar. Today my soul is already gone.

I live at a crossroad of left and right turns. Robert Frost could not see the end of the roads that diverged before him. I can. I see the places each path lead, and today I am not interested in the safe one. Today I am tired of walking alone.

I'm sure after another night, I will restore the fortitute that binds my broken soul into one piece.

In your heart, she asks...
In your soul... did you find peace there?