I sit here, a thief among a thousand days.

The Hidden Heart

I keep asking myself a series of questions. Do our actions as people affect more then just us? When we choose to do something in the privacy of our homes or with our friends, do those decisions resound like a bullet in a valley affecting the larger society? We seem to be more selfish then we think. Does our apathy and lack of regret affect our chidlren, our family, friends and loved ones?

Taking responsibility for one's actions has always been an important character trait for me to try and uphold. Decidedly, I am far from perfect and my inability to control my mouth has, on occasion, certainly generated a lot of trouble for me. Through an intense sense of self awareness I completely realize that because I have this urge to continually verbalize my every experience in this world, that, unintentionally, I can hurt other people [the larger whole]. Information isn't always necessary, nor is talking about everything [which I love to do].

I say these things, not from a pedestal of piety or self-righteousness, but a challenge [for me and everyone] to dig deeper and realize that what I/you do, or choose not to do can contribute to this revolution of silent acceptence. I fault myself for holding mankind higher then they should be held. On the flip side, I realize more and more that, as stated, our lives are more then ourselves, and each decision we make should be with careful thought.

It's a slippery slope, this rock of truth. It never bends, nor does it alter in its course. It's mystery is in it's discovery, it's righteousness and adherence.

J.M. Prater

I traveled so far, the clouds at my back, the wind at my feet, her hair in my eyes. I had forgotten how blinding the moonlight could be. The trees were ants beneath the waves of atmosphere. I had fared so far this night, a feather on the wind, blowing, flowing, glowing. I trapped a shimmer of light in a glass to guide our way. It shimmered until morning as the soft rain drenched me, she was no shelter from the dawn. I turned to look back home and could still see a thousand miles away, my mother in her bed, my father in the woodshed.

Had I gone off course? Did she know where she was going? I surely didn’t. I remained, on either side was death, forward was life. I remember being a babe in the long grass. She was once the snake, slithering beside me in crib. She knew what she brought, her mouth bore no good will. Her fangs were imminent, she was death eternal.

The memory slipped as quickly as it had appeared, lost beneath the twilight of morning. That desolation, that magic, that cold remembrance of time’s destruction of all things good. I awoke suddenly, we were falling, falling from the heavens from which we had been soaring a moment earlier. I tried to wake her but she would not open her eyes. Her hair blurred in my sight. My heart was above me, all I could hear was the loud swish of the air around as we descended.

As we neared ground she suddenly awoke. My life was before me and then beneath and behind in one quick motion. We regained speed, blowing past the flowers that adorned the edge of the cliff by the sea. What a long path to the glory of God, how winding the roads, how narrow the gate, I barely fit. His footsteps are the pails of wind that I soar, his houses, the billowing heavens. He called me to himself long ago and I have been traveling on high all my days.

I grow weary yet I am only a passenger. His voice was so soft and faint yet I could not rid myself of it. I had to follow where it led. Through craggy cliffs and unsteady bridges and yet I remained safe despite doom on either side. He guides me now, graciously, perfectly, through the waters, through the depths, to hell and back, he guides me. My life shall be of consequence to him, my breath an exaltation of his life. I take the salty air , the misty shores, I am the traveler, I am the man without a name, the boy without a home, death without dying, a tree still growing, the flower in the wind.

J. M. Prater

I heard the horn blowing, from a distance I cannot see. I am relegated to the deck, in the cold crisp air that slices any warmth it finds. I remember the glow of your skin, how it enveloped me in. The sea is not meant for mankind, she warns us as we go and then tosses us to certain death after we fail to take heed.

Oh my love, today marks day 80 since I have seen you last. I am not meant for this. The men stare at me below decks, they know something is different. I don’t speak to them much. My friends are the mice that nibble on my food at night. How simple and fulfilled their lives must be. They are born, they eat, they make life and they die.

I speak to God on your behalf, his answers are the whispers of the sun in the morning. Sometimes when I’m on watch, I can hear violins being played from off the bow of the ship. They sound like a chorus of your voices. You are the air that I breathe.
I am afraid of the sea, her anger is deeper then her depths. Was satan cast into the sea? Is that the reason for her temper? Is she a prisoner to his taunts?

The waves roll on and we seem to flounder for days on end amid the blackened sky and falling rain. I make haste for night nears and the howls of the gael storms stirred in with the cries from the beats beneath the hull. So dark this night as I rub my weary eyes. In that moment of blackness, you appear, your limbs, your arms, your strength and the warmth of your chest on mine.

I’ll leave you with this my love...

The wind blowing through the eucalyptus trees, and the sun moving downward, the light fading into blue. We were in each other’s arms, that last night, before the ship arrived and moved me from our hidden love, our secret desire, our preciousness. The clouds rolled by, and the ground trembled as the earth applauded our love. Surely God in heaven smiled at his sons in the long grass.

J.M. Prater