138: Post Script

I hadn't planned on blogging anymore...

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I think I still need time to clear my head...

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I feel too much like a singer in an empty closet singing to himself. Don't get me wrong, I love singing. But more and more, I've spent many a night wondering what kind of songs I should sing, hoping to get more people to join in, to harmonize to my melody, with counterpoints and gracenotes, together becoming a choir; our voices reverberating, filling the world's greatest cathedrals with a sweet, sweet, heavenly sound.

Yet... My ethereal cathedral is but an enduring closet. I've built nothing.

And in despair's comfort, I am cloistered; because in the abundance of my care, I am suffocated, dead, and buried.

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...Last night, one of my favorite bloggers, to commemorate his first year anniversary, came out...AGAIN. In front of an orange tree stands Simon shedding his secret: his handsome mug revealed, his apprehension cast aside, Simon revels in his quiet triumph of the unexpected. As his orange tree, for the first time since being planted, bears fruit, an unanticipated gospel, Simon heralds in a new birth.

As I sat watching his videocast, my eyes were heavy with welled tears of happiness and of admiration. But I guess Saul reigns in me, for I, too, was at the ready with a spear to thrust into the heart of a boy with his lyre.

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Stuffed and packed inside the Orient Express, with John Vanderslice crooning into my ears, I empty my head; my thoughts are supplanted with his words, "dance dance revolution..." and my body feels... heavy and light, grounded and uplifted. I see in front of me the World glisten from Helios's gentle caress, his august fingers, more glorious than Midas's, anointing her, the drabiest of drab, my Queens. Robed and crowned, now, with regal splendor, hued with gold and bronze, holds she the globe, her royal orb, the towers, her maces. Her majesty overcomes me. This morning, I am broken; I am blown; I am burnt.

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The map and Site Meter are gone from my blog. I'm liberated.
I am going to take a hiatus from blogging. It's sensible.
Should there be something to say, I'll visit.
In the meantime, there a world out there to "extrospect."

Forget waiting for Prince Charming.
There's a princess to rescue!
Hermit crab, come out and play.
Hermit crab, come out and play.