A giant, looming expectation haunted my shaking beams. The house was not solid, not on the ground. Without great meritorious efforts, my edifice would not only collapse, it would be shouted down to the core.
Fire made me look good, but there is no home to speak of where there are embers -- too warm for comfort. I kept at it, burning structure after structure, a deconstructionist arsonist, burning ideas down as I tried to live them. The coziness after the blaze also faded in the next rainstorm.
There are wild forests alight all around me still, but I no longer set anything. I look for warmth on a sunstruck rock, lying in the shine. Hot wind and other life provide that which I thought I should make myself.
No. I can and could and must quietly, calmly lean against the trunks around. Prepositions need not be mined or farmed, they abound for the mind that sits and waits well.
Roman Ryan 